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… plugged him through and through

Domingo, and I have a choice between the two obsessions I share with many Mexicans: death and leftist politics. To find the death cult, or find a Bolshevik. I opt for the later, and catch the metro to Coyoacán, in the south of the city. First, I investigated Viveros de Coyoacán, the botanical garden which is the nursery for all the other botanical gardens, and home to joggers and Mexican ninjas (I tell no lie). Then, I headed to the central square(s) and found a wonderful country town atmosphere, with colonial streets filled with charming cafes (it always founds snooty when someone uses charming in that context, like it comes from a mid-50s heiress in tweed with narrow lips and nose, but they were charming). On the larger of the conjoined squares is the first house Cortés built for himself while laying siege to what is now Mexico City, but this, apart from the tourist office (ooooo, foreshadowing) is closed on weekends (stupid guidebook).Thus, I headed to my goal, Calle Viena, and People's Commissar for Army and Navy Affairs Leon Trotsky’s fortified house and gardens, where he lived in exile until one of Stalin’s men had a question, so he came to pick Leon’s brain.

It was only fitting that as I left and stood on the opposing corner to get one final photo of the defences and watch tower, that I received a stab to the head of my own. A counter revolutionary bee, seeing the red of my beard, flew in to commit crimes against the proletarian class. Becoming entangled in the stiff bristles of the people, it became enraged, and in its insanity flew from the agrarian growth and straight back in again. Freeing itself of the people’s hirsute reform facility a second time, it honed in on, of course, this scholar’s left temple, where it made like Ramón Mercader did not thirty metres away and nearly sixty years ago, and with reactionary zeal deposited its bourgeois spike. That whole thing they tell you as a kid about standing perfectly still and they won’t hurt you? Crap.

A nearby shop assistant showed solidarity after I drew a picture of a bee and made stabbing gestures at my head, but could not help. Thus, I headed back to the squares and tourist information, where after creating another paper bee and making more wild motions, the two ladies went to find their English speaking colleague, who pulled out the sting, gave it to me as a souvenir, wrote the word for ‘ice’ on a piece of paper and sent me on my way to find a stall I could get a small-enough-picked block to hold against my head. Then I sat quietly to wait and find out if I’m allergic to bee venom. I am not.

So, while I walked past the Casa Azul everyone is breaking a neck to see, I didn’t go in, based upon these factors: my camera battery was dying, I was annoyed after tangling with that Stalinist bee, and I have to return to the Cortés house again (hopefully without having to draw nasty animal pictures).

However, before I went back to the hotel, I had enough charge for one last photographic assignment. When I heard that commuters on the metro had seen not just any Virgin Mary, but the Virgin of Guadalupe, in a stain made by water dripping down the platform wall, I expected a piece of crap. I at least expected it to be a photogenic piece of crap. It was not. It’s a small grey-brown water mark on a grey-brown stone that bifurcates at one point into two more curvy watermarks, that if one squints maybe look like the outline of a person. Maybe. And an indistinguishable person at that.


( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
Oct. 15th, 2009 10:33 am (UTC)
Dude, the beehive is a funny thing. It is essentially a communist society but has a hereditary ruler who works the workers to death, much like North Korea... Is it any wonder the poor lttle thing did a bit of Divine Wind action on your head?
Cheers man
Oct. 15th, 2009 08:47 pm (UTC)
Re: Bees
That's a good angle. I could have made my analogy even more convoluted.
( 2 comments — Leave a comment )

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