Mexico City Day 5 - Don't Ya Need A Hug?

Day 5 in Mexico City, and I'm going running.

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!

Mexico City Day Two - The Rise of the Mexican Attack Squirrel

On June 30, 2016, we had our first full day in Mexico City.  That means getting out and about.  Renting a car in Mexico City would be pointless.  You have to use the metro my friends.  The place were you can be mugged, pushed and shoved.  Well, there was some pushing and shoving but no mugging - it's pretty safe.

As a kid who grew up in rural California, I'll admit I have limited experience in subways, metros or whatever you want to call them.  In California, we don't do public transportation well.  We are a car culture.  I've been on BART several times, and I rode the metro in Montreal once.  In Montreal, I think we might have traveled free simply on the basis that the French speaking ticket seller finally gave up on trying to communicate with us and shoved some tickets at us.  In very limited circumstances ignorance can pay off.

In general, my expectation with subway systems is that I would be exposed to some crazy stuff like this:

That guy looks rather comfortable in his own skin, don't ya think?  Notice there isn't anybody within 10 feet of him. Hey crowd just behind him, there lots of space next to the reptile wielding guy in the overly long cargo shorts!  No takers?  And what's with the cash appearing in the lower left hand part of this picture.  I have no rational explanation for the cash in the bag other than to conclude that is bait for Slimy the Snake.  Would be thieves, you are being baited.

Or maybe I was expecting something more like this?

Nah, this guy is clearly one of America's finest.  Mexico is a Catholic culture.  You won't get treated to this kind of overt, chubby, drunken sexuality in Mexico.  Rather, the subway in Mexico City is dull.  Its most negative aspect is that it is very, very crowded.  Those 21 million people have to get around some way, right?

It costs you five pesos (about 30 cents) to ride, and you can go anywhere within the metro system on those five pesos.  We had many, many metro trips, but on this first day we were off to Chapultepec Park.  Chapultepec means "grasshopper hill" in Nahuatl, the native tongue of the Aztecs.  Still spoken today by millions, by the way.

The Park is stunning.  It is the largest public park in Latin America.  It has botanical gardens, lakes, a theme park, the Museo Anthropologia and Chapultepec Castle.  The hill at Chapultepec juts out amongst the forestland.  It was a retreat area for the Aztec rulers and also served as their burial place.  In true "I show you no respect" Spanish fashion, the Spaniards built a castle right on the spot.  I think the phrase is that "haters are gonna hate" or something like that.

Given the vast size of the Bosque de Chapultepec, the Spanish name for the Park, we were fortunate enough to pile out of the metro right across from the castle (the "Castillo").  And now you have learned a Spanish word which you are unlikely to use!  As noted above, the Castillo sits on the hill so it is readily picked out from the surrounding forested area.  See the below photo as Exhibit A.

Just behind the white marble monument you see in the foreground, we were introduced to what I'm going to call the Mexican Attack Squirrel.  As noted in the blog for Day 1, I found no tangible difference between the Mexican cat (el gato malo) and the American cat (also bad cat).  Both are content to ignore you.  Not so with the squirrel.  I have extensive experience with the American squirrel, so I speak as an expert in these matters mind you.  The American squirrel is surly ... no doubt.  However, they give you warning if you walk beneath their tree.  Another thing ... the American squirrel is a coward.  Rather than attack you physically, they prefer to attack from a distance.  Thus, the pine cone bits (and, at times, full cones) they toss at me from on high on a regular basis as I try to wheel the garbage bins out to the street.

The Mexican Attack Squirrel is not a coward.  He will make a calculated physical attack by feigning all sorts of cuteness ,and then jump right on you.  The sharp squirrelly teeth are sure to follow the alarming sense of squirrel feet (some kind of combination between a foot and fingers) on your body.  Doubt me do you?  We witnessed one such red bellied Mexican Attack Squirrel assault a child.  A child for God's sake, and this shameful assault was launched right in front of the boy's mother.  We came across some Americans feeding these furry little vicious bastards.  We warned them, but I didn't want to stay and see the inevitable carnage that would occur once the Mexican Attack Squirrel realized that they had no more food to provide.

So, Travel Tip #1:  Avoid the Mexican Attack Squirrel.  Ignore my advice at your peril, my friends.

