I was in San Francisco when a fellow backpacker told me she was planning to go to Mexcio from LA. I wanted to join her but for some reason was in no mood to take the bus for an 8 hr journey to LA. After much thinking and wasting time, and after almost giving up on going, a breakfast in a Mexican restaurant “sunflower café” in o farrel street, I changed plans of going off to a quiet light house hostel in south beach of California to a visit to Mexico. Finding cheap flights online further encouraged. The same night I took my flight out of SFO and landed in Mexico city about 5am local time. Surprisingly my flight was actually half hour ahead of the published time. Arriving at the airport, no one but the immigration officer spoke any English. But that is not very surprising either. I had a similar situation in Turkey where no one spoke English even inside the International Airport. But traveling in a country where one doesn’t speak our language is a very unique experience. It demonstrates exactly how much we all connect to each other as human beings. Where that extra effort is made to make others understand and to understand those in front of you, not just superficially, but with an inner urge. For when you cannot understand a word, and people still manage to understand what you need and go out of their way to help you, that is something. I always enjoy these half sign language interactions, for each time we come back richer with the experience that language is truly not an issue. So it was that, I landed and found that there was a subway which I could take to go to Centro Historico for 3 pesos or a taxi for 12 dollars. The policewoman at the airport tried to dixcourage me from going in the metro saying I will have to wait until 7am. I thought she was simply trying to make me take a taxi. She didn’t tell the real issue. I did curse myself for not taking the taxi, yet I would not have had my first glimpse of Mexican heart if I didn’t go by the subway. I had to find my way to the Subway, and after asking the same policeman twice, sensing that was mistaking the aerobus to the metro, he came all the way out of the airport to show me the way to the metro. Once at the subway, I had to show my address to the lady at the ticket counter and she directed me to the direction pantitlan. Hmmm. There started the trouble, I had to climb down a flight of stairs and then again climb up another pair of stairs lugging my luggage. Just out of habit I asked a guy waiting for the tube what time it was. He told me. In the next minute the train was there. I got in and asked a fellow passenger where I had to get down. After much signaling and using single English words, and him digging out his English words from his brain, he managed to convey that I had to change trains after getting off at pantitlan and that his friend the guy who told me the time earlier was going the same way and he would help. At pantitlan two pairs of stairs to take the brown line 9 to get off at five stations after. This time I was just unable to lug up the bag and my good Samaritan offered to carry my bag. It was pretty embarrassing but after two sleepless nights and an overnight flight, I had no energy to refuse. At places they were installing escalators. But most parts it was stairs. Mexicans in America are on the bulky side as they eat loads of sour cream and cheese. But here, there is no question of people becoming bulky. The stairs will ensure that. Getting inside the Line 9 was itself a big deal. The trains were so full at 6.15am, it was unbelievable. I got transported to the Bombay local for a while. Only here they were closed in trains like the metro in delhi and there was no outside air what so ever. People were trussed like sardines inside a can. One man standing next to me didn’t have a place to hold on to, like myself and ended up catching me by the shoulder. At first I was a bit taken aback, but I saw it was the norm. In the next few minutes he was sleeping while standing like that. Most folks looked serious and tired. And I was amazed that people had to leave so early to work. The trains were full even in Mumbai but that happened after 7.30 most of the times. I found out from our hostel warden that most folks worked from 7am o 8pm. Somehow, I was lucky that while I had to get down the train was a little bit empty. Getting down from line 9 I had to change trains once again to the blue line in order to reach Zucalo, which was supposed to be close to the centro historico. My friend said bye to me in the train as he was going beyond that station. Feeling relieved at finally coming to the station, I asked directions for Humboldt street, and no one seemed to know, nor was it mentioned on the Map in the station. I tried using a pay phone with 3 pesos and only answer was a fax tone. Suddenly I found a couple who seemed to be from Europe. They spoke English and the guy spoke Spanish. He lived in Mexico for 9 years earlier. He asked the policeman whom I failed to make understand earlier and found that I had to take another train from Hidalgo to Zuarez. He got me a ticket as I was already out of the metro. “Are you by yourself in mexico?” they asked me. I said yes, “everyone told me not to go to mexico, but I just decided to come”. “Just look after your stuff and you will be fine. Enjoy your stay. It will be fine”. “Do you live in mexico now?” “No a friend is getting married on Saturday, so we are here for that”. “ I am surprised that people are working so early in the morning, I mean they are traveling to work at 6am”. “Yes, that’s mexico for you”. They escorted me to my platform at Hidalgo and