Death and The Patio

This begins with a tragedy of sorts, not to me, rather to one of the 25 million Mexican city folk I live among. Leaving work you pass the hospital entrance and you walk down a residential street landmined with dog shit and crooked, cracked sidewalks. There are a few struggling trees and gritty walls with garage entrances. When you turn the first corner, there is sometimes a futbol enthusiast, Cruz Azul, who makes a living with his fruit stand squeezing carrot and orange juice for 70 cents. You pass a bridge overpass to avoid traffic when you want to cross the street left- this was built last year and is too much trouble to use, I ve never seen a person walk up or down the two flights of metallic steps to cross the street spanning ten feet wide (an example of inefficient government spending in Mexico)- back on track, you pass the juice man to cross a small one-way street to steps that go 5 feet down to another street where you pass a few houses, a car getting surgery with it's insides sprawled on the street, a dog that in it's alternate life would be cute, but in this one has nappy gray dreadlocks covering his eyes; and once you get past the methane gas leaking sewage, you turn left by manicured trees with homes on the left to a perch viewing the valley below.

The vista looms on the hillside overlooking Mexico City. On a seldom clear day this time of year, you can see past the steep steps below, stretching downward four times the distance that Rocky ran up at the Philadelphia Art Museum, leading to a frenetic bus terminal, a congested street and the metro station. You can see over hills and into smaller valleys within the valley bulleted with concrete housing and structures painted blue, yellow, pink, and green. Skyscrapers such as the Mexican World Trade Center along with other large modern buildings spot the vista stretching black and reflective glass high. Further away, more concrete housing spreads chaotically over previous green space and hinders far away into the valley mountain walls where the sun shines in gigantic spots and is blocked by rainclouds from which you can see the streams falling in the contained distance.

As my daily route goes, down the steps and into the metro I went, thinking of my bed, ready for a nap. Immediately upon entering the station, police guards closed and locked the hexagon shaped iron gates behind me. Feeling accomplished because I made it as a crowd accumulated on the outside, I walked over the indoor bridge, trains below, down the steps and headed for the turnstyle. Blocked by a guard with a walkie-talkie, she didn't look at me, but said, "Esta cerrado." It's closed.  I thought I beat the shut-down but trains ceased. What happened? Was somebody shot? Police continued to close and lock all entrances. People approached the gates like chips falling at a winning slot machine without a prize, only query.

What happened? You may be wondering. First, I 'd like to explain the metro. It transports something like 10 million people around the city each day. Time of day dictates how cramped you will be. I leave early enough that I usually avoid the crowds and get a seat. Rush hour is aggressive; people rush the yellow platform line of scrimmage. Bodies squirm together as more people rush. Women, particularly foreigners, get molested by unwanted erections. People trying to exit often get slammed back and need to exit at the next stop. Luckily the Observatorio stop is the beginning of the metro line, so the car is empty upon entering. 

However, there is an impetus need to make it into the car for a touchdown, a green seat. As the train approaches, people fire up, and a few of those on the offense can't wait, they begin their violent starts before the doors open, sometimes before the train stops. This time the onslaught was fatal. On attack, a man almost sacked the train for a seat, miscalculated, and fell between cars of the moving train onto the deadly tracks. For this, one unlucky life lost, thousands of passengers long delayed, and one gringo stranded looking for an alternate route home. A Mexican-mafia controlled 1971 Green VW Bug, a taxi, edged between the buses to transport people to the next metro stop and I arrived home safely.

City life in MC is full of unintentions; events unravel. Let's rewind to Thursday night, in contrast to the subway incident, the capricious events of Thursday had no deathly consequences. It began an hour before midnight at an italian restaurant with a wood burning stove.

"That guy is hot! Does she realize he's gay?" Cristina snickered.

I sat in the booth unable to avoid the contact between the couple behind Cristina. They sat next to one another and he groped her long brown hair. They kissed and enamored one another with fingertips, his shirt revealing a toned upper body. They were the couple who sit next to one another looking out at the world manipulating around them, likely projecting their own dynamic.

First stop to meet Juan, Andrea, Liz, Robert and others at the Reggae bar with promises of free drinks from Alejandra. The hip-hop beat tore up the pub-like bar, Jamaican spun. "I m on the hunt, should I go talk to him?" Liz turned away and down at the wood-weathered floor and leered up at the dark face haloed with dreads. "That accent is so-o hot!"

"Go for it." I urged her though she needed to urging.

Liz sashayed in front of the spinner and garnered his full attention.

Meanwhile, we decided to head to our next bar in Centro after we paid (no free cocktails from our "in"). As tends to happen with large bills among large groups, not enough cash; Andrea swiped the bill on her debit card and headed home with Juan. Robert drove, a welcome alternate to finding a taxi, and we stopped at Oxxo for the ATM. Liz returned with Redbulls, and what remained of her vodka, to fire up the night. Night lights scattered intersections and we passed Chapultepec castle and the Torre Mayor on Reforma, leading to the Zocolo, a huge European mall, an open space of gravel, set to become an ice rink for the first time this winter.

