Sunday Afternoon in Mexico City

Mexico City's Benito Juárez International Airport was bustling for a Sunday. I lined up with the rest of my weary passengers, waiting our turn to go through customs; then, I waited for what seemed like an eternity for my suitcase to thankfully appear, in one piece, on the conveyor belt. The last hoop remaining was to go through a second baggage scan. In the unlikely event that I somehow managed to slip some contraband in my suitcase from the moment I claimed it from the conveyor belt to now, It reminded me a bit of the fingerprint drill when one arrives in Beijing. One is fingerprinted at two stations, and between the first and second stations, who knows, I have glued on a set of fake latex prints. The Chinese Government and its increasingly intrusive bureaucratic apparatus cannot be too careful. Finally, I emerged through the international arrivals door and into the full sunlight of Mexico City's sweltering and ever-pungent embrace. There is something all too familiar when exiting an airport in many of the emerging/developing countries.

Niceties aside, what you see is what you get. Whether one arrives in Delhi, Cairo, Mumbai, or Saigon, the familiar smell of exhaust fumes belching into the air, mingled with a charcoal smell from small food stands and the smell of rotten fruit, is not something one easily forgets. For today's pleasure, a sweet, sour smell from?the city's Bordo Poniente Landfill,?which is quite close to the airport, adds charm to this picture. On this particular morning, the predominant winds were blowing from the mountains toward the municipal dump and the airport. Many rumors exist about the government building a world-class new airport far from this picture. But it's still in the government talking stages and may stay there forever. Nonetheless, it was a good idea! Maybe it will be at the top of the new President's agenda. One likes to hope.

Stepping out from the arrivals building, I was pleasantly surprised to hear the sounds of cannons and marching bands. Was this perhaps to celebrate my arrival? Or was this the sound of a revolution in the making? Was Los Pinos, the official residence of the President, under attack? Were soldiers massing up in the Bosque de Chapultepec in the central part of the city to protect el Presidente? I wondered about the possibility of a quick exit if things suddenly heated up and got out of hand. Assume it could happen just to be on the safe side. Just then, a shiny black SUV of immense proportions screeched to a halt before me. The window rolled down, and I fully expected that I would be facing the barrel of a nasty-looking gun. But no, it was my customer, Eduardo, who immediately apologized, blaming his delay on CDMX traffic. After all, he said, it is Cinco de Mayo. Of course, I replied, I was well aware of that fact., I think.

It was not going to be a lazy Sunday afternoon. "We go to the Fronton to watch professional Jai Alai. Is that OK with you?" He asked, not waiting for an answer. We cruised over to Avenida De La Republica 17.? The Fronton sits across from the Plaza de la Republica and the Monument to the Revolution, where the heroes of the 1919 Mexican Revolution lie in eternal rest, including the quite colorful Francisco "Pancho" Villa and Francisco I. Madero. The monument, however, does not include the remains of the revolutionary general Emiliano Zapata, who is buried in Cuautla, Morelos. His family had stood firm on that question. I asked my host who he thought had a more significant impact on the Mexican Revolution, Zapata or Pancho Villa. His answer, diplomatically speaking, was that both had played an essential role in the revolution, each in their way.

Having exhausted our history lesson, I was told, "First, we eat something, yes?" Again, it was a question and a statement of fact rolled into one. I agreed.?On entering the restaurant inside the Fronton, I noticed we were placed at a table for five people. I still had residual math skills and concluded we would not be eating be eating alone.

The first guest to arrive was Eduardo's first cousin on his father's side. He was a gregarious, fit, immaculately mannered individual about 50 years old and more fluent in English than I would ever be. The gentleman from Mexico City happened to have been the twice world champion in Jai Alai, which is not something to be taken lightly in any circle, especially in Mexico City. The remaining guests arrived with much hugging and back-slapping all around. Eduardo made the introductions in Spanish to Jose and Leon, two old friends who had, at one time, also played Jai Alai when their backs and knees were more robust than they were now. We commiserated on that fact, which seemed universal.

We ordered a variety of?Tamales,?Enchiladas,?Tacos al pastor, and one or two more dishes whose names, I admit, I can no longer recall.?This was all washed down with several?Pacifico and Modello Especial local Mexican beers. For some things, you must go local, no questions asked. You can't expect to ask for a Budweiser and wish to make it out alive. For the most part, the conversation was in Spanish with liberal slang, spoken rapidly and not easily understood by yours truly. Every so often, they would stop, and someone would politely ask me a question in English and then resume in Spanish. "Was I following all the conversation?" asked Eduardo. I assured him that I was most definitely grasping the main themes. OK, so maybe I was stretching the truth just a bit. ??

