Guadalajara 2019 - A Trip to the Aquarium, an UBER Attack

At the suggestion of the guesthouse owner I set out one morning to the aquarium, a rather new addition to Guadalajara's attractions.

Although the brochure for the aquarium, oddly, didn't contain an address for the institution, I thought "over the last few days I have overcome both being stranded in an unfamiliar city and being smacked down by a Mexican wrestler, it's going to take more than a missing address to defeat me!" I looked up the aquarium on Google and ordered an UBER using the online address for my destination. The car arrived and began to drive through the maze that is Guadalajara and came to a stop in the middle of a nondescript block. I could sense immediately that something had gone awry. I used my phone to show him where I wanted to go. He used his phone, in translate mode, to tell me I had entered the wrong address. He told me, via his phone, that he would have to close out my current ride and then used my phone to order a different driver to take me to the aquarium. I stepped out of the car in a a part of the city I believe is referred to  as "God knows where" and waited for the replacement driver. He arrived within moments and I was soon deposited at the entranced to the aquarium.

A line of huge, brightly painted Coca Cola bottles stand outside the building. The company is a major sponsor of the venue, you come across their iconic images over and over again among the exhibits. In a rather unsettling manner the ticket window is mirror glass. I suspect this is so that the bright sun does not make life uncomfortable for the people working inside. A disembodied voice addresses me in Spanish. I don't understand a word. I take out my credit card and place in the slot hoping my intentions were obvious to the unseen person inside. The tips of fingers, all I ever saw of the woman in the booth, takes the card then returns it, along with a ticket, receipt and credit slip for me to sign. As with much of Guadalajara this action takes place with me standing outside in the Mexican sunshine. It was frighteningly cold at this time in Chicago, the sun was fine with me. I have a band with a bar code on it by another attendant, this one I can see, and am scanned through the turnstile.

Guadalajara 2019 - Mexican Food

I promised myself I would eat better than I had on my previous visit. Breakfast, fresh fruit,a variety of cereals, yogurt and toast, was provided with the room. The communal dining table allows an opportunity for the guests to meet one another. Our morning conversations cover a vast array of topics, ranging from personal tales to global issues. 

I soon discover that chicken can be difficult to come by. That being said  after viewing the murals and jewelry shopping I find a restaurant near the guesthouse that serves an excellent enchilada verde, just the right amount of spicy, and a waiter that has some command of English, this quality can sometimes be in short supply. In fact the language barrier is one of the biggest challenges I have encountered during my visits to Guadalajara.

That evening I walk back to the area of the Cathedral. There is a restaurant located there I remembered from my first trip. It is on the second floor above the Cathedral Plaza. It's main draw for me, a snifter of Chivas Regal costs the equivalent of $5. A scotch of this quality is usually too rich for my pocket book. As I walk to the plaza I pass a string trio playing under a centuries old arcade. The view from my table through the french doors is the classical facade of the municipal building which fills one side of the square. Music from the singer in the restaurant below wafts through the doors, open to the cool, refreshing night air. The food is excellent, the Chivas a rare treat. I leave and return to the guesthouse stuffed and happy.

Then there was the lunch of Cesar salad with tender strips of chicken and generous wedges of garlic bread. The dinner of breaded shrimp so amazing I had to restrain myself to from moaning out loud at the table....if I had stayed any longer I would have returned weighing over 200 pounds.

Guadalajara 2019 - Jewelry Shopping, A Favorite Pastime

Outside of the Instituto Cultural Cabanas there is a long block filled with jewelry vendors. Case after case are packed glittering metal and stones of every imaginable color.

I LOVE JEWELRY! Our modest condo is packed with art, antiques and artifacts, some pieces I can trace back 3 generations. There is little room left for anything additional. Jewelry is small. I use it literally every day. With this in mind when I travel I can collect and purchase it guilt free. Of course I have the typical tee shirts as travel mementos. I did buy one of these at the Lucha Libre show emblazoned with a wrestling mask, but I cannot remember a trip when I did not return with some piece of non essential adornment fabricated from metal and stone.

Like a magpie I am drawn to the cases, asking to see this item and that. At one case an adorable, young, hulking vendor shows me several bracelet choices. In the back of my mind I warn myself not to be distracted by his physical charms. Managing to keep my wits about me I get a great deal on a bracelet from the Latin Adonis. Upon a return trip 2 days later his cases are covered, his wares presumably locked up in the safe at the back of his stall. Consoling myself I think, "Maybe he wasn't that cute".

