Mexico City in Snapshots
IV. I love the night life, in two acts
Act Two: The night I only sort-of remember
Tim tells me I was a social butterfly, that I'd disappear and come back with strangers as new friends. This is how we met David, the "filmmaker," and his "famous" friend, a sort-of producer. When pressed, both were young and aspiring more than anything else: David worked in production, in some secondary capacity. His friend, whose name is nowhere in my brain, produces commercials. But they had a lot to say about their chosen field -- about Mexican film past and present -- and about their own big dreams.
David had been to Arizona. He lived there and worked in restaurants while he dated an American hippie girl. He says he loved her and he has a baby with her now, but he came back to Mexico for his "career." He didn't want to work in a kitchen for the rest of his life. When he talks about his time in Arizona and his would-be family there, he has the sort of remorse that hurts even the hearts of strangers. Now, he sees his kid only once in awhile. Most recently, it was just a couple weeks ago, when his ex-girlfriend came down. These are the stories we hear over and over from this side of the border.
After his Big Time friend left our little 2x1 bar in Roma and final call was called, David led us to a place around the corner. The bar was nameless and invisible during the day, the way so many New York bars are, but at night is was overflowing onto the streets. Couples made out in dark corners, friends sipped from shared flasks, cigarettes lit drunk faces. I spoke Spanish the way everyone thinks they speak when they have that loose, boozy tongue. It was a blast. I had entire conversations in a language I only sort-of know. For hours I talked about family and work and travels and then, the next day, I only sort-of remembered. But even if my tongue was loose and my skills ultimately lousy, I still spoke to strangers for hours in a language I don't really know.
The DF subways stop running at 12am, so Jonah ended up staying the night on the floor of our hotel room. We've heard stories of drunk gringos being driven to Walmart instead of home by opportunist cabbies, forced to buy their driver a computer on credit. In contrast to that ridiculous scenario, our filthy carpet seemed a perfectly decent option. The hotel's night guard was reluctant to let Jonah up, but after listening to this logic he relented and we were asleep just before dawn.
Freda Moon
Post a Comment
View Printer Friendly Version
Reader Comments