Our destination, Casa Espana, behind the church on the Zocolo, known for its Thursday nights: museum by day, bar/nightclub by night, on the top floor. We entered the building, probably dating to the 20's and hopped out of the elevator. The dance floor teemed with almost no one. The stage set for live bands was abandoned. Almost 2 AM, we missed the band and liveliness. Cristina to the rescue, black russians all around. Our energy was still in the rise, not desisting our intention of having a fun night.

"Ah, where are yuu from?" The two guys at the table next to us joined us. They stayed at the hostal, traveling, and were in good spirits to make good company. We packed back into Robert's car, plus two Irishmen, headed through the empty downtown streets for the bar where there's a party every night of the week, El Patio. Easy with a parking spot in front, we glided into El Patio. The spinner mixed surf rock and sixties acid melody to a really cool beat. We thundered the dance floor and twisted to the music. The Irish guys continued to buy rounds of beer.

"Yuu all have to werk tomorra? That's in four hours! Have anotha!" Robert looked back at me, shrugged, and we all agreed, everyone's having a good time, we don't need that much sleep! Twisting and board riding dances we waved on the floor and contradictory videos played by the bar, gory images of sadism in Saw III, difficult not to glimpse.

Liz spoke to her friend, a local patron who gets paid in drinks for each hair cut. Her eyes concentrated to stay open and focused; but, she convinced Paul, the longer haired Irishmen, to have a cut. He sat on a stool on the dance floor. The drunk hairdresser tried to concentrate with help from her spelunking light strapped on her head. He looked up with each stroke of the scissors and rolled his eyes with a glowing smile...until he returned from the bathroom mirror, butchered. "What did she do? Why'd I think et was a good idea?" We told him it wasn't that bad with closed teeth.

Eventually with little conviction, we decided upon home where we could get a few hours of rest before work. Liz, free from concern of tomorrow, offered her place to continue gallivanting, but we instead exchanged wispy hugs and numbers with the Irishmen and wheeled back through the sleeping city, a few starting for work. This was one of the nights that make it worthy to see where it leads and this is not unusual for MC.  It was worth getting out for the night, going with moments that led to Patio.  This was the last time we danced at Patio; it shut down the fervor and fun was taken elsewhere as it was knocked out of it's spot in centro.

Bikes and Hors

I went to a party last Saturday night
I didn't get laid, I got in a fight.
Uhuh. It ain't no big thing.

Remember this Lita Ford lyric from the late 80s? Well it fits to have this tune in your head as you hear this latest tale. I went looking for a bicycle to ride around my neighborhood. There 's no local bike store and no close Wal-Marts to get a bike. I had in my head exactly what I needed. Not a mountain bike, not necessary for the city. A cruiser, a nice one speed for cruising around the hood. But no bike shop, where do you go?

All the bike shops line one street in Centro, so I made my way there. There's a lot of cruising go in and it s not for bikes. In approaching the street with bike shops, I noticed a slow disintegration taking place and soon the slope turned to seedy. I turned onto the street to find bicylcle tires hanging out of open store windows, one after another. But as you look at the tires flooding on to the sidewalk, you quickly notice what else this street has to offer, plentiful prostitutes!

Bicycle tires sit on the same sidewalk where inches away plastic high-heeled platforms seperate the dirty sidewalk from the painted toenails, long legs exposing knees and thighs swimming into a miniskirt, some turquoise, pink or black, some tight and some with ruffles. Stomachs are fit due to the young age of the women, although you can see age and food consumption with a gaze at other exposed mid-sections. Continuing upward, tight shirts or tank tops cover three ribs and natural and silicone breasts to the stem of a throat flowering a face of heavy make-up and dark hair, sometimes bleached orange. Black mascara eyes look at scantily dressed self, waiting to be approached, rouge beams from each cheek to the next beaming cheek just feet away, bordering blue eye shadow beating in competition.

I looked past the hookers, surprised at the juxtaposition of tramps and bikes. Interlaced were two very different types of people with different purposes of purchase. Some parents walked hand in hand with a child between to buy a bicycle with training wheels. Others stood, loomed, choosing the best option for sex. I webbed past hundreds of prostitutes and found my Silver Italian Cruiser. Mission accomplished. I swiveled down the busy street past the people on one of two missions, back to my neighborhood where the extremes of intent are not so polarized.

Poo-roo

I went to Peru for my Spring Break, two long weeks off. My friend Mo made plans to see Machu Picchu while doing the Inca Trail, and I thought, that sounds good! I made reservations, signed up for the 3 night trip and did it the day after Mo left on the trail thinking, I m going to be independent! I ll go alone (with a guided group of twelve) and meet up with Mo after what turned out to be four days hiking in wet and chilly weather.

However, there are some hightlights to the trek...the mountains were beautiful, the food was good and a porter carried my backpack. We had a tour group plus 11 porters and a cook who carried all the food, supplies and tents. I was in a group of twelve: eight Uruguayans, one Argentinian, a Polish guy, a Japanese guy, and me. I shared a tent with the Japanese guy who did not speak Spanish or English. It poured the second night. Pelts slammed the tent and I awoke at 2AM to Hatari moving all around inside the tent. The tent was small, we were on each side, with our packs in the middle between us. I saw that Hatari had moved all his things to the middle, on top of our bags, and he sat on the piles. I asked, "What are you doing?"