Guadalajara 2019 - Orozco Murals

The morning after my up close and personal encounter with the Luchador I had something more sedate planed. A visit to the Instituto Cultural Cabanas, which houses murals by Mexican artist Jose Orozco, something I had missed on my first visit 3 years prior. The Hispicio Cabanas, originally named the House of Charity and Mercy, or whatever that translates to in Spanish, is considered one of the most important examples of neo-classical architecture in Mexico. It, and the murals it contains, are so valued that they were declared a UNESCO World Heritage site in 1997. The building opened its doors in 1810 to provide care and shelter to the poor. It had to close several months later when it was converted to military barracks, a sad irony. After 17 years it was reopened to continue it's original mission. Eventually it was turned over to the state. In 1937 the state of Jalisco invited the artist to paint the inside of the main chapel.

Marimba music fills the air as I stroll across the long plaza in front of the building. Stalls vending local crafts sit side by side along the plaza's edges. After paying a modest entrance fee I cross an inner courtyard to the main chapel. The murals are an assault to the senses. They are brutal in both tone and narrative, dark and disturbing, yet breathtakingly beautiful. His style is simultaneously primitive and complex.

Despite the dark visions the chapel is quiet and peaceful. Diffused sun streams in from the windows which surround the dome. A cool breeze flowed through the open doors as I sat on a bench, astounded by the angry message of the murals juxtaposed against the beautiful, deceptively simple looking lines of the early 19th century architecture.

Beyond the chapel the rooms surrounding the many courtyards of this architectural masterwork have been converted to galleries devoted to the work of Mexican artists. Their is a small collection of abstract works by a painter named Mathias Goeritz. His creates pieces with a 3 dimensional quality by applying layer upon layer of paint. Later I discover, in another of the galleries, the same works on paper, presumably studies for the first canvases I encountered. Several courtyards feature the work of Francisco Gazitua. He recreates mechanical tools, a compass, a scale, a calibrator, in large scale metal works which are set among the palms and citrus trees which dot the courtyards.

Gallery after gallery of beautiful works enrich and renew my soul as I work my way through the building. There is a passion exhibited by the works that seem, somehow, distinctly Mexican, both a tribute and mirror to the long history and rich culture of their country. I make a final, return stop at the chapel before heading out into the afternoon.

Guadalajara 2019 - Luche Libre, Up Close and Personal

Around the perimeter of the arena is a section of seats separated from the rest of the arena by chain link fencing. Behind this barrier the crowd jumps up and down, chanting and banging cow bells and drums. What these seats lack, other than even a shred of civility or reserve, is the up close and personal relationship the attendees in the front of the barriers have with the Luchadors. These big boys know how to work a crowd. At one point one of the "bad guys" ran up the aisle I was seated next to and threw himself into the lap of a spectator. A good guy, dressed in shiny red and blue ring attire followed him. It appeared the lap sitter was taunting the blue and red one, perhaps suggesting that he could not touch him as he was intertwined with a paying customer. I had to assume this as it was all in Spanish and I couldn't understand a word. The red and blue one returned to the ring followed by the bad guy who, as he passed me, grabbed my shoulder and shouted something in Spanish. I have no idea what it was, I couldn't understand a word. It was all in good fun, the cute security guy that had been crouched on the floor by the aisle through the entire proceeding looked at me grinned and we both laughed.On another occasion a wrestler was sent careening across the floor outside the ring. He brushed by my legs. The guy sitting on the other side of the aisle had just enough time to jump out of his chair before the tights wearing behemoth made contact with his now unoccupied seat. The group of men seated next to me seemed to be acquainted with both the staff and several of the wrestlers judging from the familiar looks exchanged between them. 

