On the ecology of letting go.

It is no secret. I hate flying. Bump. Up, down, oh god. Was that my stomach I just left behind? My mother would be proud that in those moments I inevitably call on the Virgen; oh please, not yet.  But through the heavy brown haze I could actually see the Bascilia de La Virgen. It was then the full impact of being back in DF hit me, and my life in the States just left me. The plane jostled around a few more times as we bucked around in the rough air above the city, DF, the Federal District.  I forgot entirely about my fear of imminent death long enough to scan out over the city, the endless city of brown built upon itself generations on generations, centuries on centuries.  Scrolling under my momentary tube of death are the glass spires of Polanco, Roma and the financial districts, the long drag of roads in every direction, the endless scramble of roads and traffic, the haze that ends the city long before humans building it have.  Dropping out of the sky it occurred to me that beyond those few areas of the city I have visited, this massive city of over 25 million was totally unknown.  At a point, you just have to let go of ever knowing much.      

For those who have never been here, it is a rare sight to look at a city that is packed together like this.  Quite unlike cities in the States, there is no space that has not been used.  There are no quarter mile wide freeways, there is no expansive lawn between suburban houses, there is not the order of the grid.  It is a city that has grown inside out, just as all the houses grow from the inside out: from the intricate potted gardens to the non-descript wall and locked gates that face the streets topped in shards of glass and razor wire.  Describing a city in the States as a machine is far more appropriate than calling DF a machine, it is far too organic, chaotic, and unpredictable to achieve an even remotely similar status.  From the predictable motion of a traffic light change and the patient but slow shudder of morning rush hour traffic on a freeway in Phoenix, I am falling into chaos. The shudder and roar of the aluminum tube slams me back to earth and DF.

Airports are strange bubbles, prone to the global shopping mall aesthetic, utterly unlike what's actually across the street in this case.  Those last few seconds of flight coming down you whip over building after building after building, laundry fluttering, a pack of dogs, a man painting the railing off a second story, an open window, stickers on windows of parked cars- then suddenly over the wall into the massive lawn and its asphalt runways.  Off the plane on the moving walkway you'd never know you were in Mexico, with Beckham and his Motorola Razr staring at you from the lighted ads.  Then out through the shopping mall of Duty Free booze and perfume, down the stairs and through the first round of customs.  Luggage in hand, the final step is pushing the red button that tells you whether you get searched.  I get the green light.  

It is a simple process to leave the airport: find a cab that won't kidnap you. Authorized taxis cost a lot more than the ubiquitous green VW bugs, but you know you'll get to where you're going.  "Senor? Taxi?" Everyone's a taxi driver, but you pay the tax and into the little sedan you go.  Money makes the world move faster and in a few minutes I am on the go. Strange that I find it less fearful to ride in a cab in DF without a belt than I do riding in an airplane, perhaps it is mad belief in the chaos of all these drivers weaving in and out of traffic, of the strange etiquette that emerges on the roads, or the notable lack of horns and stop signs. Maybe it is a fear of heights and falling, not the the sixty kilometer an hour rush along the Avenida. Irrational we are.  I sit back in the cab, roll down the window to the rush of air, and let go.  

Later, I am sitting on the roof of my new home for the next few weeks, a jet takes off and I play back the afternoon. The disorientation of being in two places at once takes hold and I consider the jacaranda trees I'd asked the cab driver about.  In the spaces between my fear I had noticed these splotches of purple while I flew over the city. Across the street, under a street light yet another bundle of purple jacaranda glows.  These trees bloom only around Semana Santa, or Holy Week, my cab driver told me. In fact, they are in the trumpet creeper family and all around the world they herald spring.  In DF, they bloom everywhere, across the street, next door, directly behind our house to the south in the garden of Frida Kahlo's old house. The sidewalks are littered in purple flowers, struck there by the wind, by the fitful rain, by their perfect temporary nature.  I see my fear from the afternoon. I struggle with the drop of the plane in the temporary stillness of the air followed by the momentary stability. It is all temporary, all this struggle and wishing for more, like the city grasping out further and further into the mountains.  Temporary permanance.