Speaking of revolution and independence, Mexico is celebrating the bicentennial of its Independence (1810), and the centennial(1910) of its revolution. Nothing to pull your heart out of the gutter with five days of fiestas.
I wish I could report that craziness ensued, and I found myself strolling the zocalo with nothing more green white and red paint on my privates. That, in the theme of privates, I found myself a nice man in uniform to molest in the glow of the neon celebration lights. That I fell asleep drunk on the bus and woke up in Chiapas, or at least Atlixco.
But in actuality, we had a very civilized (albeit cerveza-ed) puente (vacation). After debating a voyage to Mexico City, we decided it would take the whole weekend to cut through the traffic and ultimately stayed in Puebla. The zocalo, though small in area, made up for it with energy and noise. You gotta love the lack of safety precautions out of the States – we could practically touch the fireworks.
I decided that, since the bi-bicentennial is a once in a lifetime experience, I would eat everything in sight. Elote, grilled shrimp with mayonnaise, bread with nuts, more elote, a fifth of tequila, another elote. I think I chewed a bunch of gum, too. We made our way to Cholula after the grito in Puebla, and found ourselves in a smattering of bars known as the Containers, brightly colored boxcars teeming with cute poblanos, buckets of booze, and music music music. Mariachis were heard as tequila was sipped and throngs of red, white, and green flew in all different directions. The night was even more Mexican than when I had sex with ___ and ___ in the same day and then flew to Mexico City, Guadalajara, and ultimately Puebla. And I was positively covered in Mexico that day. We rolled out around 5 in the morning, stopping for a burger in a snack restaurant where a 12 year old was the only sober employee out of about seven. By the time I got turned Chilaquil’s light out and passed out in my clothes, ears still ringing from the clubs, it was well into the morning, and I had the realizaton, for the millionth time in about a month, that I love Mexico.
I hate hangovers, so I decided not to wake up the next day. Hurricane Karl’s constant presence made it quite easy.
Friday we went to Atlixco, where I got to eat a massive quantity of fish soup. Saturday B and I braved a torrential downpour and did a tour of museos poblanos. We got to see, for better or worse, a huge expo of The Two Peters (lithographer pals: one from Belgium, one from France), the point of which I’m still working out in my mind. Nice colors, though. Additionally, we discovered the contemporary art museum, the gardens of which are definitely going to be my number one Puebla date destination, should I ever find my mojo in this country.
But my favorite part of the day was when we stumbled upn the convention center, where a large furniture sale was taking place. While I prefer my living quarters to be as Spartan as possible (note lack of legit bed in last two apartments), I saw people clutching cups, and surmised that free alcohol was involved in the bedsets and kitchenettes. Sure enough, at six locations across the vast room, interspersed with washing machines and loads of leather, were pick-me-up stations with tequila and chicharonnes. Viva Mexico. They don’t skimp on the pours in this country, either: it’s easy to see how a couple of newlyweds, spinning on the fatal mix of love and agave, could walk out with a 12 person round table, or at last a fugly rug.
Civilized (and exhausted) students that we are, though, we limited our consumption to two, and I found myself home watching the rain and playing with my iguana on a Saturday night.