Snapshots

10/20/2023

I step outside, and the sun is shining brightly despite the crisp feeling in the air. It's mid-October, and the dry season in Mexico City is finally settling in after the past few weeks of uncertain dry mornings and rainy afternoons. The weather couldn’t make up its mind for a good while. I put on my sunglasses, knowing the strong morning sun is too much for my eyes. I walk down the sidewalk, jumping at the neighbor’s dog as it yips at me (like it does every morning, startling me each day without fail.) I turn the corner and cross the street to walk under an overpass of one of the main roads. Underneath it there’s a group of middle-aged women in workout gear, punching the air alongside dance-like foot movements, all while hype 80s music is blasting. I see them every morning and smile, appreciating this small display of community, which really isn't small at all. As I make my way to the metrobus, I see people walking quickly to catch the next train, people passing on their bikes, and grandmothers holding their grandchild's hand, pulling them along for whatever errands they must run today.

 I reach the stairs to pass over the busy road, leading me to the bus station. Once there, I swipe my card and it beeps, showing me I have 10 pesos left on it. I remind myself to recharge it on my way back home. I head to the platform and wait a few minutes for the next bus. It comes with a loud rush of wind and a bright flash of its deep red color. The doors open and I slip in, grateful that it's not busy inside. Unfortunately, the train will not be the same, and this I know for sure. Just one stop and I’m off and down another set of stairs, barely making the crosswalk signal as it counts down to one. I’ve reached the metro (train) station. Outside of it are vendors selling tamales, churros, tortas, candy, snacks, clothes, etc. Its size is nothing compared to the station I’ll be getting off at, where three metro lines intersect. I head down the stairs into the station and swipe my card. It gives a beep, reminding me I have only 5 pesos left on it now. It's quite cool down here, something I’m always thankful for due to the perpetual sweat on my brow and lifelong red cheeks. I immediately turn to the right side of the platform where the first 3 to 4 cars of every train are reserved for women and children. I never even bother with the other side. The times of day I take the train are always busy, and if I have the choice between being pressed up against a man or a woman, I’ll choose the woman every time. I stand there waiting, watching as the platform fills up with people. I hear the beep signifying an incoming train before I even see it. Everyone crowds around the doors, waiting for them to open. From the outside, the cars all look full, but that won’t stop anyone from entering. It's a bit of a weird feeling, pushing into other people and making space for myself, but everyone here is used to it, and I’m getting there too. 

I find myself wedged in between two women, almost grateful for the proximity because I have nothing to hold on to. This way, I’ll have nowhere to go if the train comes to a sudden stop and I lose balance (which happens often). Every morning I ride 7 stops to the end of the line. At each stop, people get off and others get on, taking their place. As time goes, less get on and I’m able to hold onto a pole. I see mothers with their kids in school uniforms and older ladies out doing errands, but most women are on their way to work. Many are masterfully applying their makeup for the day, even as the cars rock back and forth, occasionally jolting. I wonder how they don’t poke themselves in the eye or accidentally end up looking like the Joker. I realize this is a skill I’ll never possess, and I silently praise them for it. Others eat their breakfast, some make phone calls, and many listen to music. Occasionally a pair of friends enter and I can hear their “chisme” (gossip), and I won’t lie, I definitely eavesdrop. 

Finally, we reach the end of the line and everybody gets off. Some make their way down more stairs to the other 2 lines, while I head up the other set. I climb 3 flights and reach the outside market that surrounds the station. It's similar to the one by my house but about 5 times bigger with countless vendors. I weave through it until I reach the bus stop. I hop on and hand the driver 7 pesos as I head for the back, sitting down on the side without sunlight (for I am obviously sweating after those stairs). Over the course of the next few minutes, the bus fills up and we’re off. Eventually we come to my street, so I press the signal button and stand by the back door, waiting. He stops, I yell out a thank you, and walk to work. It's a Friday, so the street is busier than usual due to the weekly market where fresh produce and baked goods are sold, among many other things. I walk down the street, passing little stores with snacks and drinks, the butcher, barber shops, a cafe, and a school where I can hear kids yelling outside at recess. I eventually turn the corner and reach Casa Tochan. Then I ring the bell, waiting to be let in so I can start my day. 

09/01/2023

It's a sunny and warm early September afternoon in Mexico City. I’m sitting on a park bench next to a shopping plaza. The park has one long path of faded red tile, and the greenery is mostly gone. There’s not much grass, just dirt and roots. There’s an old man sitting on a bench a ways away from me. Every couple of minutes, he stands up and exercises, doing jumping jacks, lunges, and running in place. Once he is tired, he sits and drinks some water and has a couple of bites of his lunch. Although this is a park space, the street is right there, with its cars, buses, and motorbikes yelling out as they go by. I look at the old man with his tracksuit and cap. Beads of sweat dot his forehead as he goes back and forth. Exercising, and nourishing. Exercising, and nourishing. He sits down again and pulls off his glasses and cap. His face is tanned and wrinkly, signs of a life lived. I wonder what circumstances led him here to this park on this day. Maybe he is here every day, maybe not. As people enter and leave the shopping plaza, he continues about his business, among the people and cars, both loud in their own way. The man gets up and walks the faded red tile path, crossing in front of me and onto the sidewalk, his bagged lunch in hand, and water in the other. Maybe his lunch break is over, maybe it’s time for him to go home. Today I am grateful for parks, and ordinary people doing ordinary things.