I like to run in other countries. So far, I've run in Canada, Ireland, St. Maarten, and now Mexico. Sunday mornings are good for running. Less traffic ... less people ... less hassle. And so, I figured I would simply step outside and pick a direction in which I hadn't already run. I needed a direction where I wouldn't have to stop every block. I point in the direction of Chapultepec Park and get those Nike's choppin. I knew I wouldn't get as far as the Park. I didn't want to get to the Park. Chapultepec is full of Mexican Attack Squirrels. A man in shorty shorts, Oakleys and a ball cap is not prepared to give a reckoning to something as fierce as an Attack Squirrel.
Stop! Gratuitous Monty Python Diversion! (I get to do this because I'm a guy):
Upon approaching Chapultepec Park during this run (that's me in the gold armor), I was warned by an enchanter named "Tim?" about the sharp pointy teeth of the Mexican Attack Squirrel.
As much as I appreciated the dramatic presentation where Tim's fingers jut forth in representation of varmint teeth, I had to move on so I instructed my lackey to clack those coconuts at jogging pace, and I moved on.
End of Diversion: Yes, I realize I've lost a full half (the female half) of my readers. I say this a lot as a married man, so no biggie to offer it once more ... I'm sorry.
As I weaved through all of the people and nodded politely to some odd fifty or so cops in full riot gear (the whole storm trooper thing is 24/7 in this part of Mexico City ... Why?) I arrived at the Palacio de las Bellas Artes and noticed something odd. There were people running on the street. Yes, good friends, Mexico City shuts down its most busy and iconic avenue for runners, moms with baby strollers, kids on bikes and those weird, lanky, spandex wearing yoga people. There are crossing guards to keep you from meeting the business end of any car in cross-traffic. Oh, yeah. As always, cops ... lots of cops.
Being fully aware that my lung burn is due to the 7,400 foot elevation and not to my level of fitness (cough!), I decide four to five miles is more than sufficient. And so, my turn around point just happened to match up with the gold statute of the Angel of Independence. Here it is in all of its splendor.
As an aside, I think it might look a little bit better with a good ole American ball cap perched on the top of the angel's golden brow. Just saying. As an American, I'm rather dogmatic about this, but everything looks better with a ball cap. I look better with a ball cap, girls look better with a ball cap and so on. I just last night put a ball cap on my Great Dane and, yep, he looked better.
By the way, I didn't take the above picture. For one, there were no cars when I occupied that space. Also, not a chance in hell I'm stopping to take a picture. If I were to actually stop and take a picture there is a good chance that I would be unable to will my body to start up again. Did I mention that Mexico City is at 7,400 elevation?
Instead of cars, what I found were happy people directing the joggers and bike riders. I found that just on the right there were about two hundred aspiring yogis wallowing about like skinny walruses on their yoga mats while some equally skinny people on a covered pavilion (specifically set up on this roundabout for this purpose) hectored the sad participants into greater feats of stretchiness. Giving loud direction by means of a bull horn seems to cut against the serenity of the practice of yoga. Also, it seemed out of place for Mexico. Unlike in the U.S.A., people are less inclined here to turn everything into an athletic endeavor or a competition. In any event, I'm not following the herd of runners around the circle. I sprint up the steps, turn myself about, raise my arms in triumph and look back on my newly conquered domain. It was something like this but I think I was dressed better:
I'm a bit angry about this picture, actually. I was eight years old in 1976, and I had popularized this position in my infancy. That gave me several years of prancing, posing and preening long before Mr. Sylvester Stallone found himself on this copyright-infringing day in what looks like rags picked up off the killing floor at a slaughter house. I originated the "arms raised in triumph" pose long before Mr. Stallone. I'm pretty sure that by age eight I had raised my arms at least once. Probably to reach up to Mom to get a bottle of formula or something. I hadn't even triumphed over anything yet. Anyway, I will be accepting a public apology from Mr. Stallone any day now.
Having chased the kids on bikes and all of those other types all the way back to my step-off point at the Palacio de las Bellas Artes, I made it back to the hotel in a rather jubilant mood. If you are a runner, a walker, or whatever do this on Sunday morning when you are in Mexico City. It is worth it.
I'm in a good mood, and so I'm going to church. Ever tried going to church in a bad mood? What I really mean is have you every been so angry with your ne'er do well children as you are bundling the whiny complainers off to church that you just don't have it in you to smile, pray and shake hands? I have. This is not one of those days. Not having received a single complaint about going to church from my boys, I'm taking in the rare joy of being happy while entering a church.
