After 7 hours of buses and taxis from the mountains of Oaxaca to the DF we arrive at the beginning of rush hour to a serpentine line for the subway that is longer than the line queue for Space Mountain in the peak of summer. And stuffed like sardines. Humanity slipping into a funnel leading to the stairway out of the underground then waiting through the disheveled maze of micros and combis squashed together pushing each other like basketball players boxing out for a rebound. When someone stomps on your toe and says perdón (or doesn’t), the most natural reaction is to look away. To refuse another’s existence. It is a reminder that humanity’s greatest problem is human beings.
A mass of concrete and walls of cars miles long are enough to remind you that you are nothing. That you are insignificant trash. A tiny blip on the horizon. And the beauty of the DF is that somehow it works. That despite all the human beings you have a space. Tiny as it is.
And then it starts to rain as you snail your way with your luggage through the puddles. The water pulls you down the drain and into the gigantic shithole that is DF. Welcome to Mexico City. Hell on Earth. But a beautiful hell.
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