Transportation

It's a hard thing to go from the blissful autonomy of having your own car to relying on public transportation. That said, I think that it took us a little under 3.5 seconds following our arrival in Mexico City to rejoice in our lack of car; the traffic is so scary that I will do everything in my power to avoid driving here. Ever. That leaves us with three transportation options: taxis, metro, and buses.

Our first experience with transportation here was our taxi ride from the airport to the hotel where we were staying until the apartment was deemed ready. During that ride, we took comfort in the fact that our luggage not only filled the trunk but completely buried us in the back seat: that much padding must surely protect us in the inevitable crash. It turns out that we grossly underestimated our intrepid driver, who spent the next hour swerving through traffic and coming within millimeters of sideswiping every fourth car on the road. Our second taxi ride came a few days later when we moved into our new apartment. On this trip, we had the advantage of spreading out in a 15-passenger van typically used for tourist groups. It was driven by a sweet 85 year old man who had absolutely no idea where we were going. To be fair, the road names change every couple of miles to reflect the neighborhood. We, however, got a very thorough tour of our neighborhood since our driver kept insisting that the number were going the wrong way and turning off onto other roads to circle back. We finally convinced him of the benefit of stopping and asking directions. For whatever reason, he decided that it would be Keating's job to jump out of the van and ask for directions from the woman selling fruit by the road. Keep in mind that at this point Keating was capable of ordering a beer and little else (which the driver was already well familiar with having spent the last 70 minutes coaching Keating on how to pronounce bizarre indigenous words that will only come on handy if we find ourselves in a remote village that is still speaking a Mexica-Spanish creole). We spent about a third of the trip driving in aimless circles, and I consider it near-miraculous that we finally found the apartment. Since then, we have largely avoided taxis mostly as they are the most expensive option and there is still a decently high number of pirate taxis on the road. The pirate situation has improved significantly in the last 10 years, though my friends here debate whether that is a result of cracking down on illegal taxis or simply lowering the standards to allow anyone an official taxi license. Legal taxis can be identified by their license plates -- not any easy thing to read as a car flashes past. It is generally considered to just call a taxi company and have them come get you or, failing that, to find one of the regular taxi stands located throughout the city. Hailing a cab on the street is considered a task for the experienced.

The metro system here is absolutely amazing: the trains are clean, fast, frequent (2 minute waits, max!), and dirt cheap. For approximately 25 cents, I can ride all 11 lines from 5 am to 1 am. (No, I have not yet actually tried this.) Almost all of the metro stations come equipped with food stands, book stores, mini-pharmacies, etc., located on both sides of the turnstiles. The average Mexican is capable of carrying on nearly all life functions within the metro system. They have an uncanny ability to wake from coma-like naps on the train approximately 30 feet prior to their stop. Despite the shaking, the women manage to do their makeup in the morning without any apparent difficulty. My personal favorite was the professionally-dressed woman I saw last week curling her eyelashes with a spoon as the metro train bounced along through the morning commute. Keating and I watched in morbid fascination, waiting for her to gouge out her own eye during a rapid stop. (Never fear, she made the trip in safety despite stops that sent some passengers hurtling forward several feet before they managed to catch themselves.) It also appears to be a national pastime to make out on the metro; from teenagers to senior citizens, you can be guaranteed to nearly trip over a couple necking on a train or in a station every single ride. There are really only two problems with the metro: 1) occasional crowding that makes me wish for the comparative spaciousness of a compact clown car filled with a dozen people kitted out in red noses and oversized shoes and 2) the metro does not run within walking distance of our apartment. This means that Keating and I get to spend a fraction of each day on the buses.

Oh, the buses! Locally known as peseros, they are a force unto themselves. Peseros come in three basic varieties: large, throwback, and converted VW bus. I have yet to have actually caught one of the large ones, but they look like typical buses from American public transportation systems. I look longingly at them every time my throwback bus pulls up alongside one at a stoplight (this is problematic since there is only one bus lane). The route I normally take to and from work typically puts me on a throwback bus. These peseros look to be left over from the 1970's, and no two are the same. Each driver lovingly decorates the inside of his pesero with stickers, lights, and any variety of shiny and/or spiritual objects. These buses all have two things in common: at least one broken window and a door in the back through which to exit. To get off the bus, one must stand up and wade through the people clinging to overhead rails to reach the back door. Once there, one must find and press the "Exit" button somewhere over the open door to signal to the driver that someone wants off. Some drivers will then slowly pull over to the curb and stop while the person exits the bus; most drivers will screech to a semi-halt and expect the passenger to jump while the bus keeps moving slowly. Fortunately, drivers tend to have compassion for the elderly, the disabled, and people traveling in groups and will give them a fair shot at exiting. There are few rushes in the world like careening down the road in a throwback-style pesero when you have a really aggressive driver. It's actually pretty amazing watching the cars flee before it. When I don't catch a throwback pesero, I end up on one of the VW buses. The seats have been ripped out and replaced with benches along the walls intended to seat 13 passengers. This really only works well if you are traveling with an Olympic gymnastics team, or another similarly underfed group. The peseros, despite being a critical part of the transportation system in many parts of the city, feel no need to actually have posted routes. The peseros make up for being cramped, dirty, and a little bit scary by charging more than the metro. I am told that this is because the metro is run by the city while the peseros are a business venture controlled by the Mexican Mafia. Reassuring. While I'm still intimidated by taking peseros outside of my normal routes, they are at least nice and manageable once you figure out which one you want and where to get off. They are also my only way to get to the metro.

I was rewarded last week on the pesero for my efforts to blend in and not look like a terrified foreigner when the man next to me asked me if road "X" was coming up soon since he was supposed to get off there and didn't normally ride this route. I had absolutely no idea, but it was nice to be asked! Perhaps I'm starting to blend in a bit after all. Perhaps I'll soon be curling my eyelashes with a spoon on my way in to work.