(Español versión publicada anteriormente en rojo.)

Route:  Colonia Capultitlan/Industrial  to  Lindavista/Barrio Tepetates

Day 21 - last day, happy and sad...

Introduction

My last day, my last storyteller…

Once again, I ended up walking with one person for the entire afternoon.  He shared his city with me, his life story and, ultimately, his faith, as we stood side by side in the Basilica de Guadalupe, gazing up at that famous image of the Virgin Mary emanating golden rays.  It was the perfect ending to a strange and tumultuous journey.  

Exactly sixty people helped me traverse this city.  We crossed all 29 kilometers, on foot, under the midday sun, across the barriers of culture and language, through good neighborhoods and bad, with a Swine Flu outbreak, torrential downpours, and two earthquakes to boot.  During all this, there was not one unpleasant interaction. Not one perilous moment.  All my companions were gracious and kind.  Even the people who turned me down, were nice about it.

I came here to have a humble, human, intimate experience on the “longest avenue in the world” in the second largest city on the planet, and to trust its citizens to help me journey safely along this route.  I also came here to get to know my southern neighbors and experience a Mexico that is not in the guide books or on the nightly news.  My expectations were exceeded.  The hospitality I have encountered on the crowded streets of Mexico City has renewed my faith in human kindness, in our similarities and the richness of our differences. 

All it took to make this happen was an open hand, extended in trust and friendship.  Perhaps I’ve been lucky, perhaps Mexico City is not so bad as its reputation, or perhaps we all want a chance to share a moment and make a visitor feel welcome in our home.

(Español versión publicada anteriormente en rojo.) 

Neighborhood: Colonia Lindavista/Barrio Tepetates 

Photo taken by Storyteller #60

This is it, my last story.  Warning: this is my longest post by far, but it is the finale and deserves the space.

I’ve procrastinated about writing this, because I am reluctant to finish this project.  It has been a wonderful experience and I want to thank all my walking partners for their kindness and friendship.

Around one o’clock, I left the Metrobus station and walked up the stairs, over Insurgentes and back downstairs to the two-lane access road.  I crossed over to the microbus stop and looked for a likely candidate for my last day of Walking Stories.  Of course, it wasn’t certain that this would be my last day, but it seemed very likely.

A man with a backpack strapped in front of his chest came my way.  When I asked him to walk with me, he seemed reluctant but intrigued.  His interest won out and he agreed to walk with me a few minutes.  

“How far do you want to go?”  He said, as he slipped my card into his wallet and adjusted his backpack.

“Well, I’m going to the end of Insurgentes.  I’m walking the whole avenue, but we can walk as little or as much as you’d like.”

“OK, I have an appointment with my lawyer in an hour, and I’m not in a hurry, so I can walk with you a little way.”  He smiled and asked, “Why are you doing this?”

I gave him my standard answer about extending friendship to Mexico, wanting to get to know the country on a humble, human level, and hoping to share with people in the US an experience of Mexico that you won’t find on the nightly news.  Then I smiled and added, “It’s also been a really fun project and people have been incredibly nice to me.”

We crossed a busy street, but stopped before reaching the curb to wait for a car that was determined to make a turn.  He looked at me and said, “Watch out.  People are really rude in this city.”

This seemed to refute what I’d just said about people being nice, but he had a point.  On foot, people are incredibly polite, but behind the wheel, they seem to lose any sense of common decency.  “Yes, I’ve noticed that the cars don’t seem to care about or even notice pedestrians or bicycles.”

He nodded. “You have to always be alert.  People are just rude here.”  We safely made it to the curb and he continued, “What should I tell you? What do you want to know?”

“Anything really.”  I smiled, knowing that leaving it so open made it hard to decide what to say, but it also left it open for the unexpected.

“Have you been to the Zocalo?  There is a lot of history there.”  I nodded.  “What about the archeological sites?”  

Feeling a tinge of shame, I shook my head no and said, “I plan to go though…”

“Well there is just so much history in Mexico, I don’t know what to say.  There is too much to tell you.”  I smiled again, waiting for him to find a topic that appealed to him.  He shrugged and said, “How long have you been here?”

For the next few blocks we talked about where I come from, where I live now, how long I’d been here, what I planned to do next, and why I chose to come to Mexico.  He looked up the block, his eyes on the horizon, and said, “I am always interested in other cultures, talking to people from other places, learning about them.”