"Wet...WET!" Was his response. I inspected, flashlight in hand, and saw the ground tarp was not effective and spots of water infiltrated his cloth sleeping pad, making for a damp bed. I looked under my pad and saw the same thing, but was mostly dry because of my acrylic air mat.
"Look, it is wet here too." I don't think he understood. He settled down in the middle, right on our bags and too close to me. I thought about explaining personal space, but thought I d only get a nod and a smile.

I lay there listening to the rain and felt Hatari's body breathing, cramped in by the wet tent wall. Be patient! Just go to sleep! He just wants to be dry! I turned every way to get comfortable. But I couldn't sleep, he was too close. I erupted after a half hour. "Look, you are too close to me! I ll move to your space (the empty and damp spot where he was sleeping) and you can sleep here." We switched positions and I was able to sleep the rest of the night before hiking the next day.

The last night we arose at 4AM to trample through rain and mud, sweat under raingear, until we reached the epic sight of the dead civilization midhigh on the mountains, Macchu Pichu. But you couldn't really see it because the white rainclouds kept obstructing the view. The wind blew and the rain was cold. When I set foot on the civilization, I thought, cool, I can get a coffee. When the guide said he was ready to bring the group for the tour, I was not enthused, but the tour was pretty good and the rain ceased.

After four lonesome days of staccato communication with Argentinian Spanish, I d make my way to meet Mo. I was so bad at planning before we left, we just said we d meet at Lake Titicaca, where I had a picturesque lake with a quaint little town called Puno in mind.  I drove hours over high, cold desert. After my six hour bus ride that shook my insides, I reached Puno. My mouth opened in disbelief and my lower lip hung disgusted. The village was really a city, a large cinderblock city with dirty roads straddling a bay of polluted swampland on Lake Titicaca. I came this far to get here?

Our plan to meet at the visitor center was a no-go, obviously, because we set no time. The following day I toured the lake, an island community and an island. I pondered at our first stop, a floating village, where people live on lake grass, they make huts, boats, chairs beds, even the islands themselves from lake grass. They even ate it. I tried it, but it was tasteless. It was one of the best days in Peru. The sun was bright, the boatride three hours each way to a real island. Still it was cold being the largest lake at the highest elevation in the world. I sat on the roof of the boat with the cloudless sky and a winter hat and struck up conversation with others on the boat. At sunset, I returned to my hotel and had an email from Mo...WHERE ARE YOU? WE LOVE PERU! MARTINA AND I ARE SPENDING THE NIGHT ON ONE OF THE ISLANDS, WE ARE STAYING AT HOTEL PUNO IN TOWN. MEET US THERE! I MISS YOU! SEE YOU SOON!

Atleast Mo was enjoying her vacation. I hunted down her hotel to find she would return the following day at 4PM. Great! A day in this shit town with no agenda. My night and following morning were highlights of the trip. I watched a marathon of The OC that night and St. Elmo's Fire the following morning before check-out. Mo's face brightened as she returned to see me waiting in the lobby. I explained the woes of Peru. Meanwhile, Mo and Martina couldn't get enough Peruvian adventures.

Now, the trip turns toward discussion of material some people don't like to talk about, bowel movements. I realized in Mexico to be highly attuned to each bowel movement: consistency, frequency, color, texture, and smell. NO one likes dealing with shit, but you have to moniter and inspect it, particularly when you live in a third-world country. I asked Mo if she was constipated, because I was. The entire time on the Inca Trail, I shit once, one puny little shit, and I ate frequently, big meals. I admit, it worried me a little. I wasn't sure what to do. Mo was regular, I m content to report, and that night we had a Peruvian dinner, some beer and Llama.

We shared a room, the three of us, before departing for another crowded 6 hour bus ride. Mo looked distraught when we reached the room for the night, her forehead wrinkled up. "Guys, look I have diarrhea, I don't feel good! I m not shitting with you both right here. I m gettting my own room." We laughed and told her she was staying and who cares, just use the bathroom. The door shut, the faucet ran to cover any sounds, and suddenly Martina covered her nose with a t-shirt. The air quickly drifted to me. We rolled our eyes and while Mo went, I couldn't.

The following day we reached Arrequipa. Mo was due to depart from Lima in two days, Martina and I had a few more days so we booked a guide for a trip to the Colca Canyon, a deep ravine deeper than the Grand Canyon. Mo' s stomach healed and I visited a pharmacy to see what I could do about constipation. I said in spanish, "Do you have anything to go?" Go where? The pharmacist asked. I replied, "No, just to go, I haven't gone to the bathroom in days!" She gave me natural fiber pills and told me to begin with two.

