Chilango: Stories from Mexico City (don't tell mom I was robbed).

There is a flash of light followed by stillness.  For a moment, time stretches on in a white void and for this infinitely short life you are alone. Mexico City, a city that long ago had “alone” removed from its vocabulary, ceases to exist. Suddenly the world recolors itself and is punctuated by a clap of thunder that nearly sweeps you off of your feet. The rain arrives in drops so fat that even with an umbrella the splashes off the ground can soak a person up to their waist. The sky tumbles with persistent and admirable intensity until the streets turn to rivers and pedestrians become climate refugees.  It rains cats and dogs, lions and lambs, fish and bicycles.  Every cliché ever spoken falls from the sky and is washed away with the cigarette butts and dog shit of the sidewalks.  

Any covered space can provide asylum, so long as you don't mind sharing it with others. There is no time for shyness or foreignness. There is no decorum. There is only shelter and no one is a stranger here. Most importantly, there is always room for one more.

Local culture dictates that any place but home is appropriate for affection. Thus, eager lovers take advantage of yet another opportunity for a public fondle. A man provides the moment with a soundtrack by playing reggeatón from what, only moments ago, appeared to be a car battery. A woman smiles and passes a cob of elote, sweet corn covered in mayonnaise and chili. Time to settle in.

As suddenly as these storms arrive, they also seem to dissipate just as fast.  There is light and there is sound and there is romance, but after fifteen minutes the world resumes its regular business.  People smile at each other and laugh at their wet shoes. Best friends become strangers once again.  People emerge from nooks with disheveled hair and looks of disappointment.  The city is washed clean and we set out tentatively, like explorers of a new planet.