then went to the opposite side for their train. This time the German guy carried my bags. Arriving at Zuarez, I found from the policeman that it was just a right turn outside the station. Coming out, I found people already set up their food stalls and fruit juice places. I went round the corner and then found Humboldt street, But there was no indication which way 62 was. I was at 38 number. A guy selling papers on the street told me to take right and go right up the street, after I showed him the number 62 on my fingers. I walked up only to reach a big square and no sign of my hostel. And the numbers were decreasing. Then there was a lone girl sweeping inside a glass walled office, I tried to ask her, she tried to help but neither could understand what the other was saying. Then I called the hostel number and tried to explain that I was lost, and then I passed the phone to the lady, but she was behind the glass doors which were locked, hence could not take the phone, then there was a police man standing on the corner, I passed him the phone and asked him to speak to the hostel lady. After a long conversation, he finally hung up and indicated that I follow the street back up. As I was walking, he accompanied me and walked until I reached the hostel and got inside. He shook hands and left. Later I wondered if like in India, police expected short commissions or bribes or imams for favours done. Anyway, I found the hostel and managed to get my room. The café attached to the hostel was a decent one with decent food, and once again language was not a problem only food can be – the only vegetarian food I could get was eggs and tuna, or else be happy to eat just leafy vegetables in salad along with some bread. Food was good for 29 pesos. The hostel itself was extremely clean. After a long nap, and shower, I went back to the café to eat lunch and then headed to the placa alameda after getting directions from my front desk person. He spoke a few words of English. Walking through the streets made me feel like being back in India.
The only language you hear is Spanish. All signboards, menu cards in restaurants, just about everywhere its Spanish. No one spoke English even in the international airport at Mexico city. There were a few exceptions of people speaking a spattering of English here and there. At first I wondered if they had something against English language, close as they are to the Big Brother Uncle Sam. I wanted to ask but there was hardly any one to speak to. Finally I managed to speak to a student who was working in the Mexico Local Government office; she spoke English pretty well, and said that basically they don’t find the need to learn English, besides going to English medium schools is very expensive. But nothing seems a miss, while back in India, English is somehow seen as a symbol of education and even progress. I wouldn’t use the word development though. But getting across the message is not a big issue; the people like in India, are more than willing to help and so even a single word that can get across them – works. I was able to follow written Spanish to some extent due to the root words that matched with English. But the way they speak is totally different so they had no clue when I tried uttering Spanish words. The biggest problem of course had been food – there is hardly any vegetarian food available. And even to make someone understand the word vegetarian it was tough. Finally after my first two days of troublesome stay in Mexico city, a fellow hosteller, at the YWCA hostel gave me the words. Fortunately, the first two days, the café next door was open and the guy working there spoke English. So breakfast was not problem nor was lunch on day one. Day two when I went to Teotihuacán, I settled for some Chikkis and fruits and didn’t bother about food. That evening, I landed myself in a wrong street and found a Italian restaurant Berito, I asked the girl if she spoke English, she nodded and then my next question was to ask if she had vegetarian food, yes, “salad with chicken”. Even the guy in the next door café would reply yeah, yeah, I can give you Tuna or chicken, but no meat. I got settled to breaking my vows of turning vegetarian, and settled for chicken at times. The first days’ dinner was just milk and some cashewnuts, that was the day I went back to the hostel to find that our neighbourhood restaurant guy doesn’t work nights, he only opens for lunch and dinner. The next day I had a good meal of Chicken salad at Berrito, but Saturday brought a new problem. I got ready to go out to the Templo Mayor and looked up my neighbour for breakfast he was shut down. I believe he doesn’t work Saturday and Sunday! For that matter many restaurants were closed on Sunday, hence finding a place for food was a tough job. So, it was when I was wondering what to do about my breakfast that my fellow hosteller, told me to go to the Metropolitan Café and wrote down for me in Spanish, “Fruit cocktail, Eggs without any meat, tea”. So, that was how I managed to walk a block to Metropolitan café and ate my fruit cocktail and omelette with juice and tea. Not that the eggs were appetizing. I thought, I will have to live on fruits and salads until I get back to Miami. Lunch was not there as I was too busy walking around the Templo Mayor, the Aztec temple ruins in the middle of the Centro historico. Built over by various rules over and over again, almost 7 times, finally it went under the Metropolitan Cathedral. They found the ruins of the temple, when someone was digging up for a construction site sometime in the 1970’s. An interesting insight into the Aztecs.
