After a miserable summer selling encyclopedias on the hot asphalt of New York City, I flew to Denver (9/10) to meet up with Lili Appelman,a girl friend from Stockbridge. Lili announced that she would like to visit Mexico and I announced back that she was more than welcome to stay at my house, as I had at hers more than once. For whatever reasons which I have since forgot (1), it was decided that I would go by land and she by air.
I arrived in Santa Fe on the 12th, spent the night on campus and left for El Paso the next day, arriving in Mexico City on the morning of the 15th where, as was my custom, I went first to the Hotel Regis for a steam bath, massage and haircut before taking a cab home. It was an incredibly tight schedule given that Las Fiestas Patrias began that very night.
Amidst the privileged classes le boulot en or was a command from the Presidency to make one's presence known at the National Palace on the night of El Grito, when the reigning Chief Magistrate appears on the balcony, rings a bell, waves a flag and invokes the name of independence and liberty to the delirious multitude below. The Spanish have an identical celebration in Granada on January 1st to commemorate the day they reconquered the city and drove the hated Infidel from Spain. Of course, on the night of September 16th what is celebrated is the day the hated Spanish gauchupin was driven from Mexico. In any case, to learn that one's name has -- for whatever inscrutable reason -- been dropped from The List is a form of exile and the cause of troubled anguish. Even worse is to learn that one's neighbour, who is patently less worthy than one's self, has received the cherished embossed envelope.
Mother's name was always on The List. After a while, she got “tired of going to the thing” and would give her pass to someone from the family or to anyone else who wanted the Joy of Man's Desiring. But Lili and I had never gone and we wanted to go. So we hurried to dress ourselves appropriately and at around 8:30 in the evening we piled into a cab and headed toward the Zócalo.
As one might imagine, getting to the Palace was no easy matter. The entire vast central square would be closed to traffic. The surrounding narrow 16th century streets would be jammed with people headed toward the square and chauffeured cars or taxis inching through people and past one another toward some place more or less close to one of the Palace's many side entrances. Needless to say, people discussed their best strategies on “getting to the palace.” All I recall is that mother said one had to go early or else it would be “impossible to get through.”
The National Palace, built on the site of Moctezuma's residence, is a vast Spanish renaissance building built on a grid, like el Escorial, of four square inner court yards within one large square. The place is a matrix of stairwells and corridors. We arrived at one of the entrances on the south side and made our way up one of many stone staircases, underneath crisscrossing, arches towards one of the corridors on the second floor that led to the gallery along the front of the palace.
The stairwells were jammed with men in business suits and their accompanying women who, having spent a day, and more likely two, in preparation, were decked out in a variety of furs, long gowns and assorted jewels, They proceeded up the stairs in a “restrained rush” trying to appear as stately as necessity would allow, given that places on the front balconies were not reserved. I was delighted with a species of vicarious importance and Lili, who had always affected an air of insouciance was, visibly awe-struck.
We walked down a long corridor and then turned right onto the front gallery and continued walking toward the central balcony's chamber. I certainly did not expect to get to the main balcony, as that was obviously reserved for His Excellency. I did not even expect to get to the second or third chamber left or right of centre, as these would be reserved for the cabinet and the Estado Mayor or chiefs of staff. But it was intuitively obvious, from the outset, that the name of the game was to get as close to the sun as possible.
I arrived in Santa Fe on the 12th, spent the night on campus and left for El Paso the next day, arriving in Mexico City on the morning of the 15th where, as was my custom, I went first to the Hotel Regis for a steam bath, massage and haircut before taking a cab home. It was an incredibly tight schedule given that Las Fiestas Patrias began that very night.
Amidst the privileged classes le boulot en or was a command from the Presidency to make one's presence known at the National Palace on the night of El Grito, when the reigning Chief Magistrate appears on the balcony, rings a bell, waves a flag and invokes the name of independence and liberty to the delirious multitude below. The Spanish have an identical celebration in Granada on January 1st to commemorate the day they reconquered the city and drove the hated Infidel from Spain. Of course, on the night of September 16th what is celebrated is the day the hated Spanish gauchupin was driven from Mexico. In any case, to learn that one's name has -- for whatever inscrutable reason -- been dropped from The List is a form of exile and the cause of troubled anguish. Even worse is to learn that one's neighbour, who is patently less worthy than one's self, has received the cherished embossed envelope.
Mother's name was always on The List. After a while, she got “tired of going to the thing” and would give her pass to someone from the family or to anyone else who wanted the Joy of Man's Desiring. But Lili and I had never gone and we wanted to go. So we hurried to dress ourselves appropriately and at around 8:30 in the evening we piled into a cab and headed toward the Zócalo.
