So it has been a month.
And although I have only been here a month, I think I have eaten enough tacos al pastor, soaked up enough sun, spoken enough Spanish, squeezed into enough subway trains, drank enough tequila and lord knows had enough hangovers to paint a decent picture of what my first month here has been.
Usually I start my blogs with some abstract collection of words to give an inside look at just what the hell is going on in my head when I experience the things I do, this time I can’t, Mexico City has taken my vocabulary away from me, the only words that come to mind when I sit down in front of this computer to describe what this month has been are: “Fuck me.”
If New York City is the “Big Apple”, then the D.F is the “Bigger Pepper”, and the only way to experience her is to take a bite of her smoldering flesh and wash it all down with a shot of mescal, tequila’s sick fuck of a brother.
What can I say about this place besides that it is a boiling pot of absolute craziness; dirty, beautiful, hot, loud, spicy craziness. The product of a myriad of vibrant cultures from both sides of the Atlantic, which centuries ago crashed into one another with the might of tsunamis and fermented into a writhing mass of people and sound and taste and life.
Lets talk about the food, I don’t want to be some pretentious dickhead, but if you haven’t had a taco from a questionable street vendor, drowning in sauces that make your eyes sting just looking at, or munched on a delicious elote, or sipped on some ice cold horchata, you’ve been eating cardboard your whole life, I’m sorry, I really am, now lets move on.
Besides the abundance of handheld flame in food form, the streets are lined with enough freshly squeezed orange juice and fresh fruit to convince you that you are living in a cement version of the Garden of Eden.
What I am getting at is the food is great.
Now I wouldn’t be talking about the D.F if I didn’t give a shout out to the metro; just mouthing those words from the safety of my house makes my back sweat and my lungs constrict with a minor bout of claustrophobia.
Let’s get one thing straight, the metro is pretty incredible, you can get almost anywhere in the city on the subway, and there are plenty of camiones and micros ripping around the streets with little concern for pedestrians, not to mention it costs me less than 50 cents to jump on the subway to wherever I want to go, it is hands down awesome, however..
In a city of 20 million people, chances are the metro is going to be busy, but “busy” doesn’t come close to describing what my commute to and from work in rush hour is like. Picture the UFC, but the championship belt is a spot on the train, and once you are on, sit back and relax in an urban Mexican sauna as well as some physical contact that wouldn’t be out of place in a stripclub.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. Every moment, every breath, every sweaty subway trip is an experience, it’s Mexico City, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.
Mexicans know how to have a good time, the beer is cheap, the nights go into the morning, the crudas hurt like hell, and everything is music.
I love my life here, after a very long time I finally feel like I am back to me, to being myself again, like I am soaking up the sun from my balcony in Santiago, hair down to my shoulders and nothing but boardshorts on, but so much more, so very much more. This is where I am supposed to be right now and I thank the universe with every glorious breath within my lungs.
So keep it coming Mexico, keep making my nights sleepless with the sounds of laughter and salsa music, keep engulfing my taste buds in delicious flames, keep feeding me cultural uppercuts to the gut, because baby, I love the way it hurts.