Part 5: He wants an ice cream

There comes a point in a child’s development where, though they have some words, there’s only so far they can communicate with this slim, poorly pronounced vocabulary. They can grunt, point, make noises, but eventually they become frustrated, grumpy and irritable. At this point, a grown up needs to step in and translate.

And so, I have signed up for a proper language course. No longer can I ask, nay, expect Annemarie to drop everything to explain, “He wants an ice cream”.

Though the lessons are necessarily online, the virtual smell of the digital chalkboard still has the power to transport me back to my middling school years. And by “middling” I mean, solid ‘C’s rather than any specific year group. Never a good student to begin with, I’m finding the retention of information near impossible. Partly, this is down to treating my body as an amusement park these past two decades but also because I easily fall into bad habits from my short trousers days. I’ve always been more interested in getting a laugh than getting the information. Shamefully, my proudest achievements from secondary school are not the grades I achieved (in fact I had to do a year of re-takes at sixteen) but avoiding detentions or letters home by making my teachers laugh.

True, the threat of Lety, my jovial teacher, writing to my father and telling him that I have potential if only I would stop fooling and concentrate, is slim however true it may be. I’m constantly trying to find something funny to say in Spanish, rather than something correct to say in Spanish. Maybe I’m being too harsh on myself. I can now make the doorman laugh, as well as several delivery men and that must count for something. When you lack intellectual confidence, a joke is a great coping mechanism. I call it my “gag-reflex”.

The confidence, even just to say something stupid, gets me out the house and exploring the neighbourhood. Colonia Condesa, the leafy art deco jungle that is our home, is achingly beautiful.

Walk through an inconspicuous door, looking for lamps or bedside tables and you find yourself in a nineteen-thirties mansion. Huge stained-glass windows and curling staircases make you start negotiating rent rather than wood cabinets.

“Saint”, the panaderia on the corner of our street, whose tasteful, hand-painted logo will be reproduced under the “Cause of Death” section on my death certificate, bakes such wonders that I go in for two and come out with six. And I’m talking clogged arteries, here. I’ve eaten a lot of French pastries over the years but “Saint” would have them hanging up their berets and onion strings and thinking hard about their life choices.

We have a Lucha Libre supply store on our street. The actual sport is on a covid hiatus, like everything else that’s fun in life, but this store gives a tantalizing taste of the culture. Let’s hope we get past this virus soon. Say what you like about Luchadores, they always wear a mask.

My local record spot is Roma Records. Vinyl people don’t change from one continent to the next. You walk in, the staff give you a look of distain, there’s a strong smell of weed wafting in from the back room. It’s like taking off tight shoes.

I can smell records. Annemarie has often marvelled at my ability to stop dead in the middle of the street, point to a spot in the middle distance and say, ‘there! There are records in there. And not re-presses, either. Good stuff.’ And be one hundred percent accurate every time. Our first week in Mexico, I did this. Stopped start and pointed at a tienda in the middle distance. ‘Disco. There’s disco 12”s in there’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, that’s a clothes shop! They’re not gonna have old records in there’

Ten minutes later I’d emerged with mint copies of “Ready or Not” by Deborah Washington, and “There But For The Grace Of God Go I” by Machine. Not particularly rare or special records but solid dancefloor fillers that I sniffed out like a truffle pig.

