A Sliver of Moon

It's dusk, a sliver of a moon hangs over the lights of Westminster and Big Ben. I walk past the Whitehall Gardens, the air filled with the scent of lilac, because it's still early spring here. (I noticed on Saturday that the lilacs near our house had turned brown and lost their fragrance in the heat.)

I wander down past one bridge to the Vauxhall Bridge, where I decide to cross the river. Up and over the hump of the bridge, with the wind picking up in the center. Stopping, I look back down toward my starting point. On my left are the antique towers of Westminster, glowing gold in the floodlights. On my right the overwhelmingly huge white neon glow of the Millenium Wheel. Very odd.

Turning back, with the wind in my face smelling of the fresh water and reminding me of the sea at Brighton. Although it's considerably more gentle, warmer, with no rain. There are lights strung all along the river side, like a carnival or a holiday, and because the evening is so warm the boats docked along the embankment are filled with people enjoying the evening.

In front of me are two people who at first look like twins, nearly the same height, with white hair the same length, matching brick red fleece jackets and dark pants. The only difference is the white tennis shoes on one, the black walking stick in the hand of the other. Holding hands. I draw closer and then pass them, a man and a woman. Of course I wonder about them, with the sort of feelings that often come when you see two older people, clearly at peace with one another, and assume there's a great love there. Because isn't that what we all hope for ourselves?

The Murals

We took the metro from La Condesa to Zocalo, the historic center of Mexico City. An enormous plaza, which was the center of the recent demonstrations after the presidential election. Each side of this plaza has an important and significant building.

On one side is the Cathedral Metropolitana, where we watched a modern-day Quasimodo move from one bell to the next until they were all ringing in an incredible symphony.

On another side stands the Palacio Nacional, the seat of government, which includes the chamber where the constitution was written. What's most remarkable about this building are the murals of Diego Rivera, which tell the story of Mexico from the arrival of Quetzalcoatl through the Spanish conquest, to the revolution and establishment of modern Mexican government.

It's hard to describe the power of these murals. Huge panels surround a large, central staircase.

They tell the story of the ancient Aztec civilization that stood where Mexico City is today, then of the Spanish conquest, the Mexican Revolution and the founding of today's government. Beautiful, colorful, each lifesize figure with its own narrative, caught forever in a single moment.

The tale of the exploitation of the Aztec natives and subsequent founding of the Mexican state is simultaneously breathtaking and heartbreaking.


Walk along the gallery, and more panels depict the lifestyle and culture of the Aztecs before the Spanish. You can recognize the wide lake bed underlying Mexico City today, and feel the rhythms of agricultural life.

Sounds of the City

The first thing I noticed about Mexico City is the sound. I've never been immersed in so much unrelenting and varied sound. There are the usual city noises -- car horns, people shouting, children crying, sirens and engines.

But then there is the music. The expected mariachi bands, playing on the street and asking for money. The unexpected rhythms of hip hop and rap, accompanied by cheers for the sidewalk break dancers. Even on the subway, from one stop to the next, the loud blaring of rock and roll music from the modern version of boom boxes.

(This last one was suspect -- at each stop a new person got on and the last one got off. The style of music changed, but the pattern was the same -- very loud, and only a few bars played before the song switched. Were they waiting for someone to say "Play that one!" and then pay them for the privilege? Or just assuming we all loved their music as much as they did? We heard 60's rock, Mexican folk, Spanish ballads.)

And the drums, accompanying the native dancers, re-enacting the ancient dances of the Aztecs.

And the bells. I watched the man high up in the bell tower move from one bell to the next, ringing them in a dance of sound.

The other thing I noticed are the people. Thousands of people everywhere, filling the streets, overflowing the sidewalks, crowding the parks. From the rooftop restaurant, there are people moving in all directions as far as I can see, like so many small ants moving in a river of purpose. The impact is made larger by the fact that most are speaking in a language I can't understand, and the people and the sound come together in a cacophony of incomprehensible noise.