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.