Mexico
City 
Before the plane landed, I experienced a feeling I rarely do as a New Yorker—utter terror at visiting another city. The travel books invested few pages in Mexico City, and these have been consumed with portraying it as an ugly, polluted wasteland torn between squalid shantytowns and vapid glitz. Basically, get in and get out.
A friendly, well-educated Mexican teacher put me at ease on the plane,
and on a whim, I decided to descend into this heartless jungle. Wasn’t
I surprised to find it navigable, friendly and a hell of a good time.
My time in Mexico City—known as DF (Distrito Federal) by most—chalked
up to one evening and a Sunday morning. What I lacked in scope I gained
in uncharted discovery. I managed to find outdoor festivities, abandoned
streets, packed cathedrals and a sense that daily life here is possible,
and many times, enjoyable. I intend to go back and pick off where I left.
Mariachis work the scene at a late-night market. Outside, more bands
clad in white or black suits dueled for tips.
If you liked it or not, you were instantly their audience.
 |
 |
 |
The Friday night scene at Plaza Garibaldi—the capital’s only outdoor home of public drinking, music, dancing, and revelry. Hector, who I met within an hour of landing in Mexico, took me there in his converted VW bug with another blurry-eyed tourist. We did our best to drink beer form large Styrofoam cups and dance to impromptu jam sessions.
 |
 |
 |
Very Mexican symbols: this flag is enormous and the only thing located in the equally expansive zocolo; the cross, while not as tall, also looms large outside the Catedral Metropolitana on the square’s north side.
 |
 |
|
Morning pedestrian and vehicular traffic move around the zocolo.
 |
 |
|
Though roughly 8 a.m. on a Sunday, the line for these port-a-potties had already grown long.
 |
 |
|
Tucked away in news print and shoe grease.
 |
 |
|
Sweeping outside a tourist shop; buying fresh bread outside the subway.
 |
 |
|
Even in the world’s largest city (a quarter of the country’s total population), there are pockets of absence.
 |
 |
|
Sweeping the steps of the elegant Palacio de Bellas Artes, a concert hall and museum; catching the headlines in a less manicured spot.
 |
 |
|
Waiting for the bus, Avenia Hidalgo.
 |
More morning scenes: a family stares up at a monument; a cop examines,
and perhaps purchases,
counterfeit CD’s; a fresh delivery of produce.
 |
 |
 |
The facades of Mexico City’s Centro Historico were old, but not
antique like those of Oaxaca and Antigua.
There was a 20th century tinge to it—grimy, but still elegant.
 |
 |
|
Passengers on the bustling city metro, which courses quietly through its serpentine, knotted routes on rubber wheels. It’s the third-busiest underground, and over 4 million people a day spend the 20 cents to avoid the snarls of city traffic.
 |
The Parque Alameda Central: the adjacent art deco subway station and
fountain within it.
On one morning, the park featured a man doing calisthenics, street sweepers,
vendors and pigeons.
 |
 |
|
The perimeter, ceiling, and entrance to the TAPO bus station, which serviced all points south.
 |
 |
 |
Window washer, TAPO.
 |