As one might imagine, getting to the Palace was no easy matter. The entire vast central square would be closed to traffic. The surrounding narrow 16th century streets would be jammed with people headed toward the square and chauffeured cars or taxis inching through people and past one another toward some place more or less close to one of the Palace's many side entrances. Needless to say, people discussed their best strategies on “getting to the palace.” All I recall is that mother said one had to go early or else it would be “impossible to get through.”
The National Palace, built on the site of Moctezuma's residence, is a vast Spanish renaissance building built on a grid, like el Escorial, of four square inner court yards within one large square. The place is a matrix of stairwells and corridors. We arrived at one of the entrances on the south side and made our way up one of many stone staircases, underneath crisscrossing, arches towards one of the corridors on the second floor that led to the gallery along the front of the palace.
The stairwells were jammed with men in business suits and their accompanying women who, having spent a day, and more likely two, in preparation, were decked out in a variety of furs, long gowns and assorted jewels, They proceeded up the stairs in a “restrained rush” trying to appear as stately as necessity would allow, given that places on the front balconies were not reserved. I was delighted with a species of vicarious importance and Lili, who had always affected an air of insouciance was, visibly awe-struck.
We walked down a long corridor and then turned right onto the front gallery and continued walking toward the central balcony's chamber. I certainly did not expect to get to the main balcony, as that was obviously reserved for His Excellency. I did not even expect to get to the second or third chamber left or right of centre, as these would be reserved for the cabinet and the Estado Mayor or chiefs of staff. But it was intuitively obvious, from the outset, that the name of the game was to get as close to the sun as possible.
Lili and I made it half way toward the central balcony before the gallery chambers (and their balconies) were already filled up. Finding the first free balcony available, I positioned myself on the right corner railing and decided that this was going to be my station until 11 p.m. Mother tootled off to run into and chat with acquaintances while Lili and I took turns relieving one another on post.
The crowd on our balcony got less and less gentle as the night wore on. Women reached out and pulled in their sister or cousin to fill a spot and less and less gently tried to nudge others out of the way, even if this meant squeezing me over the rail. I had no idea how strong the railing was and remained as immovable as possible short of shoving back. Decorum was being hard put. It was like the subway at commute hour only New Yorkers were far better mannered.
Then a moment of paradox. As the clocked ticked toward 10:30 p.m. a ripple of commotion swept through the gallery. Everyone understood what this meant and the well heeled, well-coifed crowd rushed from the balcony to line up, very precisely, on the edge of the red carpet and clap genteelly as the Chief Magistrate of the Nation strode by accompanied by a general or two. It was just like those court scenes in movies like War and Peace.
No sooner had his presidency passed into the next chamber than there was a mad rush back to the balconies; for some to regain the spot they had so hardly nudged for; for others to gain a spot they hadn't been able to claim. For my part, I had decided that it was well enough to watch the president proceed by from the entrance to the balcony and so repositioning myself in my front corner spot was but a matter of one or two steps back, while holding out room for Lili.
Old faces or new, we were all once again squeezed into a small space, when all of a sudden the awning hanging over us fell down, showering us with decades of black dust. To the best of my recollection, the thing collapsed when some woman leaned or pulled too heavily on one of the support rods causing the bracket to pry itself loose from the centuries old masonry. As the Dramatic Moment approached, there we were encased in darkness and dusted in soot.
Exasperate cries filled the space. Ay por Dios! and Qué barbaridad! and similar expressions. Now, in a spirit of sudden unity, there was a joint effort, in which I assisted, to get this damn thing off of us. I believe I helped yank the other rod from its bracket and the whole contraption was tossed over-side and whoever was below be damned!
Finally, the great moment arrived. A military colour guard of academy cadets in their black and purple trimmed uniforms, goose-stepped down the corridor toward the central chamber, bearing the national Tricolor. A sudden hush overcame the murmuring crowd below, as a hundred thousand eyes focused on the main balcony. Along the central facade we all inclined ourselves in the same direction. Anticipation ruled.
Then, the nondescript man who presided over the nation gave his grito. As if triggered by some mysterious electric charge, to each of the prescribed litany of shouts, the crowd roared back with Viva! until it erupted into an indecipherable roar of cheers while el presidente waved the flag with one hand, pulled a bell-cord with the other and massive fireworks erupted over the square and surrounding buildings. A military band struck up the national anthem but it was all but inaudible in the human din.
Finally everyone on the balconies could suspire and relax. All that was needed was a cigarette and a drink of which there was plenty. There were pyramids of delicacies and liveries walked around with silver trays of champagne. For those who preferred harder waters there was plenty of the best imported scotch. Now people could mill around at ease, letting everyone who mattered know that they too were there.