Contemplation: I was leaving at 5AM to head to the canyon after a five and a half hour bus ride. Did I really want to take these? I did, but would do it conservatively. I ate the pills when we reached the hotel room continuing to feel naucious. An hour later, I didn't shit, I vomited. My body ached and I layed down and went to sleep only to awake in the early morning, projectile vomiting. I did make it to the bathroom, thought I d be able to use the toilet. But sitting there, could only vomit in the sink, which clogged and filled to the brim. Disgusting. I thought there is no way I can make this two day hike beginning tomorrow. When the alarm went off, I was well enough, said goodbye to Mo, and caught the bus with Martina.

The agent told us the Colca Canyon would be simple after the Inca Trail. The bus stopped. Jonny said, here we are! We nudged past locals and gringos. There was a vast field with sheep, no canyon in sight, and clouds covered sun rays. We walked for twenty minutes and reached the canyon, mostly whited out with clouds. We stopped at a rock for lunch included in our guided tour; bologne and rolls that Jonny bought at the bus station. What a meal! I ate for the first time in a day. We looked down and could see the little river at the bottom and our accomodations for the night. The Oasis had little huts and a bright blue pool, snuggled into the bottom of the ditch. The pictures at the agency displayed people swimming and smiling and sun-bathing here. I already wanted to be there.

We began the decent, I only slipped twice, slicing my palm, forearm and elbow. I had to stop a few times thinking I would vomit, and it only rained a bit until we had to climb half way up the other side of the canyon through pouring, freezing rain. We stopped at a five student schoolhouse with a tin roof. It rained harder. Martina repeated, "Mo would hate this." At 6PM we reached The Oasis, disrobed our wet clothing and jumped into the warmish pool despite the grey drizzle. We drank coca tea and ate spagetti to energize for tomorrow's trek up. We rambled, swapping tales with trekkers from London and Paris. Jonny appeared with a candle, "OK, set your alarm to wake up at 2:30AM and we leave before 3AM." Some relaxing, restful vacation!

The sky was clear and the stars shone multidimensionally, the black crevice we were in provided incredible contrast. The milkyway dimly shone behind the many closer suns. I began the day in wet clothing, quickly warmed from the climb. We reached the top when the sun rose. It was a beautiful morning. We dined for the included breakfast. I kicked three street dogs who squattered under the table. When I asked for a second egg, Jonny said we better get going. We waited for the bus in a line of people for twenty-five minutes; I m still bitter about one egg and the time I had to eat a second. The bus continuously made stops to pack in more people than fathomably possible. A farmer' s waist was squeezed out of the aisle and into the space between me and the seat infront of me. He breathed on my face for 45 minutes to Chivay, town of hotsprings.

"Martina, I have sunscreen if you want some."

"Thanks, we are only here an hour. I m not going to use any."

The whole vacation I expected lounging, refueling, and getting a quality tan, so I agreed. It would be good to get sun for an hour. We floated in the hot pool, swam, drank a beer in the water. It felt like a massage after two of my backpack on my shoulders. Later Martina commented, "Wow, you got really red at the hotsprings!"

We talked about a perfectly cooked steak for much of the ride back from the canyon and hotsprings. When we arrived at the restaurant, I recanted. I didn't feel that good again and steak would promote my nauciousness. I watched Martina enjoy the steak and ate nothing. We reached the hotel just in time as I used the bathroom. Finally I went! And went and went and went, so much that it was difficult to not become dehydrated.

The next two and a half days, I could not stray far from the hotel rooms, more precisely, the bathrooms. When necessary to move on, I carried toilet paper to use paperless and seatless stalls in airports and bus stations. Martina walked around Lima and I stayed tuned to the television and close to the bathroom. I made it out the morning of our departing flight to buy a cool t-shirt. I prefer not to think of Peru when I wear it. At the airport I forefitted my swiss army knife to fly. I was short about fifty cents of the $30 departure tax and I cursed the taxman. I felt joy when the jet wheels lifted from Peruvian soil. After days of not eating, I thought I could stomach the airplane food. I unwrapped the lasagna. It settled well in my stomach. I was relieved the worst was over when I read the sticker on the crumpled saran wrap- Made in Mexico.

From Shit-tzu to The Red Spider

Traffic, carhorns, breaks sreeching, radio blasting blasphemy. Mexico City, the place where all cars converge and little old green beetles die and live second lives as taxi-cabs. Mountains hide behind walls of smog. LA produces the LA veneer, a semi-transparent screen infront of the Hollywood Hills. Mexico City smog triples that, placing white walls between you and the beauty of snow-capped mountains reaching high above the valley. Despite the contamination due to cars, I wanted one.

In order to escape the city on weekends I desire a car. My lack of outdoors was getting to me and a few weeks ago I rented a car. I was very prepared-- insured the car and paid for the car before picking it up at the airport. It is all very simple on Orbitz. Cristina and I arrived at the airport, a metro journey in itself, to pick up the car on Thursday, ready to depart for the countryside Friday directly from work.

"No acemptamos el seguro."

The insurance I eagerly paid prior to getting the car was no good. Why would Orbitz offer it? We called Orbitz, were given a run-around (customer service is simply frustration these days), and three hours after leaving work the car finally pulled up! Not so great...a mexican jalopy, rather a japanese jalopy. A white Nissan Tsuzu, the Shit-tzu...small, scratched, used and abused. The attendant showed me the spare tire and a nervous feeling shook through me as I looked at the rickety and smaller than usual tire. I am relieved the feeling was no foreshadowing moment to the mini-road trip.

