Half an Inch, page 4

Early next morning, we took the main arterial to Mexico City, and massive trucks fought us all the way. Twice, we had to slow to a stop for flocks of sheep and goats, and once, a strange, pulsing shape in the distance became a cloud of vultures tearing at a dead horse. We passed a man lying close to the highway, his eyes closed. My Spanish teacher, who had lived in Mexico, had warned that Mexican police consider foreigners at fault in any accident, and to never stop, if able to keep going, because we could easily end up in jail. So I ignored my conscience and decided the man was asleep or drunk. Farther on, a white van with a red cross crudely painted on its side blocked the highway, bringing us to a halt.  Four or five rough-looking men got out and approached our car. Nervous this time, I handed out a wad of pesos. They retreated a few yards and huddled together to examine their booty, talking among themselves and casting baleful glances our way. Apparently satisfied with their take, the men climbed back into their vehicle and pulled out of the way. When I later looked back, the van was in place across the highway again.
Speeding cars engulfed us as we neared the capital. Honking and spewing smoke, some with missing doors, they wove back and forth as if in some demented race. Upon entering the Reforma, the 8-lane boulevard bisecting one of the biggest cities in the world, Harry had all he could do to cope with traffic. I focused on the map and tried to determine where we needed to turn off, occasionally looking up to shout, "Watch out!" when a collision seemed imminent.
"I'll be glad to let you drive," were Harry's mildest words, his knuckles white on the wheel. When he finally managed to work his way over to the outer lane to escape out a side street--any side street--to stop the car and catch his breath, we saw ahead a big sign: The Shirley Apartments, miraculously, our destination. As unlikely as Oz in Kansas, the sprawling complex gave me the eerie feeling we had been transported back to the States. I had read about the place before leaving home and knew about its guarantee of safe water from their private filtering system and reliably pasteurized dairy products. I fantasized a farm on the roof. Throughout our journey we had searched out the best looking restaurants, in hopes they would not harbor anything that would make us sick, and if none passed muster, we made do with packaged food, bottled drinks and those odd little red bananas. Bottled water saved us from The Revenge by our remembering to use it for brushing teeth as well as drinking, but Harry refused to forgo ice for his martinis, saying the alcohol would kill anything bad. At dinner, I must have looked anxious as the waiter filled our glasses from a pitcher of ice water, for he assured me it was okay to drink. And we even ordered green salads!
Later, we braved the Reforma again to admire the world famous buildings, the first of their kind, their facades covered with neon Christmas animations. Then we strolled through a park filled with trees shimmering with tiny white lights that resembled a garden of fireflies. Vendors sold 3-foot wide balloons and food that spiced the air. Men costumed as biblical wise men chatted with children still up near midnight with their parents. No Santa Claus anywhere.
"I want one," Cindy said, when she saw the enormous globes bobbing outside cars sweeping up and down the street. So Harry bought a balloon for her on the way back to our room. To keep it from slipping away, I tied it around my wrist and gripped the string.  But from the moment of purchase, the balloon seemed determined to escape, pounding outside the car and threatening to explode as we eased it into our room, where it floated restlessly about the ceiling until I tied it to the bed.
The next few days became a blur of cathedrals, Maximilian's Castle and museums: old and traditional as well as  modern with an impressive tall fountain streaming cascades of water, and a huge Olmec head nearby . We saw the elegant Folklorico performance, skipped the bullfight and sought out a Diego Rivera mural in a sleazy part of town, where we nearly got run over by a bus speeding around a corner as we crossed the vast square in front of the Cathedral of Mexico in the dark.  The bus skidded to halt just inches before hitting us. Another day we drove for an hour out of the city to climb the Pyramid of the Sun, Harry and Cindy bravely, and I, virtually crawling up the steps. But after the exhilarating view from the top, I joined them stepping my way down--careful not to look at the ground far below. Reluctant to leave, we strolled down the ancient avenue and climbed the Pyramid of the Moon.
Then it came time to go home.  We loaded up the car at dawn, saving the balloon till last. Cindy untied the string from the bed, and since it had slightly deflated, had no trouble getting it out the door. But once outside, the oversize volume of helium took her by surprise and, before she could tighten her grip, the balloon seized its chance and took off, becoming a red dot disappearing into the pale morning sky. The three of us stood there, stunned, watching it out of sight. Cindy was crushed; she had so wanted to take the balloon home to show her friends. Harry drove by the park, hoping to buy another, but the vendors had gone.