A major distinction between Canada and Mexico was illuminated during our week in Mexico City. In suburban Canada, you can't run anything louder than a blender on your deck after 6pm for fear of disturbing the peace. In Mexico City, you can schedule major roadwork where jackhammers shatter concrete from anywhere between 10pm and 4am.....nightly. This, coupled with the ubiquitous organ-grinders that have been out of tune for almost 40 years (yep, that's when the last German organ-grinder tuner died, and he forgot to teach anyone else his skill), and our tiny, smelly room meant we slept little during our stay in the nation's capital.
But we stayed an extra day, two days, four days past when we planned to leave because there is so much to do! Our first day there we discovered how to use the Metro system - genius. Not only is it cheap (25 cents), it's efficient, all its lines and stops are identifiable by numbers, colours and symbols, the transfer points are used as public art displays.
A highlight for me was visiting Coyocan, the town (now a suburb) where Frida Khalo and Diego Rivera lived for years. Her old house is now a somewhat strange museum, and a few blocks away sits a museum dedicated to Leon Trotsky, built from the house in which he was assassinated while he was in exile in Mexico. John has told me I'm not allowed to grow a uni-brow, even if I admire her work.
Another highlight was an unanticipated 'tour' around Diego Rivera's most important and famous mural, "Man at the Crossroads", reproduced by Rivera after the Rockefellers cancelled the one in Washington, D.C. for being too communist. (Mind you, this was not an exaggeration on their part, as Rivera painted a central hammer and sickle as well as celebratory scenes of Russian Communists). We were looking at the mural when a small older Mexican gentleman asked us whether we would like to know something about the mural. Arturo turned out to be a retired history professor with a true obsessive love for Rivera's work, and he walked us through this mural, several others on site, and another 252 of Rivera's first murals in a government building the next day.
Although I was hesitant about attending based on personal ethics, we went to a corrida de toros (bullfight), as you can't truly be opposed to something you've never experienced (well, yes you can, but this seemed reasonable). As it turns out, we probably never need to attend another corrida. I booked tickets online and when we arrived we were disappointed to find ourselves in an awkward balcony right beside the rhythm section of the band...until it started to pour rain and we had some of the only dry seats in the house. All of the sudden we loved the band.
The corrida is as unfair of a sport as you can imagine. The bulls are stabbed with a variety of knives and swords by a variety of people (sometimes on horse, sometimes on foot). There are four extra men at all times to distract the bull, while the main matador regularly changes horses, takes water breaks, and rests. The bulls are bred for several years for one fight, as they are always killed. All this being said, it is hard not to admire the skill that both the matador and the horses exhibit, particularly at the beginning of each round. However, by the end it seems a cruel and inhumane sport.
We did see a couple of exceptional occurrences that night (aside from the totally unreal spandex suits these guys wear...wait for the pictures) - one bull succeeded in jumping the fence twice despite a sword driven between his shoulder blades. And, we saw a bull "win"! The matador was unable to kill him within an appropriate amount of time or tries, and the crowd boo-ed him (actually 'chinga tu madre-ed' him) out of the ring. Apparently this never happens. Nevermind that that they took the bull out back and shot him - in principle he won.
We were lucky enough to have family of a friend show us around Mexico City and the surrounding area on several occasions while we visited. We shared many lovely meals and experiences, but perhaps the most surreal (or postmodern) was ending up at a classic, stereotypical Jewish deli at midnight after their daughter ran the Nike 10km race. It's a city of endless possible experiences.
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