Ciudad de Mexico - Part 4
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.
