With orders to leave work as is and get out (which happened in that other city only once because I looked like a lunatic for lack of rest three weeks running) I was struck with the urge, no the need, to get out past Vincente Suarez and into the vast unknown beyond. So I took out and finally made good use of la mappa de Ciudad to chart a comparative tour of major nodes in the walkable area. Hanging east a few blocks I found the edge know as la Avenida de los Insurgentes and found out where I'm gonna buy all that stuff that isn't food in the coming weeks. Here's a thoroughfare reminiscent of LA or Queens, but with curbs which could curb a small deluge and keep even a sandaled foot dry. In short, they've got high curbs here, really high. I've never tripped on a city street anywhere in the world as often as I have in the last three days. Nor have I seen such a variety and richness of paving and ground treatment (well, maybe in some places in Italy. The streets of Verona are paved with marble after all).
Anyway, la Avenida, while mostly cerrada was still teeming with life and taco and torta vendors I'm still too scared to try. The hamburgesas were quite tempting, but curosity and my television attention span spurred me on further towards what I knew was something grand and round up ahead. And so finally I found la Glorieta de los Insurgentes, a glorified traffic circle cum subway interchange with an isolated nexus of pedestrians and loitering at its center. A great node of potential, certainly teeming with every kind of activity and temperment, but lacking that certain something which really burn it on the mental map, neon and giant blinking Coca-Cola bottles notwithstanding. What I, as an American , found truly monumental about the place was the name: that in a capital city there is a major avenue and metro exchange honoring insurgets. Yep, just like the kind from the news. Such a celebration of unauthorized, grassroots revolution is as yet unknown in Washington.
The Calle de Genova (I am still at a loss as to why there are so many geographical locations in the area pulled from the Italian peninsula) offered a byway north to the Paseo de Reforma. Genova was a bumpin' spot, full of bars and Burger King and other American celebrations of saturated fats and oils. I'm surprised I didn't see a Taco Bell or a Chipotle there along side KFC and McDonalds. So anyway, on to the Paseo de Reforma which more that satisfies the requirement that any serious city have an excessively large highly stratified tree lined way which takes about 15 minutes to cross. La Reforma is lined with mediocre high rise corporate identities who have no shame in shouting out to the city who they are without necessarily expressing what they do. I'm no stranger to the situation of wide boulevard and day time office center, but while I expected to find a few people isolated in passage from somewhere to another else where in this corporate no man's land, as would be the case in most American cities, I was awed to see people here there and everywhere. And activity too. There was a whole squard of Federales waiting for the Federale metro (and not a few Federalas), while a select few rode off into the moonset on their seways. Further on I found one of the postcard landmarks of the city, the Angel, which I'm fairly certain I saw a few years ago in Berlin. It's awakening to see, and frastrating to traverse, such immense traffic circles this side of the Atlantic.
Anyway, la Avenida, while mostly cerrada was still teeming with life and taco and torta vendors I'm still too scared to try. The hamburgesas were quite tempting, but curosity and my television attention span spurred me on further towards what I knew was something grand and round up ahead. And so finally I found la Glorieta de los Insurgentes, a glorified traffic circle cum subway interchange with an isolated nexus of pedestrians and loitering at its center. A great node of potential, certainly teeming with every kind of activity and temperment, but lacking that certain something which really burn it on the mental map, neon and giant blinking Coca-Cola bottles notwithstanding. What I, as an American , found truly monumental about the place was the name: that in a capital city there is a major avenue and metro exchange honoring insurgets. Yep, just like the kind from the news. Such a celebration of unauthorized, grassroots revolution is as yet unknown in Washington.
The Calle de Genova (I am still at a loss as to why there are so many geographical locations in the area pulled from the Italian peninsula) offered a byway north to the Paseo de Reforma. Genova was a bumpin' spot, full of bars and Burger King and other American celebrations of saturated fats and oils. I'm surprised I didn't see a Taco Bell or a Chipotle there along side KFC and McDonalds. So anyway, on to the Paseo de Reforma which more that satisfies the requirement that any serious city have an excessively large highly stratified tree lined way which takes about 15 minutes to cross. La Reforma is lined with mediocre high rise corporate identities who have no shame in shouting out to the city who they are without necessarily expressing what they do. I'm no stranger to the situation of wide boulevard and day time office center, but while I expected to find a few people isolated in passage from somewhere to another else where in this corporate no man's land, as would be the case in most American cities, I was awed to see people here there and everywhere. And activity too. There was a whole squard of Federales waiting for the Federale metro (and not a few Federalas), while a select few rode off into the moonset on their seways. Further on I found one of the postcard landmarks of the city, the Angel, which I'm fairly certain I saw a few years ago in Berlin. It's awakening to see, and frastrating to traverse, such immense traffic circles this side of the Atlantic.
Walking back was unremarkable, but for little details too numerous for tedious report here at this hour. One thing of note, one thing really quite amazing, is the sheer number of people, everywhere, anywhere. On a street with not a single shop or taco stand open for business there are dozens of people coming and going, here and there. At all hours. And when there is something open there is critical density, and diversity. At small taco stands that amount to nothing more than a table, some chairs, and a tarp claiming a space on the sidewalk, you might see a suit, a slick hairdo, a skateboard, a homosexual, a grandmother, all enjoying the mole I'm sure will make me sick whenever I get the courage to use my Spanglish to order. Certainly I look forward to that. For now, hasta luego mis amigos.
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