We arrived in CDMX — Ciudad Mexico — at 7:00 in the evening. At the airport, we jostled our way to a registered cab stand, paid our tariff and waited. The dominant ambience was the sound of sirens. Already, Lorrie was thinking we were marks. That the cab company had seen us coming and jacked the prices.
I shrugged my shoulders. It had been a long day of travel and I was tired. At the hotel, we made our way to the terrace, where food was promised. Sorry, they said, after we climbed four stories to get there. We’re changing our menu. No hay comida.
The next morning, we ate breakfast on that very same rooftop terrace. Desayuno? Si. The sounds of the previous evening gave way to the chirp of birds and the clang of street vendors. The terrace had all the marks of an oasis. We plotted our day over coffee, palmiers and conchas.
The plan was dead simple. Find the nearest Ticketmaster and get our physical tickets for the Sunday Ballet Folklorico performance. We had multiple reasons for wanting to go there — the ballet, of course, but also the large, historic murals on-site and the legendary Tiffany curtain. So, we decided, let’s get the lay of the land — oh, and get our tickets too. Our initial destination was about a mile. We would walk. We like to walk.
We walked six miles that day. First to one alleged Ticketmaster outlet (closed), then to another, at an address that didn’t quite make sense. Turns out, it was inside a huge department store called Liverpool. At a tiny desk surrounded by kitchenware. Tickets in hand (actually, tucked into a safe pocket in Lorrie’s vest), we headed for Taqueria Los Parados. This legendary taqueria was on my must-do list and, as luck would have it, we’d already passed it on the way in. Time to return.
There’s no seating at Los Parados, so we got our tacos to-go (para llevar). No problem. They tucked them into those ubiquitous styrofoam containers and then nestled them into a plastic bag. We’d eat at our hotel room. Yes, it was more than a mile back, but we had our map app and my innate sense of direction. No problem.
When we asked why it was called “Los Parados,” he grinned, swept his hands outward, and said, “No chairs.”
James Young, Culinary Backstreets
On the final leg, we turned up a shady, tree-lined street in Roma Sur, one of the neighborhoods featured in the Oscar-winning film, Roma. It was sweet respite after the crowded streets in this city of 8 million. Scant traffic. Few people. Just the trees.
By the time we neared our hotel, we were flagging. Not just the distance. The altitude (7,350 ft). The jet lag. Our barking feet. And there we were. Two “elderly” Americans, loaded down with to-go packs. I’d gotten a little ahead of Lorrie, so I turned and stopped to let her catch up.
(courtesy Google Street View)
That’s when they struck. How long they’d been following us, I don’t know. But we had the look of perfect marks. And the location, though decidedly atypical — no big crowds for them to hide in — was ideal. Especially that damn ornamental shrub. We literally did not see them coming.
(courtesy Google Street View)