Christmas Eve From Mexico City

Blog entry 12-24-10
Christmas eve  in D.F., walking our feet off 2 + miles from the Centro to Café Habana for lunch at noon, then back around through the parks. Everyone is out, and still the vendors line the sidewalks, but fewer because of the holiday.
We sit in the park off the Reforma, in sunshine so warm I think I could sit forever. The carnival continues, and young lovers are on every other park bench exchanging their Christmas gifts or just necking. I love the lovers, that they will unselfconsciously and passionately make out right there in the center of all this bustling city.  The only thing I wish more for them is that they have birth control and use it.  Today there were several mothers begging with little children in tow.
 The vulnerability and transparency of humanity makes me want to sit down and write a poem or something.  Walking through this city one sees so many snippets of people’s lives. I can only look for a second and then go on. Try not to stare. 
We stop to watch a comedian in the park, and he instantly notices us (the only gringos around ) and begins to add questioning us into his act, : “Te gusta tequila?” Curtis answers mas o menos, and I shake my head no.
 “Te gusta mexico?” he asks and we can give a firm “si”.  He miraculously continues on to others in the crowd, speaking so fast and clipped I get almost nothing. I like his voice though.  It is fun to guess the gist of what someone is saying simply by listening to intonations and gestures, noticing the reactions of  those in the crowd. Lots of laughing and teasing.  I wish I understood, and someday I might.

I buy a little hand beaded bracelet in Christmas reds and greens from the young huichol man who made it - hecho a mano. It is my one decorative aspect today. I buy una jarro de crema con miel… bee pollen eye crème. The vendor is very friendly and we have fun talking to him about alternative medicines, shamans, honey, and the things he is selling.

The little kids playing accordion are still on the calle, and this time I notice they are even younger than I thought. One is feeding ice cream to his little sister, and singing between his own bites. His singing seems second nature.
The sun is going down on this day, and it’s naptime before mass at El Catedral Metropolitano. The bricks in it’s wall will absorb the music of yet another holiday, the same bricks which used to absorb the prayers of the Aztecs in their dramatic ceremonies. They shed real blood, and now the  blood is only  in the words.
I am reading the Lacana, by Barbara Kingsolver and it is telling a story which takes place exactly where we are. To stand on the places of so much history feels tender in a way, that tenderness of the human condition. Cortes and Moctezuma are long dead, as are the lovers from so many Christmases past. The gifts mere memories. This is my memory, walking hand in hand with Curtis between buildings of every age, some leaning away into the sinking lakebed. Humanity …. Who, as e.e. Cummings notes,  puts the secret of the universe in his pants pocket, forgets, and sits down on it.