Ciudad Mexico

After days of not getting the kind of excitment I normally get before I travel; it hits me the moment I cross the threshold from the plane to the connecting corridor. Its the smell. Not a bad one, just different.

Its like the continuous sound you never notice until its switched off. You step from your home country on to an aeroplane and it smells sterile and clean. Actually it smells of nothing. Then when the time comes to get off, you take a lung full of air and it smells different. As though someone changed the pitch of that sound you never notice.

Anyway, thats when I began to get excited. I was on the side of the Atlantic I had never visited. I was in La Ciudad de México, Mexico City, the largest on the planet. 30 million souls all linked by one address.

I knew the city was vast, 3,032.4 square miles and counting. But knowing that stubbing one's toe hurts doesn't stop you saying ouch, well knowing that Mexico City is the largest in the world doesn't stop you sucking in a breath when you see it for your first time on your final descent from 35,000 feet.

The mountains that Mexico City engulfs appear as verdant isles surrounded by a sea of red roofs and white washed walls, the high tide mark that is the edge of the metropolitan area climbing nearly to the peaks.

I got off the plane and greeted my passport official with an ambitious 'Buenos noches' (my Spainish is terrible) and posively breezed through the baggage check. I sat happily and watched the bag handlers leave my bag till the absolute last before putting it on the carosel which allowed me to pick it up. My happily anxious excitment to get out in the city could not be faultered. Soon I would be sipping cold cerveza and eating nachos.

I told the first Casa de Cambio that it was no problem he could not change my traveler's cheques, no problem at all, I didn't mind going to the next one. I told the second one the same thing, and the third. My happy mood wavered for a second, just a second.

It wasn't until after the fourth, fith and sixth attempt that my positve mood keiled over and died.

I was finally told the only place that could change my American Express traveller's cheques was the Sala American Express, conviniently located in the departure lounge, an area I could not go until my return flight three and a half months from now. My positive mood was replaced by a thinly veiled contempt for all things bureaucratic.

I walked up to the departure gate and the group of passport officials where I was asked by a petite Mexican woman for my boarding pass. I explained my situation. Blank looks all round. I tried again. Nope, still nothing. I held my breath and counted to 10 and tried a third time, this time with much gesticulating. Success, of a kind. 'Okay,' she said 'Go in. But don't say I said you could.'

Great. If I was discovered not to have a boarding pass my only confidant would deny all knowledge and I would be shot for being a suspected terrorist. Okay probably a little melodramatic, but it still left me with the problem of how to get the hell out again seeing as I wasn't actually getting on a plane. Oh well, cross that bridge when I get to it.

I went through the baggage check, once again, and quickly rushed to the American Express casa de Cambio. 'Hola Senhora. Cambio por favor?' Change please. 'Oh no Senhor, cellardo'. No sir, closed. Fuck.

Now what was I supposed to do? Sleep in the airport until it opens again? Well it's an option. No, screw that, I am getting out of here. I stormed up to the first Casa de Cambio I saw. It was the same chain that had refused me six times already but fuck it. I looked him in the eye and demanded he change my traveler's cheques, and he did, without so much as a raised eyebrow or a hesitation.

I never did find out why this one particular man had taken it upon himself to actually do his job where all the others didn't, but what did I care? I had money now and it was time to face my next obstacle; getting out of the departure lounge through a oneway set of metal detectors and armed security.

This was either going to require the fleet feet and stealth of a ninja, or the ability to speak fluent Spainish. I was not overflowing with optimism.

I walked up to the first securtiy guard I saw and said 'Habla Ingles?' Do you speak English. He replied 'Poco', a word that can be translated as little or rarely. Neither possibility did much for my lack of hope, but I pressed on regardless.

'I need to get out of the departure lounge.' I aided his understanding by waving like a bird with a broken wing and pointing out the way I had come in. 'Which gate you want, sir?' 'No, I need to get out. I only came in here to change money' 'Where are you flying to?'

