An Average Sunday in La Condesa

| Hombre Orquesta, photo by G. Enns |

I'm out on the patio, seventh floor, looking down on the light traffic of the Avenida on a Sunday morning. Runners and cyclists come out on Sundays. Less traffic. An hombre on a bike with an energetic husky trailing him on a leash is blaring Elton John’s “Rocket Man” from the radio strapped to his handlebars.

I’m researching ways to get around Mexico, and it’s dizzying. Gotta figure out buses from La Ciudad to Queretaro and then a local jumper to Bernal, then back to Queretaro, on to San Miguel de Allende. Some of it you can book in advance if you go with the fancy buses, but a lot of it is regional, pay as you go, so there are lots of unknowns for an extranjero like me.

Made some lentils and rice for lunch, then went for a walk. 

I find my way into Parque Mexico, of course. All roads in La Condesa seem to lead here; it’s the center of life in this barrio. I score one of the covered benches shaped like trees and get to work on my Spanish homework. An adult daughter/mother pair sits next to me. They chat and share funny videos with each other. They leave, and a couple of young lovers sit next to me, sharing a spicy chip treat from a plastic cup from the vendor just down the path. 

I hear an explosion, then laughter and cheering. Near the duck lake, a reveal party has just hit its climax, blue dust sprinkling the ground and wafting through the air. Back on the square, I hear some music—Beatles tunes. I close up my cuaderno and make my way over. A young guy has an entire drum set strapped to his back, cables connected to his heels. He’s got the rhythm of a drummer in every foot tap he makes. He’s playing a tobacco sunburst acoustic guitar with a pickup in the hole and seems to know the entire Beatles catalog. Calls himself Tonah, el Hombre Orquesta. Condesans are crowded around him, standing, sitting on benches, all of them in a bit of awe and engagement. It’s a great show, such a novelty, this vagabond in tight ripped jeans, ragged dark fedora, and drum set on his back, singing songs everyone loves. They listen, eating ice cream and churros. Little girls approach his open guitar case and drop in pesos, in the middle of lyrics, he drawls, “Well thank you.”

I move on. It’s starting to sprinkle. I walk down a park lane full of dogs up for adoption—muts, pups, short haired, pointy eared, floppy eared. It’s a fanatical dog culture here; I’ve no doubt most of these dogs will find a home eventually.

Then the July rains really start to pour. Droplets are rolling off the rim of my straw hat. Camareros pull in tables and chairs. I walk fast, running from portico to portico, tree to tree, to make my way back home.

After dinner, I go for a walk with the family, into Condessa territory we didn’t even know existed. We stop into and old, grand Catholic church with a great painted domed ceiling. In a side chapel, there’s a glass-encased figure of a fallen Jesus struggling on the ground with his cross. 

On to a vegan ice cream shop I found earlier in my online explorations, then through a tiny pocket park and by some other vegan restaurants we’d like to try at some point before we leave. Without a plan, we find ourselves back in Parque Mexico, this time at night. The street lights are malfunctioning, strobing off and on in a dizzying display of light and dark. We squint our eyes until we’re through, pass through the now quiet park lanes, and head back to the apartment for the night.

Just an average Sunday for a visiting extranjero in the heart of this beautiful barrio.