Looking back at Mexico City

The hustle of cars battling buses for space, careening around corners to the beat of strained motors. Wafting odors, floating on unfelt breezes intertwine to create a roadmap that calls and forbids the weary traveler from finding their sources. As the sun sets, shining orange and red through layers of stagnant pollution, venders make their distinctive calls; the shrill whistle of the tamale vendor, the wail of the propane dealer, the repetitive chant of the knife sharpener. In the square, beneath the protective shadow of the conqueror’s cathedral, dancers whirl and twirl, erect feathers swirling sickly sweet tendrils of copal smoke from healers, peddling their remedies. Lovers embrace in silence, while the roar of their history spins before them, sitting upon the stones of destroyed temples and the bones of their rulers. When night comes, the strum of guitars combined with the voices of lonesome musicians hail passersby. In modern subway tunnels, ancient temples protrude from the ground, along with tablets adorning the walls as the queuing masses murmur by like countless stings threading an equal number of needles. This is the city of monuments, vibrant heroes and elaborate lineages. To say the past is alive here is a fallacy, because all points in time are constant here, never dying or slipping into the cupboards that usually hold forgotten memories.