Thursday night, feeling special with a car, I picked a friend up and went to an art opening in La Roma. It was a good night of meeting handsome semi-art afficionados. I began to walk toward my apartment and remembered, "Oh yeah, I have a car!" I walked over the uneven sidewalks and started up the Shit-tzu. My home wasn't that far; I continued straight to my apartment until I came upon road construction. The road was closed and my only option was to turn right down the dark, empty street. One wrong turn can be a crucial mistake in the labarynth. I took a few turns and had no idea where I was when I recognized a street and took a left.

I squinted at the dark road with the center line far too close to the left side. "Am I going the wrong way?" I thought, my nose snarled. When I realized the lines signified the bus lane I positioned my hands on the powerless steering-wheel (do you know how archaic it feels to drive without power-steering and the work out it gives your arms?). About to make a Uey, from the trunks of branches looming over the street, cop lights came on and veered across the road to block me.

"Venga al dentro el coche." Two mexican poli stood at my car door and told me to get out. I later found that you NEVER get out of your car when told to do so. For police here in Mexico may have disconcerting motives. It leaves you vulnerable. "What were you doing? You were going down the street the wrong way! Get out of the car." They stared at me blankly.

I responded bluntly. "Construccion! Hay construccion, construction!" I converted to ordinary English thinking it better if they thought I understood less Spanish.

One of them looked at me from the sides of his eyes, "let me see your license." I told them it was at home. "I live on Veracruz and Mazatlan, very close." They stared at me with an accusatory gaze. I thought, "Shit, now I m in deep shit in this damn Shit-tzu, what do I do? I don't want them to take this car from me! I m taking a road trip tomorrow!" This is the moment I became a part of the bribery and corruption associated and well known in Mexico. I offered my first bribe, ever. "Tengo 100 pesos para ti." I offered ten dollars. My legs shook with a pocket full of fresh money from the ATM, close to 100 dollars that I was determined not to part with. The officer took a moment and nodded no under the dark brim of the uniform cap. "500 pesos."

I returned to the driver's seat and policeman #2 very politely gave me directions back to my apartment and motioned me to turn around in the correct direction. I paid them about 20 dollars. "This Shit-tzu, what a shit-tzu! My first time driving in Mexico City alone and I get pulled over in this Shit-tzu, it must have bad luck!" I thought wrong about Shit-tzu.

The weekend was stellar. We drove hours past the city of Uruapan in Michoacan State. Shit-tzu became my friend. It traversed over the jagged cobblestones where the Indiginous Angaguan people scantily survive. We parked at a wonderful spot in which we camped above the valley aside Volcan Paricutin. The Shit-tzu held our belongings in safety while we climbed over the hardened volcanic boulder field, eased through the vapor steam-baths, skiied down the volcanic pebbles from the summit, and drank Micheladas over the buried city where only the city church steeple screams from the lava field.

On our return to MC, we picked up a dude from California and helped him to his next destination. Shit-tzu rested for the night after a long weekend, to be returned after work Monday. The morning ride to work I was again frightened because of the Po-Po, Mexico City Poli. I made an illegal turn to get on the correct road (Mexico is a good place for me; no one follows rules!) and merged into traffic to have the poli lights go on immediately. It tailed me, I thought, "Not again! Shit-tzu!" I power turned with all my effort at the next light, nerves blasting from my fingertips. I checked the rear-view mirror and the cops didn't follow. "Yes! The SHit-tzu! I ll miss you."

I returned Shit-tzu that afternoon and sadly rode the metro home. Shit-tzu helped me understand I d want a car for the freedom of weekend trips. I grinned when the car pulled up to meet me and I longingly gazed the sticker on the windshield, the word TARANTULA entwined with the legs of a spider spanning the width of the top fifth of the windshield. A red Pointer. A small, fuel-efficient four-door VW Pointer, a model sold especially for Mexico. I test drove the VW. My hands comfortably fell around the black and white checkered steering-wheel cover. I grinned again. Three days later The Red Spider became mine. Now I ll be road-trippin the weekends in comfort and style.

Weekend Reading Hindi

I'm currently teaching middle school students about eastern religions: I've learned through what I have to teach and here's a story relating to this.

I walked with some friends as they had errands to run a few Saturdays ago. They headed to Sears (you pronounce it say-ours here). I, with book in hand, split to the verdant city park with palm fronds, ponds, mind-easing fountains, and organic pathways, Parque Mexico. On the walkway, I passed a young man and smiled. He smiled back. How often do you do this, smile at someone as if saying, "nice day"? I vividly recall living in Manhattan, passing several hundred strangers a day, without looking somebody in the eyes. If I would and wanted to smile, I still wouldn't. It is that wall of super sized city life I suppose. Well, I received a smile back.

