Sean Slavin Photography

It’s Friday, early afternoon, and the week has finished. Did it really even start? Luis is back to take me to the Hilton at the airport as I’ve got an early morning flight. I grab my camera and slide into the back seat.

Down the hill from Santa Fe towards the airport. This is my last glance at the city and I’m trying desperately to soak it all in. Street vendors. Pedestrians. Bus stops. The traffic. We pass the Televisa studios and head into a roundabout. It’s chaos. On the edges, street vendors ply their wares. Flowers. Tacos. Bimbo treats. Men in suits bump shoulders with men in rags. Highways merge. Traffic stops. Lanes appear and disappear at random. Through the middle of it all, people wander from car to car selling Coke and cigarettes.

Traffic crawls as we slowly make our way down the hill. We’re on a shady tree-lined boulevard. Embassies are slowly going by out the window. I catch Argentina’s, Iraq’s and the US. Cameras and razor wire are everywhere.

We’re off the main road and zipping through side streets. So is everyone else. I’ve never seen traffic like this. Somehow it all flows together and we’re back on the highway. I catch short glimpses of life out the window.

Suddenly, the car slows and Luis makes a bee-line for the curb. He shuts the car off, mumbles something about it being hot, pops the hood and gets out. He makes a feeble attempt at fumbling around under the hood. His cell rings. He walks away down the street. I haven’t wanted to be distrusting but something just feels off. I watch the foot traffic. People are walking their dogs. Traffic continues to zip by at an amazing clip. Luis is back. He’s standing just off to one side smoking. I watch his reflection in the store front windows. He disappears again.

A large black Suburban pulls up. Someone jumps out and walks around the Town Car I’m sitting in. His clothes are stained with grease and he’s carrying a 5 galleon jug of water. Luis pokes his head in the window and says let’s go.

Back in traffic, riding in the Suburban. A family of three goes by on a moped, their young daughter squeezed in the middle, her eyes shut.

The traffic thins as we approach the airport. Luis pulls up to the curb. I shake his hand, thank him and disappear into the airport.

I awake at 2 am. My flight isn’t until 6. Crap. I lie in the dark for an hour then struggle out of bed.

It’s 3:30. The terminal isn’t empty. People are wandering, huddled in corners, stretched out on their luggage, snoring.

4:00. The United counter opens. I get in line. Behind me, 40 other people do the same. Where did they come from? The guy working the counter asks me where I live in San Diego and tells me he is from San Marcos. Small world.

I move to the security line. It is full and already snaking down the main terminal hallway. Beyond security, the duty free shops are starting to spin up.

6:00. The plane races down the runway. The sun begins its climb over the mountains. As we bank, I get one final glimpse of the city. In the early morning light, it’s beautiful. The plane levels and I’m heading home.

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The days pass and I realize that I haven’t stepped foot out of the hotel since my arrival. Not because I haven’t wanted to or that someone told me I shouldn’t. There just hasn’t been time. My only glimpse of the outside world has been from my room and the wall of glass in the gym. We wrap up for the day and I fly upstairs to change and grab a camera. It’s time for a walk. I need to get out and see the neighborhood.

I head up the street snapping photos along the way. Traffic is amazing. The architecture of the buildings is very modern. Security guards posted at every entrance. Federales at each corner. A few blocks down, I realize that one of them is tailing me from across the street.

I turn the corner and head up a small hill. At the top, it’s much busier. Buses rumble by. Delivery guys on small motorcycles zip through traffic. A constant stream of vehicles spill out of the parking garages from the high rises. It’s well after six and the construction site is still going strong. The clanging of the pile driver echoes through the buildings.

I head back down the hill and through something that may at one time been considered a park. The trees are now dying and grass is burnt. Taxi drivers mill about. On the corner is an english pub, hearty laughter drifts out the doors and onto the street.
Across the street, the favored addict hang out, Starbucks, is packed with people. I stop and listen, picking up very little, wondering where my Spanish skills had gone.

Another block, another amazing piece of architecture. I snap a few photos and I hear someone yelling at me, “No photos! No photos!” A young kid, too young to be wearing a gun, is running towards me, waving his arms. I smile, shrug and nod. A block later, he’s still following me.

I pass a dry cleaners, the man and woman behind the counter arguing in machine gun fire Spanish. I have no hope of keeping up. Next door is an Indian restaurant. Two chefs sit outside sharing a cigarette. Just inside the door, waiters are idle, gossiping and laughing. The pharmacia is next. Three delivery motorcycles parked at the curb.