The real music of Mexico City is on the streets. Not just the buskers, though there are plenty of those. They range from full Mariachi bands, garbed in traje de charro going from table to table in restaurants serenading the punters as they eat, drink and prove their manliness by getting electric shocks off a car battery, to basada bands, jazz trumpetists, guitarists, even a Father/Son electro-pop duo who came out dressed like a mix of DEVO and Kid Creole and the Coconuts. Then there are the people who seemingly can’t play an instrument at all. This doesn’t stop them blowing down clarinets, bothering the local dogs, banging aimlessly on drums or butchering “Delilah” on a trumpet. They’re kinda charming these guys. There’s a global economic recession happening and they’re doing what they can. You can’t help admire it. It’s a street economy here. Everywhere you go, on every corner, someone is plying a trade right there on the pavement and they all use different sounds to advertise their wares. The garbage men ring a bell, like a town crier. The tamale guy rings out “Ricos tamales Oaxaqueños!” while squeezing an old timey hooter. The knife sharpener, passing with his pushcart blows scales on a flute whistle. There are rang-and-bone men, who use a recording of a young girl shouting “Se compran … colchones … tambores … refrigeradores … estufas … lavadoras … microondas … o algo de fierro viejo que vendan!” It got this strange sing-song quality and a mad, syncopated rhythm that worms into your brain. I love it. The City is constantly singing. Every morning (EVERY MORNING) at 5am(!), the recycling guys wake us up with the 'stand back' alarm on their dump-truck (which in Mexico sounds like 8 different fire alarms going off at once) before blasting out Phil Collins' "Another Day In Paradise". There is no explanation for this.

To better take in the area, I bought a bicycle. I have an odd relationship with bikes. Never off two wheels in my adolescence, I loved cycling so much it nearly got me arrested. I thought it would be a great idea, drunk, to ride my bike to the top floor of a police station’s multi-storey car park and then race down the ramps as fast as I could. I got as far as the roof before two jam sandwiches arrived.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘I was… er.. I was planning to ride my bike really, really fast down your car park’
‘Are you trying to steal a car?’

‘No. No I got my bike, see, and I was gonna ride it really, really fast down your car park’

‘Are you vandalising cars?’

‘What? No, no, I mean, I’ve got my bike, see, and I… look, I’m not that bright, okay?’

I joked my way out of that one. Gag reflex.

A few years later I was cycling down Baker Street on a beautiful May afternoon. It was a warm, sunny day. I had no near-misses, no wobbles, no unforeseen potholes but all of a sudden I got a message in my head saying, ‘If you keep cycling, you’re gonna die’. It was as clear as that. One of the strangest phenomena of my life, the like of which I had never experienced before or since. I pulled over to the side of the road, get off that bike and never rode one again.

Well, not for ten years, anyway. I decided I was being was stupid and I should get back in the saddle and ignore the nonsense. I bought a bike, took back to the streets and the pedal came off. I hit the tarmac and rolled in front of a van who stopped inches from my face. ‘If you keep cycling, you’re gonna die’

No matter, I thought, calmly walking the bike back to where I bought it. I had a frank and refreshing exchange with the man who sold it to me and never rode a bike again.

Well, not for about six months anyway. This time, however, I fell right back in love. Pedalled my way to comedy clubs, parks, friends’ houses and, invariably, White Hart Lane to watch Spurs. You really don’t know the joys of cycling until you’ve gone uphill, along Seven Sisters Road at eleven at night, in driving ice rain, having just seen your team lose 7-2 in the Champions League.

In Mexico I took the hipster leap and bought a fixed-speed bicycle. The speed they’ve fixed it at is, “fast”. Very fast. Faster than Earl Scruggs on banjo. If I’d have ridden this thing down a police car park, I’d have smashed through a wall, directly into a cell. Not that that it matters. The speed limit in Mexico City is, AS FAST AS YOU CAN POSSIBLY GO RIGHT NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! I’ve seen fellas old enough to remember the Eden administration peddling carts so fast, Lance Armstrong would cry ‘foul!’. The traffic lights here change like Formula 1 and if you’re not off the line at green, every car in the city is honking at you. Grandma’s are leaning out of windows, ‘What’s the matter sissy? Feet can’t reach the pedals?’ And the end of taxi rides, drivers are interviewed by sports broadcasters, ‘Yeah, it was a good run, I pushed it hard. At one point I thought we were gonna lose a front tire but I held on and now I’m just thinking about the next one.’

