Monument to corruption

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Known as the Estela de Luz -- the Trail of Light -- this little baby is 341 feet high and weighs 1700 tons. Unveiled last January, more than a year behind schedule, it was supposed to be President Calderon's contribution to the festivities for the 200th anniversary of Mexico's Independence in September of 2010. At the entrance to Chapultepec Park, it's made of steel and quartz that light up in the night, and cost about $78 million US, roughly triple its original budget.

A study by the National Academy of Engineers says that it really cost $37 million, and may have come in at an even cheaper rate due to the use of less expensive materials. Some members of Congress have called for an investigation, although in all likelihood we will never know where the rest of the money disappeared. It has been mentioned that for the same price 150 schools could have been built.

On the eve of the Presidential elections -- notable mostly for the dismal choice of candidates, each of whom has a long history of corrupt and inept associates -- here is a monolith widely known as the Monument to Corruption, rather than its official name. Perhaps it will prove to be more fitting as a totem to what we can expect from the government for the next six years.

Gender bender

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On Calle Florencia in the Zona Rosa. I was absorbed by the juxtaposition of the headless (read brainless) suit and the hottie (read brainless again) in the bikini. Might it tell us something about gender assumptions in Mexico City? Academics (and civilians) are welcome to weigh in on this question.

Guilty pleasure

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In 1990 when I came to live in Mexico City I was taken aback by the existence of a café called Snob. In the first place, because "snob" is a word in English. (As a recent arrival I was not yet aware of establishments here with names like Dryclean USA, Bar Oxford and Baby Creysi.)

Secondly, I could not ignore the pejorative connotations of the word. The term "snob" became generalized with the publication in 1848 of William Makepeace Thackeray's Book of Snobs. According to the drily comic novelist, a snob was a nobody of generally unbearable temperament who, in the most vulgar possible manner, imitated the well-to-do and insisted on his superiority to people from the lower classes. It was hardly a word with which one would want to be identified.

But there, among the shops on the ground floor of a California Colonial apartment complex called the Paisaje Polanco, was a café that proudly invited its clientele to identify itself with that term. And it seemed there was no shortage of señoras of a certain age who were happy to include themselves among the snobs of the neighborhood. All this while drinking coffee and eating excellent, European style pastries, such as apple strudel, chocolate mousse and a delectable dark-chocolate cake. Sitting among them over an espresso turned into a guilty pleasure.

The world has changed a lot in the last twenty years. Mexico City now has more cafés than anyone could possibly aspire to visit. I hadn't been to Snob in many years, and perusing the menu on a recent visit I found out that the place has turned into merely the flagship of a mini empire, with six restaurants, a catering service and even a web site.

Some things remain the same. I sat and had a coffee and at a nearby table were the same kind of señoras that used to visit two decades earlier -- maybe they indeed were the same, preserved in wax. And the experience of a stolen hour on a sunny afternoon, watching the other snobs of the neighborhood walk by in the Pasaje Polanco, was as delicious as ever.

Calle Chilpancingo

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When I arrived in Mexico, some of the friends I made (particularly those who were brought up in well-to-do homes), were horrified when I told them about the food I eagerly sampled. They would have never eaten, for example, from the various stalls on Calle Chilpancingo between Tlaxcala and Baja California, which collectively form a  monument to how much grease and how many microbes you are willing to ingest. They wouldn't allow me to take a picture, but the third stall from the corner of Tlaxcala -- where the woman with the white shirt is passing by -- is my favorite, with fantastic tacos de guisado. The tortillas are heated on a grill and then filled with delicacies kept warm on a steam table, such as chorizo with potatoes, pork skin in green sauce, strips of chile peppers in cream, and morcilla, a kind of sausage whose origins are probably best left unconsidered.

You can also get carnitas that have been cooked in huge vats of sizzling fat, and tacos made from the head of a pig (eyes, tongue, cheeks), the meat steaming under sheets of plastic.

There are also less threatening, although only slightly less fattening options: tortas (Mexico's answer to the sandwich), flautas (tacos that have been rolled up and deep fried),  tacos made from beef or even chicken breast.

After all the years I have lived here, I believe I have built up a tolerance to the amoebas that might be festering in some of this food. However, a few years ago my cholesterol levels began to climb, and the doctor suggested I take better care of my diet. So I eat less frequently on Calle Chilpancingo, and indeed, on the street at all. One of my favorite Mexican expressions is, no me pueden quitar lo bailado. It sounds better in Spanish, but means, they can't take away the dances I've already danced.