Pilgrims in a very Holy Land


    Awakening from my American “the world revolves around my country” psyche, I realized that, in many respects, it was a true statement.  I looked around what had come to be our standard evening eating establishment, to see everyone in the Bertico Cafe, all waitresses, all cooks from the kitchen, and all customers, including several people over the age of 70, staring half slack-jawed, half smiling and laughing amusedly, at the many T.V. screens in this small nook of downtown Mexico City.  Lady Gaga and Beyonce were gyrating their money makers in a music video of some sort.  At certain intervals, they could be seen driving a very, let’s just say “pimped out,” pickup truck with a title on the tailgate that read “Pussy Wagon.”  For about thirty seconds, Meredith and I both were participants in this exhibition of excess, with that glassy-eyed, shit-kicker stare, that we produce from students on a daily basis.  We both snapped out of our slumber simultaneously and looked around to see a small part of downtown Mexico City half reveling, half watching in fear, as two of our American spokespersons showed what the United States is best known for. 

    If you’re lucky, surreal moments occur at least once while touring a foreign area.  Those out-of-body, step back from yourself, what-the-hell, cocoon emerging, bleary-eyed, moments of awakening to something very new to your senses, make any hassle within the traveling, worth the while.  Often those moments are quite mundane, when observed from a distance.  But in the middle of the happenings, you wonder if space and time have ceased to be.


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    As our plane banked east, Meredith and I were finally able to look out across the Valley of Mexico, once a large body of water called Lake Texcoco.  It was hard to imagine the Aztecs coming into the Valley in 1325, seeing a small island in the lake, and then deciding to base their civilization on that island.  The thought was made even more out of place as we noticed a Home Depot come into view on final approach to Benito Juarez International Airport.

    Legend has it the Aztec had wandered
in the deserts of Mexico 100 years before finding the valley.  Their gods told them they would see a sign of an eagle, snake in mouth, sitting on a cactus.  And that is where they were to build their society.  They saw that vision on the island that would become their city of Tenochtitlan, and 500 years later, the country of Mexico would use that scene on its flag.

    American Airlines Flight 433 rolled to the jetway and we disembarked, headed for customs and immigration.  A short walk later found us behind one person in line for immigration (by far the shortest immigration line we’ve ever seen, in any country).  Three minutes later we were behind the same number of people in line for customs. 

   Customs usually requires a mild search of all bags, depending on how much energy the officers have or depending on how lucky you are.  Mexico leaves the it all to luck.  After a perfunctory metal detector ride for your bags, the officer says, “Press this button,” and points to a panel with a single button, not unlike a nuclear launch device.  Above it is a light.  When you press the button, the light either shows red, or green, or maybe a small South American country just got a can of whoop-ass opened on it.  If red, you’re pulled aside and all bags are searched.  If green, you proceed without searching of bags.

    We’ve both wondered if the person manning the button has the ability to make the light be what he or she wants it to be.  It would be hard to imagine them caring about what two fifteen year old gringos were bringing into the country.

    So, we pressed our button and, thankfully, green it was.  Breathing a sigh, we proceeded into the terminal proper. 

    Deciding against a taxi or hotel shuttle (I mean really?  Why take all the fun out of this?), we started looking for the Subway station that I knew was within walking distance of the terminal.  Without too much searching, we found the station.  I thought we boarded at the station called Boulevard Puerto Aereo.  (Makes sense doesn’t it?)  Unfortunately, there are two subway stations at the airport.  Instead we boarded at the station called Terminal Aerea, which also makes alot of sense. 

    Needless to say, it didn’t take long to see our mistake, and, thankfully, I had a phone app that allowed us to
type in any station where you currently resided and it would give you directions to any other station with the subway system. 
    Without too much more hassle, and thirty minutes later, we found ourselves on the main square in Mexico City, called the Zocalo.  Zocalo means pedestal.   In this instance, it refers to the pedestal that once stood in this massive square.  Historians disagree on what once was on the pedestal.  One camp thinks that Santa Anna ordered it built to hold a monument celebrating Mexican independence from Spain
, but, since governments were so erratic during that period, only the pedestal was completed.  Others say it was left from the Spanish as a place to host a statue of King Carlos IV. 

    Either way, the name Zocalo remains, and now represents the huge square (second largest in the world behind Red Square in Moscow) fronted on the north by the Catedral Metropolitano and the east by the Palacio Nacional.

    Imagine four lanes of traffic ringing ten acres of concrete, given over to the public, to be used in, well, just about any fashion you can dream.  In a span of fifteen minutes, we walked by tents housing artists flaunting their wares, painters using the Zocalo as their own canvas, the electrical workers union protesting.....something, several hundred Aztec dancers taking up an area the size of a football field, an art student dressed like Skeletor, from the He-Man series, to raise money for schooling.  I’ve never been so horrified and charmed at the same time.

    We walked across the
street to find our room at the Gran Hotel.  Ascending into the cavernous lobby, our gaze immediately turned upward.  Built in the early part of the 20th Century, the ceiling is stained glass in the Tiffany Style.  A work of art is an understatement of the highest order.  Like so many things on the trip so far, we found ourselves staring, like the bumpkins that we are.


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   Up the next morning, we headed for a tour of the Cathedral, but were up earlier than it was to open.  So we moved 200 yards to the northwest to visit the Templo Mayor.

