Blond Hair Gets You There.

Ok, I have so much to catch you up on; so I am just going to get into it.

As many of you know, there is something special about those with blond hair. I am not saying that they are better or superior in any way; however, they command a certain amount of attention. For example, on busses in India, if you are blond, people will stare at you unrelentingly for your entire 22 hour bus ride. This isn’t a casual glance; it is an in-your-face stare. This weekend all of my perceptions regarding the special attention that blonds receive were re-confirmed.

Paco the Taco guy. Many of you can recall past entries on Paco. I am addicted to his delicious taco creations. He makes a “volcan” that is a crunchy, toasted corn tortilla pilled high is a melted mixture of steak and cheese. Yum, mercy me. Anyways, that’s not the story.

Paco has a bit of a crush on the blond, la Francesca (aka Morgane). And when I say a bit, what I really mean is that he has her picture on his cell phone, he invited her for dinner on Valentine’s day, and makes her the biggest and most delicious tacos. Did I mention that he is married and his wife works behind him at his stand? Well, I like to go eat tacos with la Francesca because we share the same addiction, and if I am lucky, Paco’s crush gets me bigger tacos too!

On this particular Saturday, Paco was in unusually high spirits. He offered us both beers. That is extremely rare. Alcohol is not to be consumed on the street, and if you picture his stand correctly, you realize that we are stilling on stools on the sidewalk. Furthermore, his stand has tacos. And only tacos. At times you can get a beverage, but only a coke or a squirt. So this was a pleasant surprise in itself. Free beer! Yes please! Paco looked to Francesca who responded in her typical French manner, “I don’t drink beer. Only Absolut vodka.” I rolled my eyes and wished she had just sipped on the beer to appease the man’s desire to be with her. Just accept his generosity.

Paco smiled nonchalantly and asked if she preferred pineapple or orange juice. I burst out laughing. This portrayal of my obvious fascination with Paco’s abilities was followed by a head shake expressing my disbelief that this was actually happening.

I sampled my beer and curiously pondered how Paco was going to get the Francesca a drink. He doesn’t live in the neighborhood nor does he leave his post behind the grill. He motioned to a girl on the street, who then entered the stand. He whispered in her ear and she was off. Within moments a bottle of Absolut appeared with a box of pineapple juice. Unbelievable.

The Francesca was now a bit embarrassed and I congratulated Paco. I even told him that I didn’t know if Francesca was addicted to him or his tacos, just to infuriate her and exacerbate their delicate relationship. The truth is that the

Francesca is a bit frightened and sketched-out by Paco and his forward manner, but she has such a strong addiction to his tacos that she is willing to overlook his stalking tendencies.

My jab at her prompted the usual battle with the Francesca. We usually have at least one fight a week. I always pray that they don’t get violent, but I would be lying if I said they didn’t. The French are a passionate, irrational people.

All to say, if you are blond, you can usually get whatever you want, no matter how difficult or unbelievable the request.

$1,000 night. Yup, that’s not in pesos either people. I went with a bunch of friends to a club called “Velvet.” Filipito had the idea that a place named Velvet was far more likely to be a strip club, but he came along anyway. As usual on Saturday nights there was an enormous line, or at least, a huge mob of 200 people trying to get in. The bouncers were randomly selecting people to get in. Within seconds of exiting our cab, I pushed the Francesca close enough to the front to get the bouncers attention. I pointed down at her and held but five fingers on my other hand. He looked at me, signaled five back, nodded, and waved us to the red carpet.

This isn’t the first time this happened, but it never ceases to amaze me. The bouncer surveys a group of 200 people, within seconds he has pinpointed the only blond, and in moments, she is being escorted into the club. My advice would be, if you are going to go clubbing in Mexico, either know the bouncers or bring three attractive women, and one must have bleach blond hair. Done and done.

VIP. After such an entrance, there was no other way to celebrate the night than in the VIP section. I discussed the options with the hostess,
she held her finger to her ear piece, and then whisked us over to another club official who stamped our hands, led us up another red carpet past another Velvet rope. Blond hair will get you there too.

The waiters treated us like gold. I told Alberto that another few friends were coming and I didn’t want them waiting in line. He said there would not be a problem and to have them call me when they arrived. I love VIP.

The champagne popping began and before we knew it, we had racked up an outrageous bill. Alberto loved me. He suggested a few complimentary tequila shots. I said of course we will take your free tequila.

All of a sudden, I realized my one mistake. I took my eye off my camera. For a second. After months of living in Mexico City, going to clubs, sitting in highly secure VIP sections, I had become accustomed to sitting at tables, taking photos, and letting my friends have my camera to do the same. Usually, I am a very paranoid and cynical person when it comes to petty theft. I always keep my values with me and know where they are at all times. This club was the most secure I have been to. I felt safe with Alberto and was used to having my camera out. But where was my camera?

At 3am, I was more than livid as I put down my glass of champagne and searching for my beloved gadget. We tore our section apart. Couches went flying, tables were over turned, and I had the entire managerial staff aiding me. They were all chatting through their ear pieces to the doormen below but to no avail. I was furious. They made it clear to me that they were not responsible for valuables, and that they actually have a “no camera policy” that they compromised for our group. I made it clear that I wanted everything comp-ed. I lost. I lost big.