My smile broadened, “Me too, obviously.  I like to get to know people one by one, on foot. What I’ve learned so far has been fascinating.  Mexico City is so much more than violence, poverty and crime.”

He cocked his head and squinted at me, “That’s true, but I used to be a cop and there are some bad things that happen in this city.  There are some bad guys out there.  I was on the crowd control team.”  He held his arm out as if holding a shield with other arm raised as if griping a baton.  “It was strange, though.  I put a lot of people in jail, but then they fired me.  No pension or anything, just fired me.  I was a good cop.  There are a lot of bad ones and they seem to run things.  But I was a good cop.  So now I’m looking for work.  But I hope to go back on the force.”  I looked him over, remembering all the negative things people have said to me about the police here.  Yet, he seemed to be a very decent person.  He changed the topic, “Today, before meeting with my lawyer, I’m going to the Basilica of Guadalupe to ask for help from the Virgin.  I am a catholic.”  He glanced over at me speculatively.  “Have you been to the basilica?”

“No I haven’t.”  

“Would you like to go?  I mean, do you have time to go?”

I thought a moment, and then decided this would be an interesting venture off my beaten track, and I knew from my map that it wasn’t far off of Insurgentes.  In fact, I had considered visiting as part of my finale for this project, so I said, “Yes, please.  That would be great.  I’d really like to see it.”

He smiled in return.  “The Virgin has helped me many times in my life.  I go often to ask for help and give prayers.  Do you know the story?” 

I slowly shook my head, then said, “All I know is that she appeared as a vision to someone, but that’s about it.”

“Let’s wait until we get there and then I’ll share the story.”

For the next ten minutes, we wended our way through a collection of makeshift vendor stalls, down side streets, past taco stands and little stores, selling all the usual stuff, as well as religious paraphernalia.  We chatted about our families and lives.  For a moment, I wondered if I should be following a strange man off the main drag, but my fears were calmed when I sighted the Basilica.  At least we were headed the right direction.  The top of the church rose up above the low cement and stucco buildings of this neighborhood, its roof a swirling modern design with the green hue of exposed copper.

When we arrived and passed by the police guards at the entrance, he said, “I have such respect for these guys.  They have a hard job.  They are military police.  It is tough, dangerous work and yet people hate the police here.”  Without irony, he added, “I really hope to get back on the force.  That is one of the things I will ask for from the Virgin.”  He looked up at the church and explained, “This is the new church.  They built it because of structural problems with the original one.”  He walked a little to the east and pointed out the old church at the other end of the plaza, its walls obviously tiling to one side. 

“Let’s sit over there.”  He pointed to a low stone wall.

Once seated, I put my hands in my lap and straightened my back, trying to look respectful.  He rubbed his hands together and his eyes shined behind his glasses.  ”So this is the story of the Virgin of Guadalupe.  The Virgin Mary appeared to an indigenous man, named Juan Diego.  She appeared four times, asking him to build a church in her honor on this spot.  He went to the Bishop, his name was… let me think a minute… it’ll come to me.  Anyway, Juan told him about it, but he didn’t believe him.  He said, ‘Why would the Virgin Mary appear to you?  You are just a native.  You are making this up.’  The bishop was spanish, you know.  Ah, yes.  His name was Juan de Zumarraga,”  he said, raising his finger.  

I glanced from him to the people going in and out of the Basilica, carrying crosses made out of flowers and statues of the virgin.  Families gathered, tourists snapped pictures.  It felt more festive than solemn to me.  As he spoke, I alternated between watching him and the crowd outside the basilica doors.  Remembering that this was about being present and listening, I turned back to my friend and gave him my whole attention, “So the Virgin Mary appeared again to Juan Diego and told him to go up the mountain and collect roses and bring them to the bishop.  But Juan was skeptical.  It was the wrong season.  There were no roses at this time.  However, he went up the mountain and, sure enough, there were the roses.  He collected them, gathering them up in his robes.”  He mimed the action of pulling the roses to his chest.  “Just simple robes, peasant clothing.”  