I continued along the path and planted a spot on a bench near a fountain sprawling into the pool. Quickly I became absorbed by my book. Daniel searched for the deceased Carax and dodged the wicked police agent, a former socialist informer in Barcelona. This police agent thought it his job and duty to go after those whom tortured him as a child. He was a poor child. His classmates, the creme in the status of 1920s Barcelona society, made fun of him and his tramp of a mother who tried to jump social class through her son. Her ostentatious gown was a matter of ridicule. When he ran from the front door of the ball, in which his mother was his forced date, he saw his classmate, Carax, kissing the stately daughter with whom he had fallen in love. At this moment, the first of many obsessions, he made it his obligation to get even with Carax. It was his duty to make Carax feel the pain he felt at this moment.

I completed the chapter and looked at the cascading water and continued to look up the obelisk toward the sky. A small pyramid reigned atop the stone and I was reminded of my trip to Tepotzlan, a town only an hour away from Mexico City. It is said that it's virtue is that of a spiritual area on earth, a town in a valley surrounded by several finger-peaked mountains. The main street in the town leads to a rocky path that suddenly arches up to 3000 feet where a pyramid temple sits and overlooks the town and valleys below. The site was built in the 1500s in prehispanic times by the indigineous peoples of Mexico. The ancient temple reigning the area, with magnificent views, is the former home of worship to one of the many Mayan gods. It was a place to worship crops, specifically corn, the all important grain of the country. The corn god was also the god of procreation and festivals. I wondered about the other gods the Mayans worshipped, those who lived in Tepotzlan, those who would make the arduous vertical climb of 3,000 feet to worship. The sound of the water caught my attention and brought me back to the bench.

I glanced down at the maroon cover of my book, my peripheral vision caught the flash of yellow swoop past like a parakeet. The dark haired woman wore a loose leather jacket that reached to her thighs, black leggings that revealed her caramel ankles, and flat shoes, maybe ballet slippers. She reminded me of the East Village, but more European. She skipped and turned to call her bijon frise from her large black Katherine Hepburn sunglasses. Her banana yellow purse, huge, screamed at me in the reflection of the sun. Cristina, the woman, left the bag at Patricio's last night. She innocently flirted with Pato, a friend from Universidad three years ago, and it turned less innocent last night. She rarely walked her dog, Cincopinquo, this early on Saturday afternoons, but she used it as an excuse to pick up her yellow leather bag. Her husband hadn't noticed the bag when she returned to their apartment. Nor did he notice the sprightly fervor and exaltation with which Cristina breathed. Their marriage of under three years had dwindled to an arrangement. She should have known better, but with her situation, knew there was no way out. She simply wished for another life, for several more lives to pursue that which she now realized meant most to her, love.

Meanwhile, Carax hid in the vault where his deceased love was buried with their daughter, who never breathed outside of her mother's womb. The agent searched the estate, fire burning deep within, to do that which he was obliged. I was sure there are people in the world like this, those who are out to get others, those who allow the passions of envy, aggression and violence to dictate their lives and to rule every motive. Because one of each four people on earth are Buddhist and follow a rule to end suffering, atleast there are less spiteful people. The Right Action, according to Buddhist thought, means to do the right thing, to do no harm, and to prevent others from doing harm, if possible. Carax, the evil detective, the woman with the yellow handbag, me, history, those who are a part of history present and future, the Mayans, Earth, the Solar System, and further, we are part of it all, life and existence.

I looked up and saw my friends return with bags in hand. I rose to meet them and met eyes with a woman in radiant indigenous clothing who smiled at me. I returned the smile. This story correlates to the 5 beliefs in which Hindus choose to live peaceful lives. You can correlate each section of the story to a specific belief of Hinduism, as follows. Karma is the belief that when you put goodness into the world, it comes back to you, the same with negativity. Dharma is one's duty, obligation, or job. Belief in Multiple Gods is polytheism. Samsara is the process of growing through multiple lives or reincarnation and Brahman is the power of all that exists, that which encompasses everything, God.

The narrative from the book I was reading, The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, is real, my story is not.

NYC vs. Mexico City; A Qualitative Analysis

Mexico and New York are distinct in many aspects. However, they are both among the largest cities in the world bringing along commonalities of metropolitan life, holding status and stratus within their fabrics. Each city is a mecca, the black hole of each respective country, sucking people in from around. I'm going to detail the grain of each city, from my perspective. Now, I lived in Manhattan for six years and have lived in the Distrito Federal (DF, pronounced day-efay, AKA Mexico City) for only four months.

New York, the world capitol full of sophistication, whom turns her back on ignorance may be familiar with London or Paris, but knows little of it's bigger sister here in America. I remember deciding upon potential cities in which to live and work while in New York. A brown haired beauty, a yoga practicer and former world model commented on Mexico City, "No, don't go there, it s super sketchy, you don't want to get kidnapped." The danger added to my appeal and here I reside.

