Dateline: Streets of Mexico City in route to Hilton International Branch Headquarters

“If you don’t take life seriously, it’s not worth living.  If you only take life seriously, it’s not worth living.”

Or, Let Your Emotions Be Your Guide…

The whole humiliating airport experience is the fault of the Mexico City roads department.  How, you ask, could my failure to look cool…in a “blending” sort of way, in the DFW airport, be caused by the roads department in a foreign country?

Because… since the Mexico City roads department cut a few corners and ended up with tiny street identification signs… I spent a lot of time lost….I mean a lot more time than I set aside on a regular basis for being lost.  And, if the additional time I spent lost caused by unreadable street signs wasn’t enough torture on my knees, the Mexico City roads department slaps up construction barriers willy-nilly right there in El Centro… just because the water and electricity isn’t working in some parts of town….therefore, if…by some wild chance…I occasionally figured out how to correct my lostness by heading towards or away from the sun…I had random roadblocks to deal with.  

Yes, my problems are at the feet of the Mexico City roads department.  The extra hours.  The extra blocks walking, the anxious wandering. The traffic madness didn’t help, since my primary method of figuring out where I am in a city is to stroll into the middle of the street and gaze around the sky hoping to spot familiar tall buildings…which isn’t all that easy to do when the street is ten lanes wide and the drivers, well…it’s Mexico City. The first time I saw my brother pray was in the back of a Mexico City taxi.

Also, it’s a bit more challenging to look cool when I’m lost. I’m not aiming for “super cool.” I have no desire to draw attention. My goal is to achieve a “blending in” level cool. In Mexico City I was trying to pass for a professional woman late for a business meeting…not that easy wearing stained MBT sandals, my Emiliano Zapata T-shirt, and cargo shorts with pockets so full of stuff I had to hike them up (unobtrusively, of course) every few steps.

And, because of the tiny street signs and random construction barriers, we are talking hours and hours of walking.  Hot, humid hours.  My knees shake and perspiration blinds me. Crowds press in on all sides, I stumble over organ grinders, policemen shrieking whistles. I suck back as the occasional truckload of soldiers with machine guns whizz past.  Still, I plunge on.  Finally, I give up. I can’t make it. I’m going down. I’m ready to accept that life ends on the sidewalks of Mexico City as I succumb to the heat stroke I so thoroughly deserve.  And who cares anyway? What kind of life could I have, given that my feet would surely required amputation.

Then I looked up….and there before me was the National Museum of Art. I didn’t spend two hours in the National Museum of Art to appreciate the paintings and sculptures.  The National Museum of Art on Tacuba was air-conditioned.  As I crossed the wide entrance apron, I called up memories of museums around the world and felt confident this museum, like those, would have the one essential ingredient.  Benches. 

I staggered in.  I’m quite sure the counter lady thought I was normal for an Norte Americana.  She had no clue that she could have charged me whatever she wanted and pocketed enough change for a new compact car. She handed me my ticket to new life. I was in. I turned for the first hallway, my knees trembling with exhaustion.  I could see great art already…a bench…and struck out for my cultural experience.

But then…when rescue was but feet away….the counter lady said, “No! No!”     Part 2, the startling conclusion….