The Journey Is The Destination

Right now I am sitting in an internet cafe on Jalapa Street near the Glorieta, a huge traffic circle which can be reached by taking the MetroBus, a public transportation line that runs up and down the longest street in Mexico: Insurgentes. I came here alone to go to an event on migration, and it turns out that I'm half an hour early. As the coffee settles in my stomach, and I nervously anticipate having to introduce myself and the Casa in Spanish, I hear exhaust coming out of trucks and the bizarre beat of this 80´s song coming out of speakers across the room. It´s a bustling morning in Mexico City, as I suppose they all are. I usually miss the mornings as I only have to work one morning a week, and as a rule, I will sleep as late as I am allowed. This is something I'm actually attempting to change. The clear, cold morning air could be used for many things besides squeezing in a few more hours of sleep: running at Viveros, a beautiful park that's just a metro ride away, reading, studying Spanish, praying, meeting guests at breakfast. As I try to carve some structure into my life at the Casa, getting up earlier is a challenging but integral part of the equation.

I've been wanting to write about a day last week that epitomized the mantra, ¨the journey is the destination.¨ Last Thursday, my friend Clay and I set out to visit the ecological park at Xochimilco, the Venice of Mexico City. We had both already ridden the long boats up and down the canal system, but what we wanted to see was the park which supposedly contains a strange creature, something of a mix between a fish and a salamander. A good idea for an adventure on your day off, no? It seemed simple enough, according to the guide book. Take the metro to the end of the blue line and from there catch a microbus to the park. Well, three or four microbuses later, and we knew that we were never to arrive. We would hop off a bus with the reassurance of our driver that we were close, and eagerly ask the nearest street vendor where the park was, sure that by that point we must have been just blocks away. Inevitably, each person would respond with vague instructions to cross the bridge over the highway and catch another microbus, with a clear indication that they had never heard of the ecological park of Xochimilco.

As frustration turned into comedy, riding those little buses around the city became one of my favorite moments in Mexico thus far. There was so much to take in as we jostled around in our rickety seats, down long, crowded streets, around corners of the city that I am sure to never see again. At one point, I whipped out my notebook to start taking notes because I felt that odd sensation that sometimes strikes me, as if I am living out the opening sequence to a movie. Two young men had boarded our green bus and were straddling the aisle with incredible leg strength as they played three surprisingly affecting love songs. While I was barely able to hold on to my seat as the bus navigated the insane traffic of the city, I was in awe of these guys who could actually coordinate standing up while singing and playing the guitar. The Spanish describes it better: me encantó, it enchanted me.

As the serenade floated through the rays of sun cutting diagonally across our bus, I took a quick mental picture of the scene: a rosary and dice hanging from the driver's rearview mirror, highschool students in uniform, a couple paired together by a protective arm, Clay hanging half out the doorway, bouncing and squeaking of seats and metal, cool, casual kids staring with their ipods... there was too much to notice, as if it were a painting that one could have analyzed for hours. I was flooded with contentment. It was one of those coveted moments in travel when you are so grateful to have stumbled upon the beauty of daily life in another country, to have unwittingly become a part of the clockwork that gives rhythm to a place.

Pleasantly defeated, we resolved to try to find a park, any park, near where we had landed. Heck, even a bench would do. It turns out that before we found a park we found a rickshaw. A rickshaw! In Mexico! (Technically called a bici-taxi... ) After wandering across a stray path hidden between piles of litter, we descended upon a sector of Xochimilco dotted with rickshaws. We quickly used a bathroom in the back room of a hardware store that required some strategic squatting and hailed a rickshaw to chauffeur us around town. It was surreal to say the least. This was a lazy little part of town, a part of town where the climax of daily activity occurs as schoolchildren find their way home from school. A part of town where everyone knows everyone else, a part of town so inconspicuous that rickshaws are probably not necessary to shuffle around hoards of people.

Needless to say, we loved the ride. Our intrigued, elderly driver slowly carted us to the nearest park as we breathed in the small town feel of this big city sector. An elegant, deserted park situated in between two mystically serene streets with ornate green benches, see-saws, swings, and a jungle gym. After indulging in some childhood nostalgia, I was told politely by an old woman outside of the corner store that the park was for children only. Atleast by then we had already had a few turns on the see-saw. With that, we headed home- first by rickshaw, then by train, then by metro. I have come to believe that one of the best ways to see a place is in transit.

Check out some exciting footage from the rickshaw!