In town they simply say you’re going to Mexico, and Sunday away from the international research center, they were right. I was jostling shoulder to shoulder with Mexicans as we wove around the crowded corners and packed streets. The sun politely showed itself through the polluted haze to brighten the colors of the countless awnings, which shaded street vendors’ wares.
The numerous selections of taco stands made me wonder how a person chose which place to sit. Was it the quality of plastic chairs? How fresh the limes cut upon on the table looked? The talent of the cook quickly chopping the meat as it sizzled on the flat grill? Strangely, we were in a square with a high proportion of marzipan sellers. Little, round women rolled colorful dough nonchalantly in their hands while watching their afternoon telenovelas on small televisions under their tables. Clusters of almond candy carefully grouped into miniature fruit displays. Some people stood in line behind steaming vats of corn. An experienced man would thrust a stick into the cob, swirl mayonnaise around the ear, and sprinkle contrasting chili powder on the thing, before handing it to a waiting a hand in one smooth motion
Latin music embeds itself into a pattern as people shuffled along taking their afternoon strolls, and this time it was accompanied by the smooth scales of a bee-boppin’ saxophone. I rolled my head around attempting to locate the noise, and the view surrounding me is diverse: middle-aged mustachioed men holding the hands of their grandchildren, well-dressed women wearing stylish heels, alternative teens with gauges big enough to frame the person’s face behind him. Across the street, I find an old couple who look like they belong together, the way only two people who spent their lives with each other can. The woman with soft wrinkles and a faded red dress leaned against the graffit-ed wall, her eyes closed and her head craned; her face facing her husband’s face. His lips were pursed, carefully around a tenor sax, and from there the melodic sounds sprung and drifted. It was an instance of pure romance—the old hat at his feet was forgotten between them—they lived for this and the moment lived for them.
An active witness to this scene was the performer next to them; a wooden box with a man atop it posed in a tight spandex Batman costume flexing his built-in muscles.