He raised his eyebrows and I could tell this was the crux of the story. “Now when he returned to the bishop and gave him the roses, there appeared the image of the Virgin.”  He waved his hands down the front of his chest and I could imagine the roses falling and the image revealed.  He rubbed his forearm and laughed, “I just got a chill.  I am really inspired by this story.”  I smiled and wanted to rub my arms too, even though I had not felt the same chill.  He concluded with a dreamy look in his eyes, “Then the bishop believed.  It was a miracle.  And he built the church here as the Virgin had requested.  Juan Diego became Saint Juan Diego, a sanctioned saint in the catholic church.”  He spread his arms out, sweeping across the vista of the plaza.  “People from around the world come to see the Virgin.  It is the most sacred site in all of Latin America.  Everyone comes here, even people from other religions.”  He smiled at me and said, “Would you like to go inside now?”

With out hesitation, I nodded, but then asked, “It won’t bother you?  I mean, you want to ask a petition.  I won’t be in the way?”

“No, no.  Of course not.  Come on.”

We entered the huge sanctuary of the modern church.  There were hundreds of people in the pews.  He looked at me and said, “Oh, it’s mass.  They have mass here every day.”  He stopped and bowed his head and made the sign of the cross.  Then he nodded and we headed down a ramp that went beneath the alter.  When we got to the bottom, we were directly below the cross that hangs over the alter and there were four mini, automated conveyor belts, going both directions.  People stood on the belts and moved slowly beneath the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe hanging under the huge cross behind the alter above.  They stood either in prayer or with cameras and cell phones extended for a photo opportunity, an odd but efficient way of seeing one of the most famous images in Mexico. 

While waiting our turn, we read the signs that explained the story and admired the bas relief images of Juan Diego.  My friend read some of it to me and pointed out the images that matched the story he had told me outside.  Since childhood, I have enjoyed being read to and this was no exception, his excitement relayed easily by the simple act of reading out loud.  As we passed beneath the cross, I took my photos, like a good tourist would, while my friend took a moment in prayer.

We explored the rest of the church, read more signs and people watched.  Back outside, he pointed out buildings in the plaza, explaining the function and significance of each place.  “Do you have time to see more? Or do you need to get back?”  He laughed and exclaimed, “I thought we’d walk five minutes and it’s been three hours!”

I laughed in response and said, “Well… I do need to get back at some point.  Or, could you show me more of the plaza and then take me to Indios Verdes metro station?  That’s my last stop.”  Then, feeling a bit like a mooch and remembering his appointment, I said, “Or if you are busy, I can try to find another participant.  I don’t want to keep you.”

“No, no.” He shook his head dismissively.  “My appointment is not set.  I can go anytime.  They can wait.  It’s no big deal.  I want to show you more of this.  This is important.  Unless you need to get going.  It’s up to you.”

I swung my arm out to the side, feeling like the scare crow from the Wizard of Oz, and exclaimed, “Let’s keep going.  I usually stop at four o’clock but that is not inflexible either.” 

He showed me the old church built in the sixteen hundreds and then the very oldest which was they started building in the fifteen hundreds to honor the Virgin’s request.   I also took a picture of the Pope-mobile, a bullet proof vehicle with glass viewing area, that was parked in the plaza.  As we walked, he confided in me about some of his personal struggles this year.  I felt instant sympathy and touched him briefly on the arm.  He smiled and shrugged.  Then we continued and explored the park, climbing the stairs to the midway point.  By then it was getting late and very cloudy, so I suggested we head back.

He walked all the way with me to the train station, chatting comfortably.  The train station was a confusing maze of vendor stalls, busses to outlying areas, the Indios Verdes Metro station, and the Metrobus stop of the same name.  On the way to the station he had pointed out the copped-green statues of Indians that gave this area it’s name, but also mentioned that the park they stood in was dangerous with lots of homeless and drug addicts.  It was nice to be walking with someone who had been a cop for years and new the city well.

In front of the turnstiles to the Metrobus, we said our goodbyes.  As he shook my hand, he said, “I started today in a bad mood, on my way to my lawyer’s office. But it has ended on a good note.  I am a bit of a hermit at times.  This has been a wonderful experience.  Thank you.”

I smiled back, and kissed his cheek, a standard goodbye but with true heart and soul.  “No.  Thank you.  You have been so kind to walk with me all this way, to share your story and your faith with me.  I really loved seeing the Basilica with you.  You are my last participant, and a perfect end to my project.  I am glad to have spent the day with you.”