If you are a real wimp, you can pay to get on a shuttle to the top of Chapultepec.  Take a second look at the picture.  It isn't that high up!  Walk it.  It is a quarter mile at most.  Granted, that's a tough quarter mile if you are trying to make an attack on the Castillo as the U.S.A. (listen closely to the Marine Corps anthem) and the French (how is this possible?) did at different times.  However, I come not as a conqueror, but as a tourist who has just been traumatized by a squirrel attack on a child.  I mean no harm, and I just needed to walk off the memory of the squirrel attack.  Up we go!

Our good friend Diego Rivera makes an appearance at the Castillo with murals of revolution.  The first represents a conquistador slaying an Aztec eagle knight, and the second is from the Mexican Revolution expelling the French. 

PS: I'm incapable of taking a good picture of art.  I admit to an alarming lack of caring in this regard.  I'm a mess.

It strikes me that the history of Mexico is rife with conquest, revolution, conquest and so on.  Our own country was certainly not immune from this cycle of violence, but Diego Rivera's art really brings the message home for Mexico.

The Castillo gives you a rather commanding view of the city. 

Take note of the air quality.  June is the rainy season in Mexico City.  You can expect temperatures in the mid 70's.  After all, Mexico City sits at 7,400 elevation.  It rained for about an hour each evening while we were there, so you can see that, even with the rain, the air quality can still be scientifically described as "CRAP".  The EPA would love getting its mitts on Mexico City.  Lot's of regulating to do. 

The Castillo no longer houses presidents, conquerors etc. so you can walk about quite freely without necessity of diplomacy or armament.  Although priceless objects of art are just laying about, you couldn't abscond with this carriage used by French Emperor Maximillian even if you were foolish enough try.  Way too many cops.

Wanting to put some distance between ourselves and the Mexican Attack Squirrels and also being desirous of getting a bit more culture, we headed down to the Museo Anthropologia.  This vast museum houses artifacts from most of Mexico's indigenous cultures. 

Stop!  Time for another art moment!  Let's take a look at this fella.

I'll admit it, this guy is kinda scary.  His hands are positioned to push himself up from the sitting position and do something dastardly.  Yet, check out the head dress!  How did these deities get around with so much baggage?  Pretty sure if that fella did get up, he is falling on his butt.  Gravity is a cruel master.  At least in art, my God just kind of whisks around with that white shock of hair flowing free in the breeze.  It's rather majestic and non-threatening.  And have you ever noticed that the First Person of the Holy Trinity (God the Father) is never depicted sitting about.  Nope.  He's airborne, busy and doesn't want any kind of headdress impeding his movement.

From the Olmec culture, we have this rather huge head.

The real reason I put this picture in is because my wife is in it.  She makes everything just a bit more fun.  Want to spice up a dull picture of a rock carved into a head?  Add a pretty girl.  I do understand that about photography.  But, I digress.  I think I've seen this head in a Simpson's episode as follows:

Granted, it was supposed be an Olmec head gifted to Bart Simpson for saving the life of Mr. Burns, but they painted it up all wrong.  Frankly, Bart's Olmec head looks a bit more South Pacific to me, but who am I to raise objections.

Now to get the gruesome part of this trip.  As you know, the Aztecs (and many other Mesoamerican cultures) were rather fond of human sacrifice.  After all, Huitzilopochtli doesn't make the sun rise without a river of human blood.  We all know that this is how it works.  I would like to leave Huitzilopochtli be for a while, and discuss Xipe Totec, god of the harvest.

Here is statute of a priest of Xipe Totec.

As noted above, Xipe Totec is the god of the harvest.  To the Aztec, the harvest represented life, death and renewal.  Think how the corn grows, dies, and spreads its seed.  You know where I'm going with this, right?  Someone's gotta die. 

The sacrificial victim would be treated like the living embodiment of the god himself for the duration of the year.  Honors and awards at such a young age!  Pretty good gig ... for a while.  However, at harvest time, that heart gets plucked out, the victim is skinned and a fellow like this guy depicted above would wear the victim's skin for a period of some twenty odd days.  You can't really tell from this photo, but this fella has four hands.  That is because the priest had two hands and they left the two of the victim attached to the skin for good measure.  I imagine this would impede eating Captain Crunch out of the bowl, but sacrifices (pun intended) must be made.  That oval around the mouth depicts the skin from the victim.  Not the kind of breathing hole I would prefer.

For those of you that thought my liberal arts education would amount to nothing, you are mostly right.  However, I was at least able to disgust some of you with what I learned at UCLA about Xipe Totec.  You are welcome, and I will just have to be satisfied with that for now.

Perhaps you need a bit of a palate cleanser before I leave off on Day 2?

Remember, all is not as it seems. 

On Day 3, my wife will speak what I call gibberish Spanish.