I head back to the hotel. From my room, I look down on the traffic. It’s thinning but still going strong. I’m amazed that I haven’t seen a wreck at the intersection.

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No one in line at customs. A glance. A stamp. A signature. I’m on my way. I exit customs and look for the sign with my name on it. The company has me being picked up by a security driver as they have a mandate against employees taking the taxis at the airport. The driver, Luis, takes my bag and heads through the terminal. He’s friendly and imposing. His eyes always scanning the area only briefly locking onto mine as we talk.

The traffic in this city is insane. Life rolls by outside the window. I’m stared at by the occupants in the cars next to us. Mopeds and motorcycles swerve through traffic finding openings that exist for fractions of second.

Luis has been a driver for 10 years. His clients include executives from Ford, Motorola, Ericksson and a few others. He pretends not to understand when I ask what he did before becoming a driver. “Yes, my boss”, he repeats while his eyes hold a dark secret. I move my gaze back out the window and watch the people in the street, the laundry on the roof tops, the traffic.

The highway twists and turns, impossibly narrow for three lanes. The landscape has begun to change. The poorer neighborhoods giving way to richer ones. The streets are now lined with trees. Huge houses hidden behind on concrete walls, security cameras and razor wire. We’re in the foothills now heading into Santa Fe. Along the hillsides, concrete boxes are attached precariously, drapes billow out of open windows. In the distance, sky scrapers loom, sparkling glass and concrete. There has been no gradual transition. The line between the poor and the rich is very clear.

The hotel is swanky, very modern and very busy. The service is impeccable which is something I am not used to. I get checked in, find my room then find the gym. It has been a long day and I need to get some blood moving.

I sleep fitfully, as I normally do when on the road, and awake with the sun.

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3:45 am. The alarm is buzzing in one ear. Roxy is snoring softly in my other ear. When did she crawl into bed? The house is quiet. Somewhere a faucet is dripping. I force myself out of bed and make my way downstairs through the dark.

The shuttle is outside. It’s the same driver I’ve had for the past 3 trips. He makes a remark about how much I’ve been traveling lately. Yes, I know. We make one pickup on the way to the airport. She’s headed to Atlanta for some kind of conference and is way too chipper for this god-awful hour of the morning.

The airport is quiet. Travelers are just beginning to line up for their early morning flights. I make my way to the self check-in kiosks. The kiosks are always empty. Tickets in hand, I round the corner and head towards the gates. Security is empty. TSA agents are just milling about staring at the ceiling, the walls, the floor. For some reason, which I don’t quite understand, the San Diego agents are more friendly than any other airport.

Upstairs, the addicts are waiting for their dealer to open. The women behind the counter, their eyes twinkling with black humor, ignore their pleas to serve early.

Boarding time. People shuffle slowly down the jet ramp. It’s still dark outside. The runway twinkles with blue lights. Orange safety lights from the baggage trains flash in the darkness. The plane shudders as it begins the race down the runway.

We’re airborne heading north to San Francisco. The sun is just beginning it’s climb, peeking ever so slightly over the clouds. I read. I watch the sunrise. I read.

It’s been awhile since I’ve flown into SFO and I’d forgotten how close to the water you get just before touchdown. The terminal is empty as I make my way of to the international gates. The international terminal is a 180 flip from the domestic gates. Gleaming marble on the floors. Duty free screams at you from all angles. Chanel. Swarovski. Gucci. Time slowly marches forward and the terminal begins to fill. A police office on a bicycle spins his way through the crowd. The Best Buy vending machine snags people like a bug zapper. I sit in the corner watching, munching quietly on a breakfast burrito from the restaurant across the way, and reading.

SFO quickly falls away as we make our south. Out the window, the Pacific stretches away to fade below the clouds at the horizon. Somewhere between L.A. and San Diego we begin angling east. I look up from my book and see nothing but barren desert. There is a small sliver of aqua marine, the Sea of Cortez, which slowly gives way to brown. Gradually the brown gives way to green. The flatness of the desert becomes deep canyon. We must be somewhere over Chihuahua and La Barranca del Cobre. The terrain looks beautiful but with a dark side.

The plane banks and I see nothing but sky. I watch the flaps on the wing and my ears pop. We drop through the clouds and I see the beginnings of the city high on the mountain slopes. The city is immense, stretching far across the valley. The plane banks again. I gain a view of the soccer stadium, the field a brilliant emerald surrounded by concrete. That place must be an experience on game day. Moments later we’ve landed and I make my way towards customs.

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