Quantifying the visceral
My father is coming to visit me in Mexico City in January.
I have been asking for this since I got here, in terms that he would have been challenged to refuse. It was so important for me to show him my city, to try to explain to him why I made this move. It would mean a lot to me, I said.
Now, suddenly, I am terrified.
My father has been to Mexico City before - on a business trip many years ago - so there is nothing about the immediate aesthetics of the city that will startle him. I don't have to be concerned about his reaction to the poverty or the pollution, and he's not terribly concerned about hiking the pyramids (an impossibility anyway given that the poor man has no cartilige in his knees anymore - bone on bone, baby - and is awaiting double knee replacement surgery in March) or doing the other touristy stuff. What he wants, I assume, is to see the city and my life here through my eyes.
But how exactly do you show someone a visceral reaction?
I have about a month to do a mental inventory of why I love this city so much. Some of it is touristy, in fact - I remain absolutely enchanted by the ruins of the Aztec great temple that they dug up right beside the 16th century cathedral in the centre of the city - and some of it will be culinary - god, the food here is good - but most of it will be attempting to find words and images for primitive sensations. I'm intrigued and intimidated by the challenge.
Things that make me happy about living in Mexico City:
1. The little green microbuses that hurtle down the sidestreets, loose benches bouncing, ubiquitous crucifixes swinging wildly from the rearview mirror. They'll take you anywhere you want to go in the city for under 50 cents, provided you know where to get on and where to get off (there are no maps or timetables - you learn the routes purely through word of mouth). They are the pinnacle of capitalism at its finest and its worst: as independent drivers who earn what they take in at the door, the buses may be ramshackles but, damn it, the driver is going to get you where you're going as fast as he possibly can (so that he can get more passengers).
2. The orgasmic gore of Spanish Catholicism. Raised as a defiant agnostic in gentle Protestant Canada, I've not witnessed Christ in all his bleeding glory before. There is a statue in the Catedral Metropolitana of Jesus post-whipping: bound to the wooden stake, bent over at the waist, the flesh of his back flayed to the bone. If you come visit me, I guarantee I will take you to visit him; I am endlessly fascinated by the psychology of such iconography. Corpses, corpses, corpses. Forget Christ risen in a miracle of love and redemption, blood is where it's at.
3. Street food. Yes, I know it's dangerous and the fact that my doctor ex-boyfriend told me that 30% of Mexicans have harmless cyst-like parasites in their brains should deter me, but my GOD is the street food good here. Among my favourite treats are cucumber or watermelon with chile and lime ($1), tacos with beef and cactus ($0.60), stewed corn with cheese and chile ($1), and those delightful, heart-stoppingly unhealthy tamales stuffed with cheese and hot peppers ($0.70). I try to convince myself that the secret is knowing which street stands are clean and which will give you bonus parasites with every enchilada, but I'm sure I'm tempting fate with every sumptuous bite. It's a lesson I'm going to have to learn the hard way, though.
4. The weather. In the summer, it is 25. In the winter, it is 22. It rains in the evenings in the summer, but otherwise it's blue 90% of the time. If it weren't for the pollution, this very well could be the best climate on the planet.
5. The passion. Of the people, not of the Christ, although I recently learned that, during Easter, the two merge when a pre-selected man gets whipped, cut open, and nailed to a cross for a day. Other fantastically non-Canadian sites: hundreds of completely nude men and women clambering over a statue in protest of something I couldn't quite decipher as my microbus whipped by; one million people (allegedly paid, some of them) crowding into the town square and the streets around it to sing, chant, roar, wave puppets and placards, and display butchered pig heads in the name of one politican or another; two million people crawling on bloodied hands and knees to the Basilica of Guadalupe on December 12th - some who have walked for days from other cities - to worship the Virgin Mary on the anniversary of her 16th century appearance to a [recently-canonized] Indigenous believer named Juan Diego.
Does it begin to capture the visceral sense, that list? Can I let my father into my reality a little if I show him Jesus of the Exposed Ribcage, and then ply him with a tamale?
It's a great thinking opportunity, mind. In 30 words or less, Erika, tell us why.
I'll get back to you on that one.
I have been asking for this since I got here, in terms that he would have been challenged to refuse. It was so important for me to show him my city, to try to explain to him why I made this move. It would mean a lot to me, I said.
Now, suddenly, I am terrified.