There are churches on just about every other block in Mexico City, but we are taking the opportunity to "go big" and return to the Catedral Metropolitan. Of course, we launch out on foot because the Catedral is only about three blocks away.
A couple of curious things happened on the way. First, there were groups of teens holding signs which said "abrazos". I'm thinking is this perhaps a new confection. Something perhaps a bit better than the Krispy Kreme donuts that I've been sliding down my gullet? I observe and quickly realize that I'm about to get hugged. I've learned a new Spanish word by observing human action. You don't get that in Spanish class! Hugs ... no food. I'm disappointed.
Hold out hand for the free donut, and instead get hugged by a friendly teen. More public display of affection. At least this is rather G-rated. At first, my expectation was to skirt around these friendly teens. There are hundreds of people on the street. I could hide But there are groups of teens, and they fan out to offer their friendly welcome to I'm not sure what. Avoidance of the hug gauntlet will simply not be possible, and they will not be denied.
At first, I kind of thought my reaction to this kind of unsolicited hugging would be like:
But, if you can't hide from them join them. So bring it on. I think I racked up about six hugs in two blocks. Ah yes, Mexico City you are truly friendly. Abrazos received and my good mood retained in all respects, we trudge forward. I see the steeples and bell towers of the Catedral peaking above the buildings lining the street. And, then, in full glory appears the Catedral.
Nothing could alter my mood, right? Wrong. My kids point out some jackwagon dressed as the Pope flipping off all of the people approaching the Zocalo and the Catedral. Obviously, this guy had a negative experience with the Church or perhaps even the Pope himself. I have to say that my Pope experiences have been pretty positive.
What's not to like about this guy, right?
Here is John Paul II shaking the hand of the man who he had just forgiven for putting bullets into his chest. In his younger days, Pope John Paul II picked up a Jewish girl fleeing the gestapo and secured her safety. That woman lived through the holocaust. In these short days of my life (I guess that's a joke), that is my image of a Pope. And, yet, here we have the angry Pope. Whatever the reason that he is so angry, it makes me sad. For him and all of it, whatever it might be. It is a curious thing with some people that they feel that causing offense to great numbers of people will make them feel better. I think that is looking outward. Better to look inward I think.
Ah, well, I'm not a trained psychiatrist, and I'm starting to sound like a dad. I'll just leave it be and move on.
Anyway, it is truly something to go to high mass at the Catedral Metropolitan. We just happened to catch Cardinal Noriega celebrating his 50th year as a priest. To the chagrin of my two boys, it means that this mass was very long by Catholic standards. By that, I mean that it lasted about an hour and forty minutes ... about 1/2 of any given Sunday's church time at the non-denominational church I attended as a kid. Catholic mass is almost always over in an hour. My kids are soft.
This being a day in which we just kind of hung out in the immediate vicinity of our hotel, there really isn't much to do but get out and mix around with the hordes of people. And, thus, I introduce you to the Mexican Beatles:
Ah, wait, I mean these guys:
These guys were just hanging out in the street and were spot on perfect in covering Beatles tunes ... right down to the British accents. I've got to say it is a bit odd to hear music sung in English followed by discussion between the band members in Spanish as to which Beatles song to play next. Regardless, the music translates across language barriers. That is a very good thing.
They weren't quite as good as Los Beatles but close. Very close.
I hear Juan once claimed that Los Beatles are bigger than Jesus and that Dingo wasn't even the best drummer in the band. Seems like Juan had a bit of a chip on his shoulder. In any event, Los Beatles aren't as friendly as the real Beatles and the Mexican Beatles.
I'm not going to go to some other part of the world and just get fat in a hotel room. I excel at that at home. So, I ditched the family and came back for a second listen to the Mexican Beatles a couple of hours later. Something strange happened, they looked the same but they became the Mexican Black Sabbath and then the Mexican Doors. It didn't sell as well because none of them appeared to under the influence of drugs or alcohol. Something of the authenticity was lost.
We ended this day by going to the Ballet Folklorico in the Palacio de las Bellas Artes. If you enjoy dance and artsy stuff (I do) I highly recommend going. There is something about art that makes me have confidence in the human race. Well, except for the boys. Despite the fact that my mother was a painter, they don't get it.
I'm going to tell you right now to not take teenage boys to this. You WILL lose them as soon as the dude comes out wearing nothing but antlers and deer skin on his loins. I don't care how well that guy sells the notion that he is a buck running from a hunter, the boys are just not getting past the loin cloth. That happened in the first ten minutes of the program. From then on, the guys were just putting in their time until they could bounce out of there. Well, its family travel and good art will be wasted on the wrong people.
With that we close out Day 5, mis amigos!