As I rode the bus back, my mind was filled with images of this city, the constant crossing of class, race, religion and culture, the ways people negotiate their lives and find ways of coping with a chaotic, unpredictable world.  Mexico City can be a tough place and so many people barely eek out a living.  However, it is also a wonderful place, where determination and joy sprout up, coloring even the bleakest moments with a touch of hope.

(Español versión publicada anteriormente en rojo.) 

Neighborhood: Colonia Capultitlan / Industrial 

Photo taken by Storyteller #59

Over a breakfast of coffee and a chocolate croissant, I looked at my map and thought I might be able finish that day.  Only three kilometers left to go.  But when I arrived at the Metrobus stop that was my starting point, I changed my mind.  Insurgentes at this point looked more like a highway than a city street.  It wasn’t even clear that the sidewalk continued up ahead, where the road was crisscrossed by overpasses.  

Everything looked grey in this part of town, even the bright green stairs that went to the metro stop had a grey hue.  I looked up at the dingy sky and back at the traffic waiting at the intersection, five lanes of one way traffic. To make matters less promising, there were hardly any people around, just a guy selling candy on the corner.  If all else failed, I could probably talk to him and worry about getting farther on my route another day.

A moment later, thankfully, people started coming down the stairs next to me.  A bus must have arrived.  The third person I talked to agreed to walk with me and I was on my way.  He had a quiet manner, and seemed to be in no hurry.  People always talk about the machismo in Mexico, but I find men here to be far less aggressive and posturing than in the US.  In fact, the majority of men I’ve talked to during this project have been soft-spoken and inordinately polite with gentle manners.

This man was no exception.  After crossing all five lanes of traffic at the intersection, he politely asked, “What would you like to hear about?” 

“You could tell me about yourself.  Are you from this part of town?”

“Yes.”

“What is it like?”

“Well, there is a lot of traffic.”  I looked at the cars speeding by and nodded.  “I don’t really like that,” he said.  “It’s not very tranquil.”

We crossed another busy intersection to a park with basketball courts and a playground.  It was wedged between Insurgentes and an access road, and he was right, it did not inspire tranquility.  None the less, people were using it.

“You know though, I lived in LA once and I think Mexico City is nicer.  I was studying there for a year and, when I finished, I came back to Mexico.”  We crossed from the park to the sidewalk on the other side of the access road.

“I know what you mean,” I concurred.  ”LA can be very ugly in certain areas, and dangerous. Where did you live in LA?”

“I lived in Santa Monica, near Venice Beach.  That part was OK but there were other neighborhoods that were just incredibly dangerous and ugly.  Like Barrio Ocho where my aunt and uncle live.  That place is so bad, people getting killed all the time, really violent.  And if something happens, it takes the police a half an hour to get there.”

I nodded in agreement, “Yes, many places in the US are very scary and violent.  Mexico City also has it’s bad parts, but it seems softer, somehow.  I think the US has an aggressive culture.  Here, there are bad parts, but, it just seems less aggressive, softer.”  I wasn’t sure what word to use, but “suave” (soft) seemed to fit.

We were going up an embankment on the sidewalk that lead to the top of an overpass.  So far, our route had been strange.  We paralleled Insurgentes, winding our way along the roads beside it, because there weren’t any sidewalks bordering Insurgentes in this section.  As we reached the top of the embankment and walked around a fence into a parking area, I looked at him and said, “You can walk with me as much or as little as you’d like, but I would appreciate it if you left me somewhere…”

“Safe, with people around?”  He smiled.  “We can walk as far as the bus station, that’s where I’m heading anyway.  I’m on my way home from work.”

“Thanks you!”  I smiled again, feeling watched over.  Throughout this project, I have felt like my storytellers are helping me, not just with my project and my stories, but helping me safely navigate their neighborhoods.  It is a nice feeling, like being a guest in someone’s house.  I looked back at him and asked, “So, you are on your way home from work. What kind of work do you do?”

“I design clothing.”  I gave him a second look.  I don’t know why, but this is not what I was expecting him to say.  He continued, “I wanted to go into industrial design, but Mexico just doesn’t have enough production.  The US does, and Germany, but Mexico doesn’t design its own products or manufacturing.  So, there isn’t much in the way of work for an industrial designer.”

“Do you like what you do?”

He smiled, “It’s a good job.  Well, if you are the one designing clothing, it is a good job.  If you are just making it,” he moved his arms as if pushing cloth through a sewing machine, “then it isn’t such great work.”