At one point, I was conversing in English with the Jai Alai world champion, who was speaking in English for my benefit, and somehow, we got onto the topic of bullfighting in Mexico. I vividly recounted my experience watching the bullfights in Madrid's Plaza del Toro. I was impressed and could easily understand the cultural passion. From across the table, Jose (character number 2) stated that he had once been a "rather well-known Matador" in Mexico City. He said he had fought many fights as a young Matador and always respected the bull as a worthy opponent. "The moment you lose respect for the bull, you can lose your life," he said somewhat offhandedly. He and Ernest Hemingway would have had a wonderful time discussing the manly traits required of a Matador. More than just "La pasión," I would imagine.

After a few more Modellos, Eduardo nudged me and pointed towards Leon (character number 3). Leon, I found out, used to be one of the finest gamblers in Mexico City. Leon looked our way and shrugged his shoulders, only slightly embarrassed. Yes, he enjoyed poker and had played in many high-stakes tournaments in poker rooms hidden away across Mexico City and in many opulent casinos. Jose said that games would last well into the night and sometimes into the following day.

To be sure, I had found myself in the company of some interesting newfound friends: A twice Jai Alai world champion, modest to a fault; a distinguished-looking former matador; and a "retired" gambler who was all too familiar with most of the city's gambling haunts and celebrity players. Of course, I would want to include my colleague Eduardo, whom I have known for several years. He is from a respectable, old-line family in Mexico City. He is passionate about the sport Jai Alai and is a?fierce competitor on the court. He is a former civil servant and now a successful businessman.?His family had built a Jai Alai court years ago on the property in the back of the house; I recalled spending an afternoon or two cheering on Eduardo, betting and losing a few pesos in the process.

In the arena, we were four rows from courtside and happily settled in, each with an oversized cup of beer and eager to place a few bets. Eduardo nudged me and told me to look over to my right, where the ex-presidential candidate from the PRI political party sat, along with the former Mexico City mayoral candidate. Both had been big political players in President?Enrique Pe?a Nieto's?administration. These days, they were on the outs, no longer favored in the then-current administration of?President Andrés Manuel López Obrador. Such is one's fate in politics, wherever you are. Political fortunes rise or fall to the whims of one political administration. Eduardo knew the former political heavyweights, but he also knew Obrador, the new President.?It was all a matter of business and maintaining the right political stance.

The crack of the ball slamming against the front wall at well over 100 mph told me it was game on. Interestingly, the?Basque Government?promotes?jai alai?as "the fastest sport in the world" because of the speed of the ball. The sport once held the world record for speed, with a ball traveling at 302?km/h (188?mph). That mighty record was broken in 2007 with a ball speed of 328 km (204 mph). Word to the wise: even with a baseball's catcher's mitt, it’s best to stay well out of the way of the ball. There was a little bit of betting; OK, considerable betting was going on with hawkers working the crowds. Well-dressed men in dark suits and attractive women dressed as if for a party were scattered amongst the crowd, all eagerly betting. This helps promote a greater interest in the game! We left at the end of the two matches with spectacular players, but only after Eduardo had collected his winnings. More hugs, more handshakes, appropriate bowing, more introductions, and more hello's and goodbyes. It was the end of an enjoyable, unexpected Sunday afternoon.

I had been up since 3 a.m. when my Uber picked me up, so I was tired and ready to sleep the sleep of the dead. My hotel was in La Reforma, just off the Avenida Paseo de la Reforma, a part of town where I have stayed on previous occasions. The area houses the city's central financial and business districts and the U.S. Embassy. The avenue is wide and well-laid, with statues and monuments along the middle. It was supposedly designed to resemble Paris's Champs-élysées and other famous grand avenues. Before breakfast, I liked to get the morning going by stretching my legs and walking a few blocks towards the statue of the Angel of Independence or El ángel de la Independencia.

My hotel is somewhat atypical compared to other well-known brand hotels that appeal more to heavier tourist wallets. The good news is that with my hotel, I am less likely to run into a Mr. and Mrs. Gringo and their badly behaved children in tow and that by itself was worth its weight in pesos or gold. I am not anti-social but tend to gravitate towards a more local environment and test my language and cultural assimilation skills.

My hotel is more traditional, old-style if you will. The elevators could be faster, the WIFI is temperamental, and the rooms are tight on space. The staff is friendly and accommodating, and they appreciate my efforts as I stumble along in Spanish. As the locals do, I can make my way through most of what I need while speaking Spanish and fast, much like I would when conversing in French. The staff seemed unsure about my cultural roots until we delved deeper into the language and revealed the mystery.

All things being equal, once I return to my hotel, I may have a nightcap, a Cognac, with Miguel, my favorite bartender. He works in the hotel's lovely red velvet lounge. There, you feel as if you may have slipped back another century. Perhaps tonight, Frida Kahlo will make a command appearance. ??

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This story is adapted from my upcoming fourth book, "Whispers of the Americas: Tales of Food and Culture Spanning Two Continents," set to be released in Fall 2024. #MexicoCity #CDMX #fronton #LaReforma