Mexico City - Day 2: Los Pyramides

We awoke again to a chorus of car alarms and people shouting, namely the "Basuraaaaaaaa!" lady, and dressed quickly to make our way with Carlos Sr., "Tosh"' as Carlos calls him, and his sweet and hysterically funny girlfriend of 11 years- Vivi. She's thin and beautiful, with curly hair and a bright smile. I still do not understand why they call her "La Negra"' even after Carlos explaining that "she's the closest thing we get to black people here." Is it the hair? Driving in other countries is always an adventure, as the traffic rules here are more guidelines than rules, and you have to be very aware of the precise dimensions of your vehicle because that spatial awareness will be necessary for you to make any sort of turn or lane change. (again with the run-on sentences...) There will rarely be more than a few inches to spare. We drove north, through what they called the slums: hillsides packed with concrete box houses piled haphazardly atop one another as far as the eye can see. I did a school project with my dad once on the Hopi Indian houses where I built some clay squares on the side of a foam hill. These reminded me of that project, only in cartoonish color: if you have enough money, you can paint your house a garish pink or turquoise. Juxtaposed in even greater contrast than it might have been elsewhere against the grey of everything else, they were somewhere between cheerful and clownish. We drove finally out into the countryside, past giant agave plants and cactus to the ancient Aztec city of Teotihuacan. Had a lunch of wonderful soup and fajitas. Both Carlos' (Carloses? Carlos squared? The Carlos?) and Vivi patiently explained things on the menu to me. I realize that I rely too heavily on Carlos as a screen through which I'm experiencing things here. I do know enough Spanish to order my food, but I'm nervous about saying something wrong, so I defer to him. He is patient and encouraging, but I think he's a little annoyed, so I make a better effort today. I ask more and devote more of my energy to learning new words, too. Everyone chatters away in Spanish. I get a little more than a third of whats being said, but getting the gist is fine. We all drink some excellent tequila in honor of the waiter's birthday. The Carlos and Vivi make fun of everyone and everything. We laugh constantly. I have decided that my favorite vacations are the ones where I don't see any white people. I have loved jeweled beaches and ancient marble, but I get the most out of the little things like street food, local markets and the back streets that lead away from the tourist attractions. Getting to spend my time in another country with the people who live there, doing the things they do every day is a rare experience that's an oft-trumpeted ideal among traveling Americans. Some enjoy the cruise-ship style vacation, with umbrellas and invisible waitstaff. My generation, however, is looking for an adventure off the beaten path. It's important for us in our wanderlust to stay wary of becoming patronizing. I'm reminded of the hill tribe villages in northern Thailand: billed as an 'authentic' experience, it's nothing more than perpetuating the tragic dependence of a caricature of what once was a colorful and rich culture upon well-intentioned but poorly aimed "adventure" tourists. I don't want to be *that* tourist, but I don't want to be that hipster post-tourist poseur either. But more than any of this, I'm here to share these experiences with a friend. I'm here to explore a rare and priceless connection with another human being that could be happening anywhere in the world. The fact that it's happening here and there are other things to look at along the way is just icing on the cake. We cross the street to a huge old pyramid of stone. I'm told it's 2000 years old, and was a place of worship for the citizens of the city. There's a wall around it, and just inside the wall are a few men hawking jewelry and carved flutes. We smile and wave them politely away - I love how polite the hawkers are here- they approach, but aren't pushy. The trappings of this tourist trap are unostentatious. Surprisingly, the locals definitely outweigh the foreigners. 200 or so of stone steps that have been restored to their original terrifying steepness bring the 4 of us to the top, where Carlos and I sit on a ledge and paint each other pictures of what the people of Teotihuacan must have seen from there, so long ago. Per usual, we describe a gruesome scene, discussing the strange beauty of the pyramids covered in the blood of thousands of prisoners of war. We wax unironically poetic, quietly wallowing together in the drama and tragedy of our relationship and we promise, there atop the pyramid of the sun, to always love each other. And that in 10 years, if we haven't found someone better suited to our individual quirks that we'll find our way back to each other. Asking "who else?" we share a poignant kiss. Who else, indeed? Carlos, with a flair for the dramatic, brings an intensity and a creativity out in me that I feel like I had forgotten. He understands a big part of me- the performing part- in a way that others don't. We are both born performers: we live and die by the attention of an audience, and the satisfaction we can only get on a stage is the yardstick by which any other satisfaction in our lives is measured. Somehow, discussing life, love, and the pursuit of happiness, and declaring our undying love for each other doesn't seem at all ridiculous there atop the Pyramid of the Sun. Somehow it's quintessentially *us*. We descend, and walk off toward a smaller pyramid to the right- the Pyramid of the Moon, taking time to play with cartwheels and handstands on top of the crumbling walls. Carlos gets bitten by an ant. His dad takes pictures. We are uncharacteristically quiet. We return to the city in heinous traffic. Traffic in Mexico is like traffic in Seattle, only if it were in Seattle, it would stretch from Everett to Tacoma without relief. Stopping on an errand, I'm left alone with Vivi for a few minutes, and we make small talk in both languages. I learn the story of the birth of her 12 year old- when people learn I'm a labor & delivery nurse, they frequently share their birth stories- I love this. We get dressed up back at home, and take the metro and a taxi with Eric to a part of town called La Contessa, where there are hip and metropolitan-looking bars everywhere. We get a table upstairs in a sleek place that has blue lighting. My backless top draws a lot of attention. We get a table next to a door that opens into a giant walk-in freezer. The walls and bar and furniture are made of ice inside. An ice bar in Mexico City! We instantly adopt a lovely couple that are a little quiet and look nervous about our boisterousness. They talk to me in polite, broken English and I try to talk back in Spanish as much as I can. I'm doing better today in Spanish, having learned several new words this morning. Bottle service is required, so the 5 of us put a bottle of Stolichnaya to good use, and are soon the only people in the bar dancing, definitely having a better time than anyone else. Leslie and Manuel are still a little unsure of us, but are starting to cut loose a little. We of course learn the cheer that I have been teaching everyone I meet in bars for the last 4 months. I am always surprised when everyone enthusiastically takes part. Carlos and I laugh and take to the dance floor at one point, and as we are wont to do, improvise some flashy choreography that draws the attention of this half of the bar, and the applause of our table mates. Life is good. After shots and dancing in the ice bar, Eric's ex girlfriend Mary joins us, and we proceed with an epically fun night: drunkenly singing along with the Black Eyed Peas and Pitbull. Leslie and Manuel finally cut loose- laughing, taking pictures, and singing. There is no language needed, just noisy bar pantomime and lots of liquor. We kissed the bear carved from ice and laughed our way out. As far as we were concerned, no-one in the place had ever in their lives had as much fun as we had that night. I have had some good times in New York, Washington D.C., San Francisco, and Jamaica, but this may have topped them all. We walk for what seems like miles to get back to Eric's house- now using more English than Spanish, which is a nice rest for me. I felt bad for Mary, being the only one who didn't speak English. We drink and smoke, Eric and Mary make spectacular quesadillas, and we curl up to sleep for an hour on a couch that would not have been nearly so comfortable if we had not bellies full of Stoli and cheese. The Metro opens at 5. At 6, we stumble and grin through walk-of-shame back to Casa de Carlos. Riding the metro at 6am in last night's clubbing clothes is a surefire way to draw more than a little attention. We're used to it, and ignore the stares as we cuddle in the corner.