“So, do you get to do your own designs?”

“Not much.” He shrugged.  ”I mostly do whatever people request, but it is good work and good money.  Mexico is strange that way, you can make more money working in the streets, selling stuff, than you could working a nine to five job at a company.  Anything you want can be found on the streets of Mexico.  We have a saying here, kind of a joke.  Someone says, ‘No se puede’ and the other replies, ‘Aqui en Mexico, todo se puede.’”  This translates to ‘You can’t’ with the response, ‘Here in Mexico you can do anything.’  I laughed, knowing just what he meant.

We had been walking down side streets, a back alley, and had reached a bus station, not the red and white Metrobus that runs down the center of Insurgentes, but the green and white microbuses that go everywhere else.  We walked past food vendors and piles of garbage.  Then he moved into the road next to one of the busses, saying, “You can walk down the center of the road in Mexico.  It’s better than the sidewalk.  The US is about rules and organization, but it’s not like that in Mexico.”  He stepped aside, and I followed suit, so the cars could pass.  He looked at me again and said, “You want to keep going down Insurgentes, right?”  I nodded in agreement.  “Well, let me take you back to Insurgentes near the Metrobus.”

“Thanks, I really appreciate you walking with me.”  I wondered for a moment at how easy it was to trust him, here in a strange part of town, wandering side streets, back alleys and parks.  But what is life without trust?  Without trust, we would have no government, no industry, no services, no community, and no family.  Our social order is built on cooperation and trust.

So, I trusted him and he trusted me in turn.  As we walked, he told me about his family and his daughter.  I asked questions and listened as we walked, enjoying the company.  We ended up at a microbus stop on Insurgentes and he said, “This is where I get the bus.”

Second stopping point. Photo taken by Storyteller #59

Sitting down on the bench, I said, “OK.  Now I’ll just take notes and then look for my next walking partner.”  I started writing my notes, but we ended up talking more.  He sat down next to me.  The conversation flowed from one topic to the other.  He asked if he could take my picture, and I readily agreed.  After all, he had agreed to walk with me and let me take his picture.  We chatted for another ten or fifteen minutes, and finally, he said, “Why don’t I take you to the Metrobus station, rather than leaving you here.”

So we walked to the Metrobus station and took pictures for my website, one together and one of the station.  But he didn’t seem satisfied with this so I followed him up a long pedestrian walkway to the center of Insurgentes and he took a picture of a triangle shaped building the rose up out of the skyline.  Then he turned to me and said, “It would be better if we were closer, but this will do.”

When we got back to the Metrobus station, he looked around and said, “I don’t want to leave you here, let’s keep going.”  I’m not sure if he thought it was unsafe or just wanted to help me along my route, but in any case we kept walking and I was grateful for his help.

When we finally came to a stopping point at the Metrobus station Potrero, it was 4pm.  My day was officially over.  With my new friend, I had covered three kilometers and was very near the end of my journey.  We had talked about things personal and universal, shared our experiences of the US and Mexico.  I marveled at how easy it is to trust people, to allow friendship to grow, like tender plants, sprouting up through every little crack in the sidewalks of this great city.

(Español versión publicada anteriormente en rojo.) 

Neighborhood:  Colonia Santa Maria la Rivera/Tlatelolco

Photo taken by Storyteller #58

The corner of Insurgentes and Reforma is incredibly busy.  They are two major streets that criss-cross this city.  Lots of traffic, both vehicle and pedestrian.  This seems to mean that people ignore me more and are less likely to agree to walk with me.  I don’t know why, but in the part of town, everyone was carrying manila folders with them, maybe there was an official building nearby and they contained important documents.  

For the next half hour, I asked dozens of people to walk with me, watched many hurry by, avoiding eye contact, moved to the shade, asked more people and then moved back out into the hot sun because I thought I might have more luck on the corner.  This was not the most fun part of my day.

However, I finally saw someone who looked like a good bet.  For the rest of my life, I think I will be able to spot people who are open to doing things like this project.  It is something ephemeral, a way of moving perhaps or dressing, and more than that, a subtle clue I’ve learned to pick up on.  I don’t know how this will serve me in the future, but it’s been an interesting learning experience.