My father has been to Mexico City before - on a business trip many years ago - so there is nothing about the immediate aesthetics of the city that will startle him. I don't have to be concerned about his reaction to the poverty or the pollution, and he's not terribly concerned about hiking the pyramids (an impossibility anyway given that the poor man has no cartilige in his knees anymore - bone on bone, baby - and is awaiting double knee replacement surgery in March) or doing the other touristy stuff. What he wants, I assume, is to see the city and my life here through my eyes.
But how exactly do you show someone a visceral reaction?
I have about a month to do a mental inventory of why I love this city so much. Some of it is touristy, in fact - I remain absolutely enchanted by the ruins of the Aztec great temple that they dug up right beside the 16th century cathedral in the centre of the city - and some of it will be culinary - god, the food here is good - but most of it will be attempting to find words and images for primitive sensations. I'm intrigued and intimidated by the challenge.
Things that make me happy about living in Mexico City:
1. The little green microbuses that hurtle down the sidestreets, loose benches bouncing, ubiquitous crucifixes swinging wildly from the rearview mirror. They'll take you anywhere you want to go in the city for under 50 cents, provided you know where to get on and where to get off (there are no maps or timetables - you learn the routes purely through word of mouth). They are the pinnacle of capitalism at its finest and its worst: as independent drivers who earn what they take in at the door, the buses may be ramshackles but, damn it, the driver is going to get you where you're going as fast as he possibly can (so that he can get more passengers).
2. The orgasmic gore of Spanish Catholicism. Raised as a defiant agnostic in gentle Protestant Canada, I've not witnessed Christ in all his bleeding glory before. There is a statue in the Catedral Metropolitana of Jesus post-whipping: bound to the wooden stake, bent over at the waist, the flesh of his back flayed to the bone. If you come visit me, I guarantee I will take you to visit him; I am endlessly fascinated by the psychology of such iconography. Corpses, corpses, corpses. Forget Christ risen in a miracle of love and redemption, blood is where it's at.
3. Street food. Yes, I know it's dangerous and the fact that my doctor ex-boyfriend told me that 30% of Mexicans have harmless cyst-like parasites in their brains should deter me, but my GOD is the street food good here. Among my favourite treats are cucumber or watermelon with chile and lime ($1), tacos with beef and cactus ($0.60), stewed corn with cheese and chile ($1), and those delightful, heart-stoppingly unhealthy tamales stuffed with cheese and hot peppers ($0.70). I try to convince myself that the secret is knowing which street stands are clean and which will give you bonus parasites with every enchilada, but I'm sure I'm tempting fate with every sumptuous bite. It's a lesson I'm going to have to learn the hard way, though.
4. The weather. In the summer, it is 25. In the winter, it is 22. It rains in the evenings in the summer, but otherwise it's blue 90% of the time. If it weren't for the pollution, this very well could be the best climate on the planet.
5. The passion. Of the people, not of the Christ, although I recently learned that, during Easter, the two merge when a pre-selected man gets whipped, cut open, and nailed to a cross for a day. Other fantastically non-Canadian sites: hundreds of completely nude men and women clambering over a statue in protest of something I couldn't quite decipher as my microbus whipped by; one million people (allegedly paid, some of them) crowding into the town square and the streets around it to sing, chant, roar, wave puppets and placards, and display butchered pig heads in the name of one politican or another; two million people crawling on bloodied hands and knees to the Basilica of Guadalupe on December 12th - some who have walked for days from other cities - to worship the Virgin Mary on the anniversary of her 16th century appearance to a [recently-canonized] Indigenous believer named Juan Diego.
Does it begin to capture the visceral sense, that list? Can I let my father into my reality a little if I show him Jesus of the Exposed Ribcage, and then ply him with a tamale?
It's a great thinking opportunity, mind. In 30 words or less, Erika, tell us why.
I'll get back to you on that one.
Comments
I can't belive that i am actually reading a whole blog entry as long as yours, Usually they bore me when i am at the middle, but i really enjoy the way you write.
I don't know either abouth your dad's reaction. Because as a father, it does not matter you are over 30 or 60 years old, you will always be his baby!
I guess it will, be an excercise of patience on both sides, a lot of patiene and empathy, at the worst; at the best maybe your father will surprise you!
I think you forgot a number six on your list, let me add it!
6. LUCHA! LUCHA! LUCHA!
Ok, it's done
XOXOX
Isaac
When I lived in Venice, we had a little icon of the Virgin Mary outside our window, on the street. It was tiny, and presumably pretty old, but it always had a burning candle in there, and flowers, and it was very common to see someone on their knees in front of it, weeping and praying for the Virgin's intercession. Not twenty yards away was a newsagent's stand selling animal porn.
What a religion.
I would love to see pictures of that Christ... have you got any?
ST