Fortunately, you feel very safe on a bike. The infrastructure for cycling is incredible. Bike lanes are walled off and omni present. You’re protected by concrete, steel, trees or a combination of the three. On Sundays one of the main roads is closed to traffic, leaving a great avenue through the city a cycling paradise.

Of course, there’s no accounting for people. Cycling the wrong way down the bike lanes is standard. As is wheeling prams, walking packs of dogs or setting up market stalls. Blink and you might catch a hot tamale in the face.

Cycling can also take you through some parts of town that perhaps you shouldn’t be in. ‘Keep moving, Honey. I think that man’s carrying a cross-bow.’ At one junction, we were terrified by a man eating an ice-cream. Can you imagine how scary someone has to be in order to instil fear while consuming a Mr Whippy? And he was really enjoying that Mr Whippy too.

But ninety-nine percent of the time, you feel safe and happy on your bike. I’ve been enjoying it so much, I thought I might monitor my cycling prowess. The “Health” app on my phone has a step counter, so I thought I could find a ‘bike-o-meter’ as well. Sure enough, I found, “Set Up Cycle Tracker”.
“Welcome to Cycle Tracking

·      Cycle Timeline

·      Cycle Log”

This looks promising.

“When did your last cycle start?”

Okay, well, today, I’ll put in today’s date.

“How long does your period usually last?”
Erm.. I not sure I understand the question. Two or three times a week? I’m only getting the option in consecutive days here…

“How long is your typical cycle?”
Erm… why is it giving the option in days? The shortest option is “Ten Days”? I usually do half hour, forty minutes a go… ah… I see… look, clearly, I’m not that bright, okay?

‘Do you want him to look like a movie star, or a poet? I can do both’

‘I just don’t want his smile to look like a warehouse fire anymore’

This is the conversation my wife and my dentist were having over my open mouth.

Almost the day we arrived in Mexico, Annemarie’s teeth started hurting.

‘A-huh a-he ah huh-a-hi’ she spat into the sink.
‘What?’
‘They’ve started hurting all the time…’

‘Well you’ve got to go to a dentist, babe’

At this point, Annemarie hadn’t started her new job, so we weren’t covered for dental. With Corona and everything else, I’d bought us the most expansive insurance cover for the interim. But as is always the way with insurance, ‘I’m sorry, we don’t count “teeth hurting all the time” as an emergency.’

‘What would you call a dental emergency, if not sudden, chronic pain?’

‘Well, if you’d cracked a tooth or damaged it in some way.’

‘Well what do you think is causing the pain if not damage?’

‘We don’t know, you’ve not been to a dentist’.

Three hundred quid, that cover cost me. Well done everyone.

Fortunately, we have friends in the city who said their dentist would take a look. Normally when it comes to medical services, the phrase “cash only” would be a turn off but beggars can’t be choosers and this is Mexico, after all.

‘He’s great,’ our friend Renata beamed from her perfect, gleaming teeth, ‘he does our whole family. Me, my brother, my sisters, parents, everyone. He’s cash only because he’s not really registered.’

When it comes to medical services, the phrase “he’s not really registered…”

Turns out he’s a university researcher. A dental savant who only dusts off the drill for a very select few. We’ve struck a gold tooth with this one.

He also turned out to be really nice. Funny, comforting and highly professional, even if he does whistle the funeral march as you enter the surgery.

Annemarie is terrified of the dentist. She couldn’t be more scared of the dentist if he was standing at a street corner eating a Mr Whippy. She hadn’t been in ten years and this, it turned out, was why her teeth were hurting. Two fillings she’d had a decade previous had failed and the roots had started to rot.

‘Incredible’ the dentist exclaimed into her gaping mouth, ‘Renata’s husband, exactly the same. Frightened of the dentist, didn’t see one for years, British fillings dissolving… Why are they using silly putty? It’s outrageous!’

‘Ah hu-han heh he-ha-he heh hay’
‘What was that? I’m sorry, please spit’

‘My husband is exactly the same. His teeth are terrible. Would you take a look at them?’