    When the Spanish entered and destroyed the Aztec city of Tenochtitlan in 1521, all temples built by the Aztecs were almost completely destroyed, and, as the years past, covered over with newer buildings. 
By the beginning of the 19th century, nobody knew exactly where the Aztec temples had been.  Knowing the Spanish and their affinity for giving the middle finger to any culture or diety that wasn’t their own, most believed they were under where the Cathedral sat.  In 1978, that idea would be proved wrong.  That year electric workers digging one block north and east of the church found a huge circular stone disk measuring over twelve feet in diameter.  A
fter four years of excavation, several intact walls of the temple had been unearthed and over 7000 objects had filled a new museum that now resides just east of the former Templo Mayor.

    We perused the grounds of the former temple and then moved on to objects in the four story museum.

    The Aztecs, or Mexica (May-she-ka),
as they called themselves, were rather fond of blood, sacrifice, and body “adjustments,” as shown by several of the artifacts.

    Because of this, Meredith and I find it difficult to really enjoy the Central and South American cultures.  Interesting, they are, but enjoying them is another matter.

    After a couple of hours of perusal, we’d had our fill and moved across the street to the Palacio Nacional, or National Palace.  The streets were now teeming with vendors, dancers, tourists, musicians, healers, policia, anybody, and everybody.  A scene from Indiana Jones comes to mind.   Just crossing the street felt like a live version of Frogger, a bit nauseating, yet
thrilling at the same time.  We zigged and zagged until we found the opposite side of the street and were soon in line to see seat of government of Mexico.

    When thinking of the National Palace, think a combination of the White House and the Capitol building and you have the general idea.  After the prerequisite metal detector and patdown, we entered the building.  

    If you don’t know who Diego Rivera is, you need to take five minutes and acquaint yourself with him.  In short, he’s Mexico’s most famous muralist, communist, womanizer, hard-ass, and
political activist.  He was quite an individual.

    When we entered the Palace, we were confronted by a gigantic mural of his, spanning the history of Mexico, from pre-Conquest to the 1930s.  The sheer scale, coupled with the detail of each character was mind blowing.  Anybody who was anybody in Mexican history was there to see, in good or bad terms, depending on how Diego felt about them.  And this was only one of his works in the Palacio.  During our visit we would see no fewer than four more of his works, though none were as grand in scale as this.

    We wandered through exhibits
detailing Mexican history from day one.  It gave us new perspective when we read how “separatist rebels” wanted northern Mexico and were able to gain independence. 

    By far the strangest sight we were to see (and that’s saying ALOT for this trip) came when we entered the room called Mauseleo de Heroes (Mauseleum of Heroes).  I’ll cut to the chase.  It was glass case after glass case containing the mortal remains of the revered patriarchs of Mexico.  Imagine going into the Capitol in Washington D.C. to see the bones of Washington himself.  And, of course, no photos allowed.

    After that, we needed something distinctly American and to clear our palate.  So we went to the 7-Eleven and ate a hot dog.

    Still needing to clear our mental palate, we walked west from the Zocalo along Calle Tacuba towards Alemada Central, one of Mexico City’s big parks.

    And I’m glad we did.  It’s not every day you get to see a person, looking every bit the part of a Native American Chong, from Cheech and Chong, with a sign declaring, “If someone has given you the evil eye, I can help get rid of it.”  Unfortunately (or fortunately), to our knowledge, neither of us had been given the ocular equivalent of the middle finger, lately.  So we didn’t have a need to procure his services. 

    Our guidebook indicated we should see the Palacio Postal (Postal Palace).  I suppose it’s a bit of an oxymoron to call any postal establishment a palace, but if there were any in the world you would consider,
this building was the place.  Still a working post office, the building was a monument to a time when building were still works of art and not soulless pieces of cheap-ass despair.  The gold and marble floors were beautiful.  
    Across the street was the Belles Artes (Fine Arts building), a work of art itself, with a copper dome that shimmered in the afternoon light.  We wanted to see another Diego Rivera mural, along
with several others from Mexico’s lesser known muralists.

    Afterwards, we strolled through throngs of people in Alemeda Central, a large park full of vendors and revelers, it being Sunday in the city. 

    It seemed we could’ve purchased anything our minds could’ve desired.  Street performers intermingled with sightseers.  At one point we came upon a crowd being entertained by a clown.  Even without understanding, it was easy to follow the show. 

    One more Rivera mural as on our list and we entered the Museo Mural Diego Rivers to see his work entitled “Dream of a Sunday Afternoon in the Alemada Central.”  Painted in 1947-48, this huge work was commissioned by the Hotel Prado to be displayed in its lobby. 
It lived there until the earthquake in 1985 when the hotel was damaged beyond repair.  Luckily, the mural survived unscathed, and the city built an entire museum to house the work.  I guess you know you’ve made it as an artist when city’s are willing build an entire building for just one of your works.

    The painting is an eclectic mix of most of the historical figures in Mexico’s history, from Cortes, to Winfield Scott, to Rivera himself.  When looking at it, you get a sense that you could dwell upon it for hours and still not see all there is to see.

    We sat for a while and then decided to head back to our hotel.  It had been a long first full day.


Day Two               

 
¡Viva México!