Where I Live...& A Story

Where I live is high in the mountains, on volcanic rock of Southern Mexico City, in a part of the city called Ajusco. At night, an ocean of glitter and lights stretches out below.  In the mornings, when I walk down the mountain, spectacular stretches of city with spectacular clouds of mist-like pollution still surprise me after a month here.  Many of the streets I walk on have Mayan names: Timucuy, Izamal, Akil, Tekit, Tulum, Yobain, Tizimin...  It is almost the end of the rainy season, so a couple weeks ago, hanging laundry out to dry was a necessary gamble. The rain created formiddable pond sized puddles in some places, and down the steep mountains, mini rushing rivers formed in the curbs. There's lots of green lushness: bright fuschia bougainvilleas, fountain-like cactuses spilling out of themselves, wild pink morning glories...
I'm enjoying the challenge and joy of adapting to new surroundings. I've been walking down the steep hill half an hour to work and an hour back up it to get home. I'm also learning to depend on bus drivers, metros, and various versions of directions from new friends and complete strangers to get to and from various places in Mexico City.  Last weekend, I went to the Jardines Botanicos (Botanic Gardens) part of UNAM, Universidad Nacional Autonoma de Mexico.  To return, although I knew the route, I had to ask 5 people for directions, all of whom gave me a different version. Yet by a type of common miracle that happens here in Mexico City, I made it back after a good walk, a metrobus, a regular bus, and another little walk.  I smile at bus drivers who blare the style of Mexican music with the overpowering tuba beat, happily bomp bomp bomping along with the bumpy bus. On the backs of some bus drivers' seats, there is an image of Jesus on the cross, above it written, SeNor, Ten Piedad (Lord, Have Mercy). There are moments when while speeding along the carretera, I think, Amen, or Ay ay ay! 
Music here is abundant and plenty loud: in buses, streets, supermarkets, outdoor markets, from radios coming in and out of earshot, & often times, live music in and outside of restaurants.  It's as if you could salsa dance anywhere.  Some days, I can walk to work by following the music, turning down streets where the catchy beat of the cumbia is busting out of someone's window, being pulled toward the music playing from a CD stand in the market, and following the percussive repeating rhythms of a garage band (one of which I am listening to as I write!). 
Passing through Ajusco, there is a path (which used to be a railroad) used for walking, biking, and on Saturdays and Sundays, a big market, where vendors sell fruits and vegetables like guayabas, nopales (cactus), mangos, aguacates (avocados) , used clothing, books, shoes, tacoyos & tacos, consommes (soups), fresh fruit juices, pirated cds & movies, perfumes and makeup, sweets, books, and other surprises. The "ciclopista," as its called, used to be a railroad, and stretches a long ways, through a large part of D.F. and beyond to Cuernavaca. Part of the path winds through buildings and homes, and part rises through forests and fields. One day, Mariana and I rented some sketchy bikes (the last ones available to rent - the gears didn't work) and rode up up uffda up about half and hour till we reached a look out point to see much of Mexico City below. From above, it all appears to be frozen. What an illusion! Mexico City is called "Ciudad de Movimiento" (city of movement) for a reason! When I see so much city stretching out, I imagine the diversity of people and lifestyles that fill this city.
The next day was Sunday and so I walked the same route Mariana and I had biked. I made it to the lookout point and walked just a little farther where I saw a mother walking with her son, riding his trike. Buenos Tardes, we greeted each other as I turned around and started back down the hill. Soon, they caught up to me, and we greeted each other again, but this time, we started a conversation. The woman, and her two year old son, were walking from their home the mile or more down the bike path on their only route to the town to go to the Sunday market. She works selling refrescos and water to passersby and bikers. As we walked, her son got off his tricycle, and she and I took turns carrying it down the hill, while her energetic son ran from one side of the path to the other, picking flowers for she and I! Luckily, there was an abundance of flowers, because he had a huge abundance of energy! After about a half an hour, the woman's uncle caught up to us. "You speak English?" he asked me, eager to practice. He shared that he had lived in Los Angeles for many years, and had recently returned back to Ajusco, but that it was very difficult to find work in Ajusco. "Its not easy in Los Angeles, either," he said. We were making pretty slow progress down the hill since every new bunch of flowers was a fresh miracle to behold for the little one with us. Every now and then, bikers would zoom by, and we would all shout and make sure he was moving to the side. I couldn't believe this young woman had to make this long walking journey with her two year old every time she wanted to go into town. The clouds were gathering and pretty soon, it started to rain. Luckily, we had just arrived at the underpass to the bridge, a sign we were getting close to the market and the town. As my new friend and I talked, she shared that the day before had been her birthday, but she hadn't really celebrated. So, after the rain passed and we finally made it to the market, we all went and ate 10 peso Tacoyos in celebration of her birthday.