Mexico Journal: July 22, 2010

Under the steady patter of rain on the plastic awning in the penumbra of a stormy afternoon, I find myself scribbling away, face to face with a complete stranger - also scribbling away - a mirror that is not a mirror. He is light-skinned, of European descent with dark hair that tinges grey at the sideburns. He is thin and nervous with a triangular goatee beneath his lip. If we were in the states I'd say he is going for the hipster look, with his trick T-shirt that announces "elvi's" instead of "levi's".

Today is my second visit to the Cineteca. Here, totally invisible is a reality. My table-mate, who I invited to sit, feeling guilty for the three empty chairs at my table, is looking everywhere but right ahead. I think he is writing a script. I let my mind wander about what would happen next if we were being scrutinized by the intransigent lens of a movie camera.

I laugh at myself, inwardly, for telling stories to no one, imbuing meaningless moments with meaning as if my life were one long travelling shot. Today I succumbed to consumerism, or rather, today I carried out my urban objective of acquiring contemporary novels and films for my collection. The film I saw yesterday, Gasolina, (Julio Hernández Cordón), a Guatemalan film, left something to be desired. It was a good attempt at minimalist indie-film-making from coming from a country whose film industry is nigh invisible, but it fell flat and failed to provoke the necessary horror in me (the viewer). Or at least that's what I felt... as if the emotional link to the characters wasn't sufficiently developed.

Today's film, on the other hand, was a gut-wrenching and beautiful Turkish-French co-production, Pandora's Box. I cried what I needed to, and combatted my wooziness from the anti-amoebal medicine that Claudia's mom prescribed me last night. Being at Claudia and Eduardo's (well really Eduardo's mom's, but who is counting?) has been sheer delight. Hot water showers on demand and a washer/ dryer (in one machine!) to revive my paltry cloth belongings.

The rain is no bother at all. The lights that went out at the café are back on and I am regretting having ordered a wine-soaked mocha cake. I always forget that I don't like cakes in this country because they look so appetizing but are too sweet, cloying, with an aftertaste of vegetable fat. Sigh.

So the city has been kind, thus far. Tomás and I were able to meet up several times before he left, and the truth is, apart from hanging with Claudia and seeing the Delgadillo clan, there isn't much else I want to do in the city, but walk and walk, and visit the Cineteca.

I'm ready to go home. My quick run to Yautepec was lovely, after the difficulty of this awkward, dishonest situation in which M. and I are supposed to not interact (because of his new partner's irrational jealousy). Tania was there and after the mosquitoes had their way with my legs, we all went to the club, where la Tía Lulú has her restaurant now. It was nice and comforting, even, to eat her food again, and watch I. splash around in the water like the fish that she is. Tío Julio stopped by, hobbling on his crutches (he fell off a roof and broke his hip a few months back) that I., of course, wanted to play with. The afternoon slipped away over a few caguamas.

It is strange, being in the city this time, I am totally dependent on others. My days are spent inside my head and my evenings are spending time with Clau and Eduardo, hearing about her projects and the nefarious senators and representatives with whom she must deal, whose idea of a "gender perspective" is how far down one's blouse they can look!! And, of course, I am telling stories, we are catching up on a year's worth of news, but it feels nice. I hope that they will take me up on my offer and come visit SB soon.

I've taken it upon myself to poke around places in the city that I haven't been before. Today I had lunch at "La fonda de los leones" (or something to that effect), just around the corner from the Museo Frida Kahlo on Ignacio Allende. Kirsten and I used to walk past it after Claudia would drop us off and head to her job in the afternoons of our ColMex summer, but I never went in. I satiated my urge for plantains and my ravenous hunger, if nothing else. I can't seem to muster up the desire to go to any museums, not even Leon Trotsky's (which is my favorite because I have a soft spot for good old Leon.)

PostScript:

At the close of the previous writing, Manuel (my table-mate) and I struck up a lovely conversation. He was Argentine (I guessed) and was, indeed, writing a screen play. If I lived in the city, maybe we would have stayed in touch, as it stands we exchanged email addresses, but no letters.

I watched several more films at the Cineteca: Strella (a Greek film about a transvestite that seduces his father), Vaho (a Mexican film, set in Itztapalapa, and like Gasoline, a good attempt as a debut film, but very ingenuous... and a Brazilian film (with Tania, Sharon and Ime at the end of our lovely Saturday visit) Viajo porque preciso, volto porque te amo.)