"CHINGA TU MADRE!"

Churros y chocolate will melt your face

...said the motorcyclist to our driver, who - until that sentence anyway - had been getting back into the shuttle...

8/29, 4:45p
San Miguel is a stop and go traffic jam. Streets are too small for one car, let alone two lanes. Our driver fumbles with the printout of our addresses when- BAMBAM! -a guy on a motorcycle slams his hand against the driver’s window as he hiccups his bike past. Driver honks and rolls down his window to inquire in Spanish, “WTF!!” (I’m paraphrasing.)

A short back and forth through the window before Moto blocks our shuttle with his bike and Driver hits the brakes and pops out of our vehicle. My forever-a-JHS-Ram-homegirl-wannabe perks up. The Canadians behind me look at me in surprise: “Uh-oh.”

1 hour in & Stella is already a footwarmer

Moto hops off his bike and rips off his helmet. Moto Girlfriend goes from ragging our driver from the back of the bike to following Moto around trying to calm him down. The men yell at each other and I swear to God, I’m 99% sure I see them chest-bump. 

The gist of the argument is Moto didn’t appreciate Driver’s lack of attention to the road and Driver didn’t appreciate Moto physically accosting his window while he was driving. See, they are both on the side of safety, and both have very valid points (in between personal insults to intelligence levels and manhood). Thus, the argument goes nowhere. 

Realizing the scene he’s making, having stopped traffic IN THE MIDDLE OF AN INTERSECTION to yell at a stranger, Driver starts to get back in the shuttle when:

“Chinga tu madre!” Moto recites the universal incantation for a bloody nose. Driver FLIES back into the intersection and pops Moto in the face. Homegirl-wannabe laughs out loud. 

The Canadians, confounded at the sudden turn of events: “What happened???” 
Homegirl-wannabe, enjoying the hell out of this scene: “He said something bad about his mom.”
Canadians: “Oooh.”

Viva Mexico!

I don’t think I’ve ever seen an actual fist fight. I’ve seen my friends get jumped and morons maul each other in bars, but Moto & Driver are circling each other in 1930’s “put ‘em up, put ‘emmmup” fashion. It’s highly entertaining for a minute, but not one of the four streets worth of on-lookers are stopping it and the moment loses its momentum quickly. 

Driver either sees Moto’s nose is bleeding and realizes he’s done his job, or he catches a few of the spectators on their cell phones and assumes they’re calling the cops (OR he remembers he’s actually working and what he’s doing is very dumb). Regardless, he suddenly ends the fight and slips back into the shuttle, apologizing profusely. He explains Moto was very drunk. I believe him and congratulate him on drawing blood. The Canadians are cool about it, too. 

First view of the Cathedral (I think)

After Driver drops off the Canadians, we have a helluva time finding my place. As we make three point turnarounds and go down wrong streets, Driver recounts the fight to me no less than three times. One of the times, he says the crowd was chanting “Rocky, Rocky...” 

I’m not saying he’s embellishing, I’m just saying I didn’t see a crowd, nor did I hear anyone chanting. Maybe they were doing it from inside one of the shops or bars nearby?

Anyway, we finally find my place and Luciano, the guard, meets us at the gate. It’s a big, black non-descript gate that opens to reveal a gorgeous ornate iron gate that opens to reveal a private cobblestone street lined with beautiful modern homes. Driver waits zero seconds after stopping the shuttle before he recounts his fight to Luciano. 

I meet Martha, the housekeeper, who introduces me to Usche and Stella, my new Schnauzers. Stella is a gentle sweetie and Usche is all bark. For the first half hour, that’s all I get from her. Barking. I feed her. Barking. Treat. Barking. I lay down on the floor with her. She quiets down. I get up. Barking. 

These sweet ladies...

If I wasn’t so floored by the house, I’d stress about the barking. This. House. Is. Fantastic. Gorgeous. Kickass. I’ll expand on specifics as/if they relate to my stories. Just imagine a really cool, really big, very beautiful home and that’s where I get to live for the next three weeks. (Eeeeeee!!)

Why do I want to buy everything?!

I walk the ladies (they’re 11 year old sisters, so I’m trying to give them the respect they deserve) in the park successfully. Now that Usche knows I’m cool, the barking stops. 

I have a headache. My head has been killing me since my run a few hours ago. I determine its the altitude when I discover México City’s elevation and also accidentally get really drunk off two beers. 

8/30, 630a
I wake up. 

12p 
I finally leave the house. Self care takes forever. 

On my way to the central Plaza, I stop by Café San Agustín I’d been stalking churros & chocolate since I saw some chocolateria’s on my Google Maps. They give me the menu in Spanish which always makes me feel warm and glowy. My accent still works!

Praise be! Produce...

I read the menu and vow to myself to try everything once. I start my commitment with the “Mexican” chocolate (as opposed to Spanish, French, etc) and have a change of heart. It’s FINE. But nothing will ever beat the churros y chocolate in Granada. And now I’ve polluted myself for the day. 

I explore the plaza and the soak in the town. I FIND PRODUCE! It’s been two days of living off protein bars, bread and cheese (last night in my drunken stupor, I ordered fondue for dinner) and I’m dying for a vegetable. 

My idea is to get my activity ideas from flyers around town. I find a wall of awesome fliers for music performances and classes and realize I’m at the library! The library is built in an old church or school campus. Maybe. I don’t know, but it’s the coolest library I’ve ever been to. Room after book-packed room maze with each other around a covered open-air plaza.

I eavesdrop on a table of a dozen expat retirees having some sort of meeting. I’m prejudiced against gangs of older white people, and I want to see if they’re hatching a well-meaning plan to “fix” something that is none of their business so I can justify my distrust. 

All libraries should look like this!

I gather they’re discussing medical something and having to travel back & forth to the states for treatment. I hear them making an effort to integrate themselves into the Mexican community and they talk a lot about giving back, supporting the community, locals and newcomers, and developing a mentorship program. 

Okay. They’re fine. I was wrong to suspect the worst. I'm sorry older, white people for my ageism and racism. I'm not being facetious (not all the way, anyway). I recently listened to a podcast I love called With Friends Like These where AnaMarie Cox interviewed Robin DiAngelo about her book "White Fragility: Why its So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism". 

A. IT WAS FASCINATING and B. made me think of all the ways I can be a total racist. DiAngelo challenges listeners to fess up and make amends for racist behavior. So I make amends to energy and existence in general for jumping to conclusions about a group of people based on the way they look. It was judgmental, ageist and racist. 

(This was super easy, by the way. I'm terrified of when I actually make amends to another human's face as a result of my racism. But we've all got to be the change we want to see right?)

Stella isn't the best yoga buddy...