The mystery and danger imposed upon Mexico may have a veritable reputation. For example, there are different types of taxis to take here, the libres with a reputation of kidnappings with forced ATM robbery. Friends of friends say they know someone who has been robbed in these green VW bug taxis. I take these often. A colleague warned of her friend, robbed by gunpoint while driving, but sitting in traffic. This is said to be commonplace. The advice is to keep the windows closed. Another collegue and his wife walked to school the same route that I take. They were robbed, rumor is by gunpoint, but they didn't have money and ran away from him. They live to tell about it. By contrast, a friend was jumped in the subway in New York, they broke his jaw and he was stitched up in the hospital. I too was jumped, at a bar on the LES, and healed after 12 stitches to the face. Violence happens in big cities.

The vibe of these monster cities is very different. NYC has imposing buildings impressively stretching into the sky. Her skyline is jagged and enormous, the people hundreds of stories below scurry cramped on the sidewalks. NYC is constantly buzzing, high on coffee and cocaine, speed. As the sun sets the lights of the skyline draw you in. You yearn to be a part of the rapacious thump of the night where all your miscreant thoughts are possible.

Mexico City sprawls, encapsulated by the widespread mountains like an atoll. The flat drained lake, the grey city formerly blue, pops sienna coral along the perimeter. The mountains select visibility based on the urge to overcome the everpresent car exhaust. It fights to maintain  a seeded naturalness in which the aloe plants breath through concrete, the earthquaken sidewalks. When the moon shines, crickets present themselves in the lull of cholesterol traffic.

NYC is a chameleon changing with the seasons. Humidity stifles the frenetic energy, when buidings in Tribeca and Spanish Harlem sweat with the thickness of blood, like the bodies on vacation in Sheep's Meadow and sunbathing on the Christopher Street Pier. Winter wind tunnels make you swear that you ve got to get the hell out and never come back. Apartments freeze, fingertips freeze, cheeks freeze, and a Noreaster thaws the truculent cold with blankets of snow, allowing the moan of the city to silence. People play and cars go away. When the sun shines, the snow begins to melt, thawing is sole trickery because it will freeze, and then it tricks you again, when you step off a curb into a dirty ice puddle, what you thought was ice.

The steadfast climate in Mexico City is less extreme. In August, it is a chilly summer like San Franciso, with sun rather than fog, sweatshirts at night. The next few months during rainy season, water deluges from the sky for hours, forcing you to detour under doorways while stranded without an umbrella on a walk for groceries. This fall, freak ice storms hit the city, tearing down leaves and clogging sewer systems to flood city streets a foot above doorways. October concluded rainy season and the most splendid sunny days now grace the city. Mornings are cold, producing visible breath above scarves, but the sun warms the valley, and you feel why the palm trees survive.

New York and Mexico City delivers that which affects the people residing within. They are each a cavern, dually protecting and endangering his and her citizens, however different.  

On Chiropractors

I have never been to a Chiropractor, not until yesterday. Negative things I have heard are that chiropractors are quacks, their practice is fake medicine, and they'll paralyze you by cracking your back to heart attack. I m not sure where I heard this because I don't know anyone that regularly visits a chiropractor. Here is my new experience.

My Sunday began with a simple appointment for a sports massage as my muscles ached. The office is a small corner space in a two level colonial era building across from the coloial era, tree lined divide. The office is small, quaint, and slightly absent-minded-professor-like with several devices for the body; a lever stretcher to lay on which sees and saws upside down, a chair with a mechanical massage cushion, homeopathic medicine jars, and posters showing chakra like points on the body.

The Mexican man with small hands and friendly eyes, the Quiropraxia, began with a check up. I sat on the examination table, and he said to look at his forehead. He shone a light in each eye as and diagnoses flowed from his mouth that shocked and frightened me: his quick diagnosis was right on. En espanol, "You have a very bad intestinal problem, your lower back has many problems, your upper back, and testes too. Your heart is in pain." I looked at his third eye, shuddered, and wondered what else he knew about me by looking in my eyes.

I ve had intestinal problems for the last 4 1/2 weeks, beginning with the ameoba in Acapulco. "Treated" by an MD with enough antibiotics to peel off the inner layers of my body like an orange. The antibiotics finished the same day as my visit with partial success. My lower back striates from a seat at my desk and the lower muscles around my spine are overworked and sore. My upper back is knotted all the time, wound so tightly like a walnut inside a ball of yarn. ANd the testes, well, I m not in a relationship, which is also causing lonliness. He pegged the most pertninent problems of my being in the first minute of the examination!

He also looked at my hands and said some more things that a doctor can't possibly know by examination. My trepidation became projected slightly, doubting that that this man could know. What else does he know? What is he not telling me?

My skepticism drained as he told me how he could treat my wan body. He would give me a sports massage, and then use different pressure techniques with a suction, and then he would use needles on various pressure points. He didn't have to sell me, I knew the Quiropraxia was clairvoyant. During the therapy of needles, I asked him, "How did you know my problems by looking in my eyes?" He replied as a scientist, it is a science.

"Did you study in Mexico?"

Espanol, "Here in Mexico, yes...with a German and there were other Germans, Americans, and Mexicans studying." I looked at a body chart showing energy connnections along the body.