As we crossed the street, he pointed down Reforma and said, “There are sculptures all along this street, not just the Angel de Independencia.  But because people are rushing by in cars, they never see them.  You have to walk to see them.”  He pointed one out, saying, “Each one has a plaque.  Each one is someone important that we should remember.  But here on Reforma, the way it is set up, almost no one stops to look or read about them.”

“Wow, I should walk Reforma one day and take a look.”

He smiled and said, “Do you want to take a look now?”

I debated for a moment.  I did want to take a look, but also wanted to make some progress today.  So I answered, “Well, yes, but I think I should stick to my route.  As much as possible, I stay on Insurgentes.  I’ll come back another day and take a closer look.”  As I said this, I wasn’t sure it was true, that I would come back another day.

“Ok.  Do you just want to know things about Insurgentes?”

“No.  Insurgentes is my route, but I like to hear any kind of stories.”

“See the Metrobus there?  It’s new.  They just built it a few years ago to help with traffic.  Before, the buses were in regular traffic and made stops here in this lane.  Cars, taxis, buses, all stop and go in this lane.  Now you are not allowed to stop here.  All the lanes are for traffic and the middle land just for the Metrobus.  It makes the bus much faster and helped with pollution.”

Since it currently takes a couple of hours to go from one end to the other, I tried to imagine how it was before and how many buses you’d have to take to get from one end of Insurgentes to the other.  I envisioned breakdowns and accidents and people parked in the right lane.

We kept walking a ways, but soon came to a stopping point.  I thanked him and took pictures.  Then I moved to the shade to take notes.

As I was writing I heard someone say, “Do you want to keep walking?”

I looked up in surprise and saw my new friend.  “Sure, of course.”

“Listen, I’m free for the rest of the afternoon and we can walk as far as you’d like.”

“Really?  Yes. That would be great,” I replied and put my notes away.

“I have a business making chemicals to sell and this morning I did my taxes, so now I’m free for the day.”  We smiled and moseyed down the street.

We walked at a comfortable pace, chatting about this and that.  The street changed as we progressed, becoming much less populated and with smaller buildings, and less prosperous businesses, then we reached a construction site and walked along  the fence, watching the workers in their hard hats, stirring up dust as they worked.

“That’s the train stations Suburbano.  On the other side of this construction is the station and the market.  See, look through there, you can see the trains.  They are orange and white.”

I could just see them through a gap in the fencing.  We walked to the end of the construction zone and I could see that this was where Insurgentes becomes like a highway.  There didn’t seem to be anywhere for pedestrians.  I asked him and he said, “No, from here, you’ll need to take the Metrobus.”

This was not in my plans, but I nodded, thinking, I’ll just have to figure out some other route.

We decided to turn back and crossed over Insurgentes on a green pedestrian bridge that crosses the road.  It looked worn and tired, a sharp contrast to the glossy part of Reforma where we’d started this walk together.  I realized we’d come a long way, maybe about two kilometers.  I looked at him and thought what a nice gesture it had been to walk all this way with me.

“It is hot,” I said, touching my neck.  He nodded.  I pointed across the street, “And we were walking on the sunny side the whole time!”  We both laughed.

As we passed a little kiosk, I saw that they had ice cream bars.  “Ooh, would you like and ice cream, my treat?”

“Yes, thank you.”

So we picked out our ice cream bars and ate them on the way to the bus.  He returned the favor and bought my bus ticket.  The cool ice cream was delicious to my parched mouth, and there seemed to be something decedent about eating an ice cream while riding the bus.  I’m not sure it’s even permitted, but we didn’t make a mess and no one protested.

He rode with me all the way to my stop.  We talked about our families and what we like to cook.  At this point it wasn’t really part of my project, we were just like two new friends chatting on the bus on a hot day.  Sometimes my project feels like research, sometimes storytelling, or even free therapy, but on the best of days, it feels like friendship.

(Español versión publicada anteriormente en rojo.) 

Neighborhood:  Colonia Juarez/Revolucion

Photo taken by Storyteller #57

I saw a man across the intersection in a blue shirt, walking toward me, and sensed that he might be a good candidate for my next storyteller.  When I told him about my project, he looked down at my card, turned it over and said, “Interesting.”

We started walking and he said, “So what inspired this project?”