The dentist stood from Annemarie’s cavities and thought a moment. ‘Yes. Yes, I will see his teeth. Show me his teeth’.

I don’t know what they were doing in dentistry in England in the eighties but most people I know have a dread fear of the dentist dating back to that time. I’m at the top of that list. And I hate my teeth. The front two are missing pieces of Stonehenge. My canine is twisted like fusilli. I’m missing pre-molar and my smile is as even as Giant's Causeway. To cap it all off, two weeks before we moved, I was viciously headbutted by Pongo Bong, our malevolent beagle. He chipped and cracked my front tooth right down the middle. I rang the NHS to see about getting it fixed by an emergency dentist, this being in the Covid lockdown. Once the operator had stopped laughing, she told me, ‘I’m sorry, we don’t count a cracked or damaged tooth as an emergency.’

‘What would you call an emergency, if not a cracked or damaged tooth?’

‘“Teeth hurting all the time”’

Well done everyone.

‘My God,’ the dentist said, peering down my gullet. ‘This tooth’ he pointed at the gap, ‘why did they remove it?’

‘I’m scared of the dentist, so I didn’t go for ten years and…’

‘Okay,’ he interrupted, ‘I get the picture.’ He look over to Annemarie, ‘Do you want him to look like a movie star, or a poet? I can do both’

‘I just don’t want his smile to look like a warehouse fire anymore’

He patched up the dog crack and few other nicks before we started talking cosmetics. ‘It will take eighteen months. You will wear braces but they will be discreet, one wire.’

‘Wire? They told me in the UK I could have invisible, plastic ones.’

‘They don’t work and are very painful, did they tell you that?’

‘No. And will you shave down the front two?’ His dental assistant gasped as he dropped a scraper to the floor in shock.

‘Are you crazy? Did they say they would do this to you?’

‘Yes,’ I bleated timidly, ‘They said they’d shave off point two of a millimetre’

He stamped his foot in disgust, waved his arms and paced the surgery. ‘This is outrageous. Butchery. Your teeth a fine, they are part of your personality. Okay, so they’re not straight and it’s a shame they took this one out but I cannot believe they would do this. Savages.’

I left the practice actually appreciating my teeth for the first time in decades. Annemarie was all patched up and could chew through a metal cable if she wanted. Plus, he’s offered us both tequilas to get through professional cleans we’re both desperately need but are too scared to get. 

However good the dentist is, and he is, he is still the dentist. After our procedures, Annemarie and I decided to drown our sorrows in a local beer stop. The bars are open in Mexico City, with temperature checks and hand sanitizer on the door, socially distanced, outdoor tables and staff so masked up they look like Star Wars characters. We settled down, perused the menu (all supplied via QC codes on your phone) and asked Kylo Ren to bring us a couple cervezas. As we bedded in, discussing the possibility of my wearing a cheese-grater for a smile, a memory struck me. ‘Oh! It’s the Mexico City Derby tonight!’ When I was laying in the dentist’s chair, he noticed the fear was making me fop-sweat into my “Mexico ‘86 World Cup” t-shirt and tried some bedside manner. ‘You like football?’
‘Ah! Ah ha-ha hi hoo-hah’

‘You don’t need to talk like that, no one is working on your mouth’

‘Yeah, I really like football. We’ve adopted Pumas as our Mexican team.’

‘This is the correct decision. They are owned by the University I work for. They are a real community team. I will get you tickets when they allow the fans back in. The University give them to me for free’.

Tonight, Pumas were playing Club America, the latter owned by a Murdoch-esk media mogul and widely seen as the super villains of the Mexican league. And here we are, about to watch a football match, in a bar, surrounded by fans.

It was a tonic. I’d forgotten how fun it was to relish in the misery of strangers. Is there anything more satisfying than the look on the face of a football fan whose team has just conceded? Of course not. If they released a DVD of fan reactions to things going against them, it would sell platinum, even in 2020, when no one under the age of thirty knows what a DVD is.