I left feeling more certain this practice was more science and less psychic. I departed with homeopathic remedies for my ailment: pills smelling like golden seal and vitamins. He said to come in Monday and Tuesday to complete the treatment of injections. The 40 peircings of injections into my muscles yesterday would continue the beginning of the week. I looked forward to it.

Now let's compare the chiropractor I saw Sunday to the stomach specialist I saw last Monday. The doctor had an enormous and prestigious office with expensive artwork and a desk that exuded power and money. The chiropractor works next to a Mexican cafe with plastic chairs and plastic printed table cloths. His office is full of chiropractic brick a brack. MD: 20 minutes/medicine=$200 US, CHIRO: two hours, homeopathic medicine=$250 US(including Mon, Tues treatments. MD: prescription I had to buy at a farmacia, CHIRO: Filled the bottles himself. MD: examination based on what I told him, "yes it is painful here", he concluded with a treatment of strong bacteria-to-death pills. CHIRO: initially diagnosed all my ailments with no verbal feedback and explained the process of treatment.

Day 2
Quiropraxia Jose Luis Guzman told me to come in any time after work, if he was working with a patient, it was fine. So I appeared today as a patient left. I sat on a dining room chair with a massage pad "to get my body ready for the injection." I sat as the Quiropraxia prepared liquids like an alchemist. I sat for a long time and was thinking, "How did he know by looking at my eyes with a light?" So I asked him. He said that the energy lines in the body form red lines in the eyes that can be read. Each line exacts the link to the ailment. Also, something about the opacity in certain areas of the eye can be read.

"Did you learn about reading hands in school or from your family?"

Yes, he learned it in school, but he knew that he had the ability to see beyond. This clairvoyant ability allows him to interpret the lines.

He sat down and looked at each palm. I sat vibrating on the chair leaning into the mechanical rollers down my spine. What would he tell me? His interpretations were incredible, and I had to again doubt the things he knew about me. I even accumulated a paranoid sense about what he read and did not tell me. He said that my right hand was easier to read, it showed my life as a child, until I was 18, more or less. He said many things and I wish my spanish was better because I did not comprehend everything he said. He again mentioned my heart and feelings. He asked but already knew, "Yes, did your parents have many problems? They did not have a good relationship. You are a leader. You have three paths you may go down, your left hand is not as developed as your right one," and he pointed to my shoulder and said something about the energy line. Looking at my left and then my right hand, "You will not get married. You know that you could. You will not get married but you will have a partner." I was wowed, it was difficult for me to comprehend and trust his accuracy.

These thoughts and decisions all lay in the palm of my hand? I respect this man and his spiritual, seeing capabilities. I believe he will lead me in a spiritual manner, or atleast help me to manage my body and emotions so that I do not have physical ailments. I would like to have such clarity of mind so that I don't have to excersize daily as a means of managing too much thinking or stress. Jose Luis suggested over and over to relax. Just hang within my own body. Think more about the happy times during my childhood. It's worth a shot.

I was injected into my right hip today, the left hip was yesterday. I almost fell asleep on the metro ride home from work. And after my consultation today, I was wiped out. I layed in bed lethargically, as if I breathed out emotion. Negative emotions, depressing and exhausted emotions. I became nervous about the energy moving within and about me. I felt shaken and somewhat distressed, yet I know it needs to happen. I fell asleep for a few hours and awoke in a slightly depressed and hypnogogic state. I think this is a process of cleansing, and now I am feeling still tired but less weighted.

Day 3
The denouement- the closing, though the treatments will continue. Today was my third successive day to see my cleanser, the Chiropractor. My temples ached from a full day at work. My head throbbed more as I approached the office. My apprehension and fear of being fully known to a new doctor, exposed, added to my headache. Fortunately, the atomosphere is relaxing in his office. I sat down. Next to me on the table, I examined the cross of Jesus laying on a chain, I think it was jewelery or rosarie beads. Unlike many doctors, he takes his time with patients. He is a healer and wants to help me feel relaxed without ailments and anxieties. I was given another shot in my hip to aid circulation.

Espanol, "How do you feel?"

"My head hurts. I have a headache." Motivated by kind interrogation I explained where. I sat in a chair as he expertly placed his arm around me in a headlock.

Espanol, "And breathe out."

Cackackacccack! My neck really cracked!

"How do you feel?" He asked. The tension had leapt out of my body with the bubbling cracks!

"Could you do the other side?"

He cracked the other side of my neck and I felt exponential improvement in my head. Now, I have come down with the ailment of debilitating headaches since the age of 11. I have learned to combat these; what I perceive to be temporal stress headaches, with excersize. I never relieved temple headaches in this manner. He told me with successive treatments over time, my body/mind well-being will improve. He responded to my question about working out in Spanish, "Ease back into the exercize routine, stay off it for now. Just try to relax for now."

Although this is the only time I have seen a chiropractor, I think there is a science and an art to this craft. My skepticism of my quiropraxia falls from me like sap from a tree, slowly oozing when shaken by prophecy. I m sure there are horrible quacks so out of touch with human well-being injuring patients as I type. However, I auspiciously stumbled upon a chiropractor with heart, a healer, one to give rapid prognoses, and regimented symptomatic relief.