Mexico City (D.F.) is a happening, energized, and, most importantly, self-aware metropolis. The buildings in the Centro Historico are all awkwardly slanting and leaning, appearing that one day soon they’ll all topple over like a chain of dominoes. Andre Breton must be haunting this place since he visited D. Rivera, F. Khalo, and L. Trotsky in the early 20th century, for walking in this city feels like a visit to a funhouse. I call it the “Surrealist Epicenter” because of this fact and, mostly, because it lies in a seismic zone where earthquakes (not to mention that the city was built on a soft lake bed and is sinking) contributed to its present, cubist appearance. But this place is not square at all. It is too hip to be square. It is multifaceted: hipsters, punks, goths, mariachis, cowboys, nuns, business men, Maria-homemakers, beggars, swindlers, poets, artists, etc. all claim D.F. as home. And just like a well-cut stone, D.F. shines brightly.
The highlights: the art deco Palacio de Bellas Artes, the former Casa de Moneda, the Zocalo, the National Palace, and the Lucha Libre insanity. I need to return, for I hardly scratched the surface in three days.
Notes on the Lucha Libre match: Got ringside seats with a few friends I met at the hostel. This high-flying acrobatic soap opera is so fake, so fixed, and so fun. The crowd incessantly screamed vulgarities to each other and to the wrestlers and threw cups of beer to the stage. There were a lot of children in the audience too. This was nothing short of an orderly riot (if that makes sense), a vane vulgarity with makeup, muscles, and masks. A must-see, at most (least) once.
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