Closed! Closed!

Down town Mexico City, the Zocola. Being the third largest city on earth, you would fully expect it to be a twenty-four hour location; a place where at its heart, you could get a drink or bite to eat any time of the day or night.

Shortly before dusk, I went on reconisence, making mental notes of where the most interesting bars tended to be; wild west type swing doors; long heavy set mahogany bar counters; countless brands of tequila lining the shelves; intense games of chess; all these establishments doing a brisk early evening trade. I was quite looking forward to a spot of imbibing a couple of hours hence. A small drink in each would do quite nicely. I went back to the hotel, showered and then started to retrace my steps. However, the ambience looked very different. Street lamps were not turned on. The small expanses that were lit were only done so with the aid of floodlights there to assist workmen dig up the road.  I’d locate one of the bars that I had spotted earlier, but its shutters were pulled down. Terminar! And likewise then the next one would be in darkness. Terminar! After half an hour I found one that was open, but no sooner had I ordered a drink, I was turfed out with the rest of the customers back onto the street. Sorry, terminar! In three hours, the Zocola had transformed itself from being a vibrant quarter into a morgue. Nightlife? You had to check out further flung residential districts for that.

I trudged back to my hotel disappointed. My belly was pining for food and liquid. But then a matter of yards around the corner from my lodgings, I spotted what looked like a sticky cake café. I had no choice but to check it out – maybe a slice of gateaux would keep me going until the morning. A constant stream of families came and went. Business was brisk. I sat on a stool at the counter and was handed a menu, which to my pleasure featured much more than just sticky cakes and ice cream. Yes, they served real meals, with meat. And  then things got even better as I got down to the bottom of menu, because yes, they sold Sol Beer as well. It felt like I had landed.

I ordered a beer and a main meal. Fifteen minutes later, I finished the small bottle of beer and, still eating, ordered another. I finished my meal and then ordered a third small bottle. This took me to the one and a third pint level. But this café had standards to observe, and ordering more than two of these tiny bottles was asking for it. I was presented with a third bottle and the bill. In other words, move on, what do you think this is? A bar?

The following night the streets appeared to be lifeless again. But then tucked around a small side road near my hotel I spotted a cabin which looked like it should have been selling newspapers, cigarettes and lottery tickets. In front of the counter were two plastic tables and a number of chairs, on which people sat drinking beer.

I bought a bottle of Sol from this makeshift bar and positioned myself between the two tables. On my right sat Eduardo, who, was rather inebriated and who would not stop shaking my hand for several minutes whilst asking me slurred questions. On my left was Joseph, and his girl friend, both drinking tea. He told me about disdain for the USA and his passion for the Mexico City Eagles, the Capital’s premier football team. Three more men appeared and sat with us. They all shook hands with Joseph and myself.

But then things got a bit sinister. One of the new arrivals retrieved a small package from his pocket, and emptied its contents of white powder onto a piece of paper. People from both tables then took it in turn to snort the cocaine. Joseph declined, as did myself. Eduardo was too inebriated to make the transfer from one table to the next.

‘It’s OK’, Joseph said, ‘Don’t worry’.

Two policemen walked by, whilst the snorters were inhaling. Joseph looked at me and said again, ‘It’s OK. Don’t worry.’ The officers waved, the snorters waved back. ‘See,’ said Joseph, ‘It’s no problem.’

The following evening, near the stroke of mid night, I found myself back at the same establishment. I sat with Antonia, the owner and her husband, just the three of us, the snorters were still sleeping it off. We talked about the places in Mexico I had visited. But this was just a preamble for what was one of Antonia’s  hobbyhorses.

‘My husband and I both think that lardidi was murdered. The whole think was a conspiracy.’

‘ Who?’ I asked

‘Lardidi,’ she repeated.

It took us a few minutes to hit the right pronunciation and interpretation. Lardidi, it turned out was her English pronunciation for ‘Lady Di’. And the Mexican media, so Antonia told me, has been full of conspiracy theories ever since her death. By the end of my Mexican journey, I certainly believed her. This was the first time that discussions had turned to that Parisian underpass, but it certainly was not the last.