After a few more exchanges of a similar sort I gave up. I walked up and down looking in vain for an exit. Then I spotted my chance. One of the sets of metal detecters was empty and I noticed they weren't switched on. I was beyond caring and getting reckless. When the operitives turned the backs I made a dash for it and got out to the terminal entrance.

I had made it but it wasn't by my ninja skills or command of language that I escaped, just a lapse in Mexican airport security. To any Al-Qaeda cells that may be reading, you don't need to waste your time with fancey plans, just wait until the security takes a siesta.

The metro was an experience. At one stop a man got on to my carrige with a packback with speakers in it. They were blasting out a medley of snippets of camp 80's music, switching from track to track every ten seconds or so. He was also shouting at the commuters who bore the audio assualt with a fortitude which seemed to impy that this was not a freak occurance. I caught The Final Countdown, Go West, and I'm Too Sexy For My Shirt before he finally gave up and left. Mad, he must have been.

The moment he stepped off another nutter stepped on and maneuvered himself to the middle of the carriage and began ranting. He turned slowly, so as to look at each passenger in turn and give them their own personal vocal barrarge. After he had finished he offered his hand and a few people gave him some change.

For my part I sat baffled as to what could have been said but was happy to forget my experience at the airport and indulge in the weirdness of it all. The next person to get on also had a backpack with speakers on this time blaring out Mexican folk music. She had an arm full of CDs. It finally clicked. They were selling the music they were playing. The reason the tracks changed so fast was that it was a kind of audible menu.

This still didn't change my perception that the first guy was mad. I can't believe he sold a single CD of the stuff he was playing, at least this woman seemed to know her market.

I got off the metro and walked in the direction I hoped my hostel was in. After navigating some darkened alleyways I came to the Zocalo, or city square, where there seemed to be a protest camp of union workers. The anarcho-socialist black and red flag flew above the tents in defiance of probably the biggest Mexican flag I think I have ever seen which rippled slowly in front of the Presidential Palace.

A drunken and very happy young Mexican offered me a lollipop as I crossed the square. He looked a little hurt when I declined. Sorry mate, but at 11.30pm in a city I have never been to, carrying my worldy possesions on my back, the last thing I want is a lollipop likely drenched in some psychotrophic chemical so you can rob and/or rape me ten minutes down the line.

Okay, melodramatic again. Really I just didn't want the usual conversation of; 'What's your name? Where are you from? First time in Mexico?'. I was moody and in need of a beer.

I found the hostle just as some other travelers rolled up too. We all took turns banging on the door and pressing the button for a bell which didn't work. Eventually the security guard was raised by shouts of 'Puerta', door.

I got inside, checked in, dumped my stuff in the dorm and got down to the real work. I asked the receptionist where I could get a beer. 'We have a bar on the roof he replied.' Result.

When I got to the bar there was a bunch of Germans already drinking. After a little banter about the football, England are about to play Germany in the knock out phases of the World Cup at the time of writing, I was quickly absorbed into the group.

'You must join us for tequila down stairs! It is my birthday in ten minutes!' said Moritz. Can't argue with that. Down stairs we went to the communal kitchen, and down went the first round of shots, and the second. By the third an unassuming Japanese guy called Masato had walked in and was swiftly give a shot, slice of lime and a the salt seller.

When the security guard who had let me into the hostle walked in, I thought we were about to get rumbled, but there were smiles and handshakes all round and he quickly neglected his duties and joined the fun.

When the bottle was thoroughly drained, we all took part in what I am told is a German tradition at birthdays. It basically involves sitting the the unwitting person whose birthday it is in a chair and everybody else picking it up above their heads and trying as hard as possible to to unseat them and bounce them off the ceiling.

After chatting about all kinds of stuff from booze to travel to government sactioned crushing of indeginous rights, and biopiracy, I called it a night and crashed out. It looks like Mexico will be fun.