The only language you hear is Spanish. All signboards, menu cards in restaurants, just about everywhere its Spanish. No one spoke English even in the international airport at Mexico city. There were a few exceptions of people speaking a spattering of English here and there. At first I wondered if they had something against English language, close as they are to the Big Brother Uncle Sam. I wanted to ask but there was hardly any one to speak to. Finally I managed to speak to a student who was working in the Mexico Local Government office; she spoke English pretty well, and said that basically they don’t find the need to learn English, besides going to English medium schools is very expensive. But nothing seems a miss, while back in India, English is somehow seen as a symbol of education and even progress. I wouldn’t use the word development though. But getting across the message is not a big issue; the people like in India, are more than willing to help and so even a single word that can get across them – works. I was able to follow written Spanish to some extent due to the root words that matched with English. But the way they speak is totally different so they had no clue when I tried uttering Spanish words. The biggest problem of course had been food – there is hardly any vegetarian food available. And even to make someone understand the word vegetarian it was tough. Finally after my first two days of troublesome stay in Mexico city, a fellow hosteller, at the YWCA hostel gave me the words. Fortunately, the first two days, the café next door was open and the guy working there spoke English. So breakfast was not problem nor was lunch on day one. Day two when I went to Teotihuacán, I settled for some Chikkis and fruits and didn’t bother about food. That evening, I landed myself in a wrong street and found a Italian restaurant Berito, I asked the girl if she spoke English, she nodded and then my next question was to ask if she had vegetarian food, yes, “salad with chicken”. Even the guy in the next door café would reply yeah, yeah, I can give you Tuna or chicken, but no meat. I got settled to breaking my vows of turning vegetarian, and settled for chicken at times. The first days’ dinner was just milk and some cashewnuts, that was the day I went back to the hostel to find that our neighbourhood restaurant guy doesn’t work nights, he only opens for lunch and dinner. The next day I had a good meal of Chicken salad at Berrito, but Saturday brought a new problem. I got ready to go out to the Templo Mayor and looked up my neighbour for breakfast he was shut down. I believe he doesn’t work Saturday and Sunday! For that matter many restaurants were closed on Sunday, hence finding a place for food was a tough job. So, it was when I was wondering what to do about my breakfast that my fellow hosteller, told me to go to the Metropolitan Café and wrote down for me in Spanish, “Fruit cocktail, Eggs without any meat, tea”. So, that was how I managed to walk a block to Metropolitan café and ate my fruit cocktail and omelette with juice and tea. Not that the eggs were appetizing. I thought, I will have to live on fruits and salads until I get back to Miami. Lunch was not there as I was too busy walking around the Templo Mayor, the Aztec temple ruins in the middle of the Centro historico. Built over by various rules over and over again, almost 7 times, finally it went under the Metropolitan Cathedral. They found the ruins of the temple, when someone was digging up for a construction site sometime in the 1970’s. An interesting insight into the Aztecs.