Mexico is a safe country. If you have money it becomes much safer yet much more dangerous at the same time because you become a target. In this case, it was a simple mistake of trusting one’s environment. No where is free from robbery in Mexico. As a result, I will be camera-less for a while. I hope to continue posting photos from other people’s pictures. The blond got us in, got us up to VIP, but she couldn’t get my camera back.

Manu Chao. For those of you who don’t know who Manu Chao is, I’ll give you a brief description. Manu Chao is French, but he lives in Barcelona. He speaks a bunch of languages fluenty, and plays a mix of rock, reggae, salsa, rumba, and ska. His lyrics are also a mix of languages, at times, the same verse will have three or four different languages put together.

Only a few weeks after a concert at Palacio de los Deportes, Manu returned to play free show in the Zócalo in the Historic Center. Besides being a sweet opportunity to play in the heart of the heart of Mexico City, he was doing it as a protest to the recent conversations and policy proposals to privatize water. Last week there were riots involving protestors over the Water Forum. Looting ensued, it was generally a good time.

A free Manu Chao concert in Mexico City means that 180,000 of the weirdest freaks showed up. The review in the paper this morning verified the number of attendees, gave it a rave review, and made references to its populace nature.

Rain set a somber mood as we headed towards the anticipated event. The metro ride was pleasant and comfortable. We all made sure to leave any and all valuables at home. Not that I really had any left after Saturday night’s robbery. Anything that you could not shove safely and securely in your front pockets had to be left behind. Of course, I forgot to leave my belt. How silly of me.

As usual, in order to get into the Zócalo area, just like all other events, I had to remove my belt. However, since it was an all-day concert, there was no belt check. Just a lamp post covered with hundreds of belts. Knowing that in about five minutes, all of the belts would be stolen, I decided to conceal my belt. I will not go into how I did that, but I passed without a problem.

Security. I expected there to be a commanding police presence. Sort of like soccer games, riots, and demonstrations, I thought the army and policy would be there in full force with shields and riot gear. Nope. Not a soul. Apparently this crowd was the type of crowd that the police feared, felt no obligation to protect, and thought it better to let them kill each other. The truth is that the only people not scared of the crowd are the people in the crowd. These are the masses, the populous. They did not like foreigners. Alex, Rica (new blond roommate), Francesca, and I marched towards the swarms of people. We passed by a man selling magazines who offered “kill all foreigners with the guillotine.” Not really a very optimistic start. And no thank you, sir.

The Crowd. If you were not “one of them,” they didn’t like you either. I was with two blond European girls. Although I was ethnically dressed, they stood out like Schwarzenegger’s teeth at a black light convention. We were obviously not a part of “their group,” thus the group messed with us. I deflected comments, questions, proddings, begging, and a lot of elbows.

Spectacle. The U2 show was an example of Mexican culture, and this was an experience of Mexican culture. We packed in and discovered that our body movements were at the whim of the crowd. There was no control to be had. The only thing you could do was try to keep your arms near your chest so you could occasionally make enough for your lungs to expand and breathe. The current of people would move constantly forcing us left, then right, forward, and pushing backward. Needless to say, the poor blond girls were constantly assaulted. I did my best to fend off the busy fingers and hands, but it was useless. Luckily, the girls didn’t mind so much and nothing of substance happened.

One would think that such an environment would force those with emergency bathroom issues to the outskirts of the crowd to find a bathroom. Nope. A four man circle formed behind me which was to be used as a bathroom. Quickly noticing that these gentlemen were peeing on each other’s feet, in broad day light, in the middle of 180,000 people, I realized that perhaps this was not the best place to stand.

Throwing. I learned that Mexicans love to throw things at free concerts. I am not just talking about the usual bottle of water. Shoes, journals, hotdogs, bags of garbage, and my personal favorite, telephone books, would fly through the air and knock poor unsuspecting souls unconscious. This still doesn’t make sense to me, but hey, it’s Mexico. Rica made the mistake of climbing on Alex’s shoulders for a better view. Moments later a large cup of unidentified warm liquid came crashing down upon us from above. Francesca took the brunt of this attack. We were already wet from the rain, but now, she was soaked from head to toe. I hope it was water.

Speakers. As the afternoon grew older, various speakers took the stage to discuss the evils of the capitalist world and privatization. Posters of Subcommadante Marcos and Ché Guevara were displayed and people pumped their fists in unison. This propaganda and close quarters became too much for the girls so we elbowed our way out of the crowd. The only place to get food, water, and use the bathroom that was not closed, boarded up, and deserted was a friendly, neighborhood McDonalds. I myself had yet to set foot inside a fast food establishment in Mexico. My time had come.

As Manu came out pumping his fist wearing a Ché t-shirt, I found it terribly ironic that McDonald’s was packed. I looked around to see throngs of socialists in Mao caps, sporting red stars, and preaching against big business. At the same time, one big business had the ability to stay open during this type of event and be efficient: McDonalds. And they were all inside drinking their Coca Colas and eating the French Fries.

It Gets You There. In a country like Mexico where blond hair is very rare and highly prized, you realize the power of a simple hair color. Even if it is fake. As the other 180,000 people looked for a cab, ride home, or other means of transportation, a cabbie spotted Morgane from down the street and picked us up. Home sweet home. Blonds will really get you there, here. So, don’t forget your peroxide on your next visit.