I have been asked this before and try to give the most straight forward answer, but the truth is, of course, more complicated.  But usually the simplest answer is the best, “I live in Tucson, on the border, and there is so much fear of Mexico in the United States.  But we are neighbors, and I believe in getting to know my neighbors.”  He looked at me and nodded, so I continued, “The image of Mexico in the US is bad, prostitution, drug trafficking, poverty,” I glanced at him and saw him nod again. “But this is a big, international city.  It is so much more than that.  I want to experience and show the variety of life in Mexico City.  To show that there are also normal people going about their day.  To get to know the city in a different way, one by one crossing the city.”

He studied me for a second. “I’m a documentary filmmaker.  So I am also interested in the stories of this city.  I have been all over this city, documenting people’s stories.  Even late at night, three in the morning in some bad parts of town, and nothings happened to me.  It really isn’t as bad as people say.”  Looking down the road, he said, “I like film.  Through the lens, you get a different story, a more complex story, another truth.  LIke when we die, we all become saints.  Suddenly they are lauded for all their good points, forgetting all the bad.  But film gets another story.  You ask a question and the body speaks.  The lens captures it.  The lens doesn’t lie.”

I nodded in agreement, feeling like a fraud of sorts.  Because I am not really here to get people’s stories.  I am not making a documentary.  Although storytelling is a big part of my project, the heart of the project is listening, being with someone on a crowded street and really listening.  And I’m not even that good at it, half the time.  I get distracted, go off into my own thoughts, transforming their experiences into my own version of what happened, relating it to my own life.  The act of listening is a hard one.  

I tried to explain a little, “I don’t use any technology.  I’m interested in oral storytelling.  The point for me is to have a humble, human, intimate experience.  The beauty is how willing people are to help me out.  This city is amazingly open and friendly, especially to foreigners.”

With a wry smile, he said, “Maybe too much.”  I laughed in agreement, and he said, “No really.  People love foreigners here.  And, at the same time, they are suspicious of other Mexicans.  People often turn me down or are reluctant to talk to me, but if I were a French or Argentine filmmaker, they would open their doors, invite me in and tell me all about their lives.”  He shrugged his shoulders.  I glanced in the window of a fancy boutique and then up the street to the big intersection ahead where Avenida de la Reforma meets Insurgentes.

Foreign influences are evident everywhere in this city, and I had to admit, “Yes, and this has been immensely helpful in my project.  People help me most of the time simply because I am a foreigner and a woman.  If I were Mexican, they would not be so eager to help, I suspect.”

He nodded.  We slowed the pace as we reached the intersection, and he asked, “So where do you go now?”

I pointed down Insurgentes, “North until I reach the end.  I will keep asking people to walk with me until I’ve crossed the whole city.”

He followed my gaze, his eyes seeming to see more than the road ahead.  “Well, I need to go in this direction,” he pointed left, “but good luck to you.”

“Thank you.  I still have a ways to go before I’m done.  Thank you for participating and good luck to you too.”

Next I took a picture of us together and handed the camera phone to him to take a picture on the spot.  He looked at the camera for a moment and then tilted his head upward, pointing the lens into the midday sun and clicked.  I smiled and thought, ‘yes, indeed, this is about stark sunlight and the shadows we cast.’

(Español versión publicada anteriormente en rojo.) 

Neighborhood:  Colonia Juarez/Roma Norte

Photo taken by Storyteller #56

Most people emerging from the Insurgentes Metro station were heading south, and I needed to go north.  So I just stood watching people come out of the metro and head the other way.  Close to me was a store with a rack of socks out on the sidewalk.  From the opening, they were blasting out announcements of what was for sale within.  This is common practice in Mexico City, from the hawker on the metro selling pirated CDs to the Oaxaca tomale salesman who rides through my neighborhood with a loudspeaker that repeats over and over, ‘delicious Oaxaceno tamales’, Mexico City is complex auditory experience.

The next store down sold sexy costumes: french maid outfits, nurses outfits, tiger print hotpants and bra, bikinis with coin-sized coverings, etc.  It reminded me that I was near the Zona Rosa, which is where you find the sex shops and gay bars.  

For a moment, I wondered if I looked suspicious, a big tall woman standing there, all dressed in white, handing out cards.  Before starting my walk, a friend had cautioned that I should make sure to be clear that I was doing an art project, not offering services.  As far as I could tell, there was nothing sexy about my outfit, but you never know.  There was one man who stared hard at me as he approached, then turned around three times, as he went down the stairs, and finally smiled and waved.  I don’t know, maybe he thought he knew me…

In the end, a man with a yellow shirt and cap came up the stairs and reluctantly took my card, but when I explained my project, he readily agreed to help me.  We didn’t say much of anything for a moment.  As we walked along, I stayed quiet, waiting to hear what he would say.  Sometimes it works best to say nothing and let people warm up to the idea of telling their story.  

