They say that it’s the journey, not the destination that matters. But after today, I can tell you that the people who say that have never spent hours lost in Mexico City, and been cornered by a sweat lodge developer named Fernando.
Getting lost is not a new phenomenon for me. In fact, I’m pretty familiar feeling unfamiliar. Back in Chicago, there is only one grocery store I will frequent, because despite the fact that I don’t live anywhere near it, it’s the only one I won’t get lost trying to find.
My sister has long since given up trying to teach me coordinates, let alone which way is east. Whenever we make plans to meet up she draws me a map that I can bring with me, and talks me through the directions. Before I left for Mexico, it went like this:
“Just go south on Michigan, cut over Jackson and go one block down State… Hey. Are you paying attention?”
“Oh, sorry, I thought you were drawing my fallopian tubes.”
Thing is, it just doesn’t compute for me. I need more significant landmarks like, “Walk two blocks to the Subway where you got food poisoning, then turn right at the homeless guy who barked at you.” But Google maps don’t work that way. And neither, apparently, does my TimeOut Mexico City guide book.
Today I ventured to the neighborhood of Coyoacan in search of Frida Kahlo’s house. I was going to meet my friend, Margarita Margarita (the first name was given to her by her parents, the second one I added, in honor of the cocktail). I woke up this morning and realized that while I had a city map, I was at a complete loss as to how to actually get there. Within minutes of my departure I was lost, so I defaulted to my GPS: my Gut Positioning System. I followed people in suits, expecting that eventually they would wind up at a train stop. Fortunately, I was right.
What happened once I got off the train, however, was another story. As it usually happens, my map deceived me: left was not left, and right was not right, and what I calculated to take 20 minutes took 60. Finally I wound up in front of the church in Coyoacan, but I could not remember where I was supposed to meet Margarita Margarita. I looked up from my guide book to catch the eye of a short man with a receding hairline in a navy blue suit of mismatched hues. He walked straight towards me as if he had been expecting me for hours.
“Excuse me, do you practice yoga or meditation?” he asked me in Spanish.
I stared at him, confused.
“Maybe you are an artist? A painter, or a writer?”
“Yes, I like to write. Why do you ask?”
“I knew it! You give out this energy. Yes, you definitely seem like an artist. God must love you very much. Thank you for your great energy.”
I suddenly became highly aware of the disaster beams I was throwing off, and pulled my purse in closer.
“You’re welcome?” I said.
Then he switched into English.
“I’m Fernando. You speak Spanish very well!”
By now I knew this man was a meditating liar, but I couldn’t tell what he was after.
“Thanks. You speak English really well.”
“Well, I should. I’m a translator. But not just that–I also practice physiotherapy. And I build sweat lodges. Do you know sweat lodges?
“Yes, I have heard of them.”
“The womb of the earth.”
“Ahh,” I said. “Well, I’m here waiting for a friend … “
“Do you practice physiotherapy?”
“No, not really.”
“Well, give me your hand, I will show you my work.”
Before I could resist he had my right hand in his, and was pulling at each of my fingers, cracking my knuckles and twisting my wrist. I clenched my fist, drawing my fingers in tight.
“You don’t have to worry, I’m not trying to steal your rings. I’m not a thief. Or a drug dealer. We live in such a paranoid society…”
“I didn’t say you were a drug dealer.”
“Then can I crack your back?”
“No. Sorry.”
“It will take only one minute and it will be great. You will see what a one and a half hour massage with me could be like…”
“No, no I’m all set. Like I said I’m looking for a friend…” I looked up, scanning the plaza for Margarita Margarita.
“Then maybe another time?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“I would really like to meet you again.”
“That won’t be possible… Best of luck with your sweat lodges!”
And with that, I scrambled behind the church, stuffed the map back in my bag, and waited for him to leave. I was lost, but as long as I wasn’t getting a Mexican hand job, it was exactly where I wanted to be.
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