M E X I C O C I T Y 1 9 6 1
by
J o h n M e s s i n a
Jack Kerouac in his 1956 seminal book for the pre-Carlos Castaneda generation, On the Road, tells that when he and his traveling companions enter Mexico City after driving from the border they see “figures in the dimming alleys, doors leading to closet-size bars that you had to jump over a ditch in order to get a drink, places where coffee is mixed with rum and nutmeg, Latin music blared from everywhere and hundreds of whores with sorrowful eyes were lined along dark and narrow streets, and old men on corners were blowing trumpets.” Kerouac goes on to say that “Mexico was one vast Bohemian camp where on street corners old women sold tortillas served with hot sauce on newspaper napkins.”
Re-reading On the Road I remembered my first visit to Mexico City at age nineteen. A couple of old high school friends and I departed New Orleans by car around seven in the evening, had mid-night hamburgers in Houston and reached the border at McAllen Texas at sunrise. A friendly Mexican immigration official in Reynosa cleared us with visas and an auto permit, we stopped in Ciudad Victoria, State of Tamaulipas for lunch; and in a suicide mission crossed the Sierra Madre Oriental at night after not having slept in a bed for the last thirty-six hours. Upon reaching the outskirts of Mexico City we saw hundreds of Indians walking on both sides of the highway on their way into the city for day jobs; the rising sun was barely penetrating the dust and pollution caused haze.
We drove through the morning traffic and came across a hotel that appeared inexpensive but not too risky, the Hotel Texcoco. After checking in, we slept until four in the afternoon then showered and dressed for a night on the town. One member of our group, an eighteen year old, who must have had a sexual addiction somehow obtained the address of a whorehouse from the desk clerk. We followed it to a residential neighborhood of dark streets and ancient buildings. After circling the block several times we parked and knocked on a heavy looking wooden door. A middle-aged Mexican woman opened it and bid us in. We found ourselves in a patio landscaped with potted plants and a small fountain. A caged parrot squawked at our presence. Above us on a balcony the width of the patio were around a half-dozen women mingling in their panties and bras. We were gaping up at them when a small Mexican man with a pistol in his waistband appeared on the stairway leading to the second floor and in a gruff tone said, “What do you want, gringos?” Somehow he did not sound affable or inviting. It was definitely not a bienvenidos amigos kind of message. So we just turned around and walked out of the house and back on the street and to our car.
We found a small stand where we ate tacos, stopped at a super-mercado for a bottle of rum and drove around the city for a while before heading back to our hotel. The next morning we hightailed it for Acapulco and its legendary beaches where we flirted with Scandinavian flight attendants whose sunburned flesh resembled chicharrones and at night we drank Cuba Libres and danced to Salsa music with sexy chilangas.
M E X I C O C I T Y 2 0 0 3
by
J o h n M e s s i n a
The moment that we step out of the customs area at Mexico City’s Benito Juarez Airport we see that our friend Jeff is waiting for us. It is a surprise because I am not aware that he had our flight information. He tells us that he rode out to the airport, from his apartment near the Plaza de la Constitución, on the Metro. We are happy to see him and the three of us head for the transportation area but not before paying a visit to the small but excellent bookstore on the concourse. I find a much sought after book on the Mexican artist Chuchu Reyes. At ground transportation we grab the first taxi in line and tell the driver that we wish to go to the Cuauhtémoc neighborhood where we have a reservation at the Casa Gonzalez.
Jeff, who is fluent in Spanish, is living in Mexico City while researching the topic of his PhD dissertation. It has something to do with water, that much I am certain. It seems that every academic I know in Tucson is researching either water or immigration.
After checking in at the Casa, the three of us decide to walk to some nearby restaurant for dinner. We cross the Paseo de la Reforma and enter the “Zona Rosa,” a popular neighborhood for dining and entertainment ten yeas ago, but now passed over by the in crowd for new areas such as Colonia Roma. There is a sense of desperation as we pass empty cafes and bars; hawkers on the sidewalk attempting to hustle us into their respective businesses. We stumble upon one restaurant with no one standing at the entrance shouting into our ears. The menu displayed was enticing – traditional Mexican cuisine. We enter and are led up to a second floor dinning room, and told that tonight’s special is chicken mole pipian, we accept the waiter’s recommendation, and the dish is delicious. While there we learn that this restaurant, El Fondo Refugio, has been at this location for over a half-century.
We are visiting the serene house of the late Mexican architect, Luis Barragán. The property, located in the neighborhood of San Miguel de Chapultepec, is now owned by a Swiss foundation and is open to the public. The guide, a young architect student, tells me that photography is not permitted. I ask why. He says that it is the rule of the foundation that administers the Barragan property. I hate the word administer, it conjures up very well paid annoying people at the university where I teach. As a former freelance photographer I have taught myself how to make photographs surreptitiously. We are in the iconic space, the architect’s library with the famous cantilevered stair. The guide steps out to take a phone call. I remove my small camera from its pouch, an Asian visitor (probably an architect) is on the stair, I motion for him to move out of the way, and he complies. I make the prohibited photograph. I only will use it in lectures to my students.
The Casa Lam’s restaurant in Colonia Roma is lovely; the terrace seating is full of elegantly dressed couples. I need to photograph this scene. Security, men in navy blue blazers are patrolling and eyeing me. One approaches and tells me that it is all right to photograph, but do not get so close that anyone can be recognized. I ask him why? He answers, “Some of these people do not belong together.”