After we’d walked half a block, he turned his head and plucked at his yellow shirt, saying, “I’m in publicity.  I work for PRD, the political party.  They hired me to help with publicity.”  He tipped down his baseball cap to show me the logo on the front of the hat.

With his bright yellow cap and shirt, he looked like your average sports fan, so I was a little surprised to find that the outfit was part of his job and not a demonstration of party affiliation.  I said, “The election is June 9th or 6th or something, right?”

“It’s June 5th.”

I smiled and explained, “I haven’t paid that much attention to the date, because I can’t vote anyway.”

We walked past some kids playing basketball in the park, a peaceful scene and then rounded the corner and were back out in traffic.  This location was the intersection of Insurgentes and Chapultepec, and there was a large rotary with the Metro station and plaza in the center, but down a level from the road, and streets going off in every direction.  We had just cut across one of the arms of the rotary.

As we walked back out on Insurgentes, he touched his shirt again and said, “I give out pamphlets in the metro.  That’s my job.  I’m in college, studying publicity.  So I take classes in the morning and then do this job in the evening.”

I turned to him and said, “It’s nice to be already working in your field.”  He nodded in agreement.  Half the people I talk to, seem to be college students.  This is, probably, due to the fact that they have more time in the middle of the day to take a walk with me.  Also, they may be more open to participating in something like this.  It comes down to, they are young and open-minded, and, although they are invariably busy with work and school, they have some spare time on their hands on a sunny afternoon.  

His time had just expired, so we said our goodbyes.  I watched him wander off, his bright yellow clothing making him stand out a bit in the crowd, and thought of my jobs over the last few years while I was in school: pet sitter, building manager, art studio tech, woodshop assistant, graduate assistant teacher, anything really, any job that would help pay the bills.  Work and school, the life a student seems to be fairly universal.

(Español versión publicada anteriormente en rojo.) 

Neighborhood: Colonia Juarez/Roma Norte

Photo taken by Storyteller #55

I was surprised to get two women in a row.  Some days, there is not even one woman who will walk with me, and now there were two in a row.  

She looked down at my card as we walked.  “Hmmm.  A story.”

“Yes, it can be anything.”

She looked up at me and then down at the card.  

“It can be about Mexico, this city, your life…”

We walked past a kiosk selling candy and newspapers. Then stopped at the intersection to wait for the light.  

“I work at credit house.”  

Not understanding the word, I asked what that meant and she replied, “We offer credit to people.”  She smiled at me and then turned my card over and looked at the back again.

“It’s a bank?”

She shook her head, “No,  but we offer credit to people.  It’s a job.”  We started to cross the street, and she added, “I’m studying psychology.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“It is.  I like to know about people and how their minds work.”  She seemed like a smart young woman, studious.  People often tell me I look smart.  I always wonder why they think that, but then I pass the same immediate judgement on other people.  I think it has more to do with having an inquisitive mind, rather than being “smart”.

“Me too,”  I laughed, “obviously.  I like to know what makes people tick, and how society works.  I’ve never studied it formally, but I like to read about psychology, sociology, anthropology.”

She smiled in response and we kept walking.  We stopped in front of the Insurgentes Metro station.  There was a fence marking off an area with workmen in dusty pants and hard hats.  I watched them briefly, wondering if I could get a story from one of them.  She glanced over too and then we started the process of saying goodbye.

At last, I pointed to the card, still in her hand, and said, “You can go on tomorrow or the next day and read your story, as well as all the others on my website.  There are some pretty interesting stories there.  Mexico City is an interesting place.”

“Thanks, I’ll take a look,” she said and we shook hands.

As she walked down the steps, I turned my head again to look at the workman busily deconstructing the wall next to me.  I checked the time and decided that today I wouldn’t bother them.  But wondered how different their lives must be from the woman who just walked down the steps, and yet there was just as likely to be another inquisitive soul among them, thinking his own quiet thoughts as he worked.  There are the obvious things, the surface, and then everything else, the richness of each individual life.