Mexico City - Day 3: Coyoacan

We awake in the afternoon, and get lunch at a lovely little cafe in the spiderweb neighborhood next door. These flautas cure my hangover instantly, and are some of the the finest things I have ever eaten in my life. Carlos, predictably, gets a hamburger. We discuss our dissatisfaction with foreign food- American food in Mexico just isn't the same, either. We navigate the Metro again, and here on my 3rd day I now understand all the signs and how the different levels work, and finally hear the beep the signals that the doors are closing. Up to this point, I was always amazed by how everyone seemed to just know when to step back or get eaten alive by the unforgiving things. "No," Carlos smiled at me: "Mexicans are not genetically engineered with a subway-door instinct." First rule of the Metro: you do not trifle with the doors. Doors are DOORS! And they pack a wallop, so you listen for the beep. Next, a bus takes us to the little bohemian market in the Coyoacan neighborhood. It reminds me a little of the river walk area of San Antonio, or Chico, with well-kept streets and quaint brick walls. I expect a flamenco dancer to flounce around the corner at any moment. The market here is lovely, all sorts of lovely trinkets and baubles are there. Unlike some other markets I have been to, most of the stalls have unique wares- from miniature glass hummingbirds to intricately painted plates to leather wallets and purses and bracelets. It's very different from the cacophony of the Tepito area. Carlos buys a fire staff. I squeal with delight at the feather headbands. There are a few more white people shopping here, but it's still mostly Mexicans. We leave grinning, and take turns spinning the staff outside. It's a couple of hours until the party we will be attending tonight, so we wander. There's a sweet little park here, with children playing in a fountain and perfectly manicured boxwood hedges that curve and swirl around the trees. This Mexico city is quite charming. We find an amusing street performer with a bullhorn. Carlos translates his jokes to me, and we decide to follow the crowd to see where he's leading us: the Pied Piper in stripes and suspenders. We take our seats in what looks like it was once a sports court of some kind. This was a good idea. Two street clowns entertain us for the better part of 3 hours. Carlos graciously translates the jokes for me when I don't get them, but still- a clown is a clown. Slapstick humor needs no translation. They chose Carlos for the audience participation part (little did they know) where he made a perfect addition to their show: not quite stealing it, but playing along better than their usual rubes. They nicknamed him something that translated roughly to "The Pole Dancer" after making rude gestures with his new fire staff and poking fun at his ruggedly handsome looks. We left giggling, with laughs and slaps on the back for Carlos for being a good sport, and got some street food for dinner. We got a cup of coffee in a cafe around the corner, and watched the news about the earthquake that had just happened. We were apparently oblivious, walking through the park. I can't imagine that the two of us would be so wrapped up in our little world that we would miss a 6.8 earthquake... At a table in the back of a bar around the corner we joined a birthday party for Carlos' cousin. His friends, all actors, were polite and chic, engaging me despite my jeans and hoodie and poor Spanish. We drank and laughed through the night.