I hadn't had much to eat. Whatever fare there had been in the dingy bus stops of the arid north was pretty squalid stuff. So I was glad to be able to gorge myself on caviar, roast beef and some deliciously filled crocks of pastry, as Lili and mother chatted. I got mildly drunk and remember tossing food at upheld hands below, until mother grabbed me and said it was time to go.
What a strange thing life is, I thought to myself. But twelve hours before, I had been crammed into a bus filled with the smell and body warmth of decent but ordinary labourers, tradesmen and peasant women. Then, as if transported by magic, I was crammed onto a balcony with the aspiring and grasping upper class in their furs, jewels and imported suits looking down on the bus-people beneath them. The one thing that united us was that we all responded, like insects, to the mysterious pull of that thing called “power.”
The crowd on our balcony got less and less gentle as the night wore on. Women reached out and pulled in their sister or cousin to fill a spot and less and less gently tried to nudge others out of the way, even if this meant squeezing me over the rail. I had no idea how strong the railing was and remained as immovable as possible short of shoving back. Decorum was being hard put. It was like the subway at commute hour only New Yorkers were far better mannered.
Then a moment of paradox. As the clocked ticked toward 10:30 p.m. a ripple of commotion swept through the gallery. Everyone understood what this meant and the well heeled, well-coifed crowd rushed from the balcony to line up, very precisely, on the edge of the red carpet and clap genteelly as the Chief Magistrate of the Nation strode by accompanied by a general or two. It was just like those court scenes in movies like War and Peace.
No sooner had his presidency passed into the next chamber than there was a mad rush back to the balconies; for some to regain the spot they had so hardly nudged for; for others to gain a spot they hadn't been able to claim. For my part, I had decided that it was well enough to watch the president proceed by from the entrance to the balcony and so repositioning myself in my front corner spot was but a matter of one or two steps back, while holding out room for Lili.
Old faces or new, we were all once again squeezed into a small space, when all of a sudden the awning hanging over us fell down, showering us with decades of black dust. To the best of my recollection, the thing collapsed when some woman leaned or pulled too heavily on one of the support rods causing the bracket to pry itself loose from the centuries old masonry. As the Dramatic Moment approached, there we were encased in darkness and dusted in soot.
Exasperate cries filled the space. Ay por Dios! and Qué barbaridad! and similar expressions. Now, in a spirit of sudden unity, there was a joint effort, in which I assisted, to get this damn thing off of us. I believe I helped yank the other rod from its bracket and the whole contraption was tossed over-side and whoever was below be damned!
Finally, the great moment arrived. A military colour guard of academy cadets in their black and purple trimmed uniforms, goose-stepped down the corridor toward the central chamber, bearing the national Tricolor. A sudden hush overcame the murmuring crowd below, as a hundred thousand eyes focused on the main balcony. Along the central facade we all inclined ourselves in the same direction. Anticipation ruled.
Then, the nondescript man who presided over the nation gave his grito. As if triggered by some mysterious electric charge, to each of the prescribed litany of shouts, the crowd roared back with Viva! until it erupted into an indecipherable roar of cheers while el presidente waved the flag with one hand, pulled a bell-cord with the other and massive fireworks erupted over the square and surrounding buildings. A military band struck up the national anthem but it was all but inaudible in the human din.
Finally everyone on the balconies could suspire and relax. All that was needed was a cigarette and a drink of which there was plenty. There were pyramids of delicacies and liveries walked around with silver trays of champagne. For those who preferred harder waters there was plenty of the best imported scotch. Now people could mill around at ease, letting everyone who mattered know that they too were there.
I hadn't had much to eat. Whatever fare there had been in the dingy bus stops of the arid north was pretty squalid stuff. So I was glad to be able to gorge myself on caviar, roast beef and some deliciously filled crocks of pastry, as Lili and mother chatted. I got mildly drunk and remember tossing food at upheld hands below, until mother grabbed me and said it was time to go.
What a strange thing life is, I thought to myself. But twelve hours before, I had been crammed into a bus filled with the smell and body warmth of decent but ordinary labourers, tradesmen and peasant women. Then, as if transported by magic, I was crammed onto a balcony with the aspiring and grasping upper class in their furs, jewels and imported suits looking down on the bus-people beneath them. The one thing that united us was that we all responded, like insects, to the mysterious pull of that thing called “power.”
==================================
(1) I probably had junk to drop off at St. John's and it would make no sense to fly it down to Mexico or, more problematically, deal with customs just to end up returning it stateside. I went by bus instead of rail because the train took two nights and two days whereas the bus did the same distance in 24 hrs., careening wildly down two lane highways. I liked, if I could, to sit on the first row, right, first because it had more legroom and no one would be leaning back into me but, better yet, I had a panoramic view of all our close calls on the road. Actually, it was amazing how skilled these drivers were and how they handled a no nonsense choreography with other buses and trucks. I learned a lot about driving from watching these maestros.
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