On a trip to the restroom prior to the event I saw a man standing outside a door off to the left. He was wearing a melon colored mask, melon colored tights and a matching tee shirt. Little did I know that he would play a part in my slightly early departure from the arena that evening. It was the final match. He entered the ring sans tee shirt, with the "bad guy" contingent. This group also included the hunky "jungle boy" mentioned in my previous post. The match began and quickly became chaotic, Bodies were flying both in and out of the ring. I have a photo on my phone of Melon Man attempting to demask one of the other wrestlers, the ultimate in humiliation in the Luche Libre world. I am not entirely certain of what happened but Melon Man somehow propelled the wrestler he had attempted to demask backward, directly into me. I had no time to react as I saw a huge back headed in my direction. These men are trained performers, they are not out to hurt each other, the contact itself wasn't the problem but somehow he hit me in such a that my glasses flew up and off to the side of my head. The wrestlers continued to wrestle. I looked at my glasses. They were badly askew. The cute security guy looked over at me. His face dropped. He motioned over a woman wearing an apron with pockets in it. I thought perhaps she had tools in the pocket and was going to fix my glasses. I brought my hand to my head and when I brought it down there was blood on my fingers. Apparently the metal nose bridge of my glasses had cut me in the middle of my forehead as they were knocked off me. She enlisted one of the men sitting next to me to communicate, through limited English and gestures, that she needed me to close my eyes as she spritzed me with antiseptic and applied a butterfly bandage. As I went to the restroom to survey the damage to my face I passed by what I assume, from his extremely well developed physique, was one of the Luchadors from a previous match, now out of his trunks and wearing his street clothes. Of course I couldn't be sure, the masks provide quite a bit of anonymity.

I decided, bent glasses in hand, that I had had enough of the spectacle and that it was time to leave. I wouldn't have been able to see clearly anyway. My departure was slightly delayed as I had to wait for one of the Luchadors, prone on the floor directly in my path, to get up and reenter the fray in the ring. I Ubered back to the guesthouse and bed.

All turned out well. The wound was minor, a kindly optician in a tiny storefront shop bent my glasses back into shape the next morning for free and I got a great story.

Did I ever tell you about the time I got smacked down by a Mexican wrestler in Guadalajara?

Guadalajara 2019 - Luche Libre

Mexican wrestling, known as Luche or Luche Libre in the local tongue, whenever I have researched a trip to Mexico it is listed by many as a "must see". I had, on previous visits, never been able to work it into my plans. On this trip I was determined not to miss it. 

In Guadalajara the shows are scheduled every Tuesday and Sunday. I Uber to the rather sketchy area where the arena is located. The driver asks me a question, in Spanish, which ends with the word Coliseo, the name of the arena. I conclude, due to the final word, he is asking me if I am headed to the arena. "Si" I reply. "Ah Luche", he says with a grin.

There is a festival atmosphere in the open air entrance to the arena. Trademark Luchador masks are being sold by entrepreneurs carrying tall wooden poles with row after row of the colorful masks hanging from crossbars. People are laughing and joking, intent on having a good time. I purchase my ticket, cash only, front row, it costs the equivalent of about $17. I, as everyone else entering the arena, am patted down by security as I go through the turnstiles, enter the indoor portion of the arena and find my seat. 

Due to the erratic nature of my travel over the last 2 days I had not had an opportunity to eat correctly and am also somewhat dehydrated. I purchased a very full cup of very tart melon, one of a number of offerings of food and drink carried by vendors working the growing crowd.

The lights dim and  a row of women in skimpy attire and ludicrously high platform shoes form a line on one side of a ramp leading from backstage to the ring in the center of the room. A chubby announcer in a too small suit enters the ring, grabs a mike and the fun begins. As the wrestlers are announced they run down the ramp, jump into the ring, leap onto the ropes by the turnbuckles and raise their arms in the air to the cheers, and occasionally jeers, of the audience. It is a spectacle of bright, colored, flashing lights, bright, sometimes ridiculous costumes and admirable athleticism. The performers, really, this is as carefully choreographed as a ballet, range from paragons of rippling, muscled masculinity to slightly overweight types one might expect to see drinking too much beer in a neighborhood bar. The "good guys", whose corner I was seated behind, trended toward the aforementioned muscled types. They displayed their gym built bodies and bodacious backsides in colorful tights or trunks, eschewing unnecessary clothing items such as shirts. The "bad guys" tended to be more full figured, their darker and more modest attire a sharp counterpoint to the flashy, more revealing fashion choices of their counterparts.

They flip, flop and chop each other. Even though the matches are choreographed, there are loud bangs as large backs make contact with the floor of the ring and occasional thwacks as solid pecs are struck by meaty forearms. Much of the action takes place outside of the ring. As the Luchadors, as the wrestlers are refereed to, "throw" each other through the ropes of the ring, they follow them and continue to do battle within a foot of the attendees in the front row or chase each other up the aisles. The matches are fast paced and occasionally chaotic. They follow one after another at almost breakneck speed. They are silly, entertaining and a surprising amount of fun. The costumes are a kaleidoscope of capes, some looking as if they were made from drapes, metallic warm up jackets with the name of the wrestler emblazoned on its back, worn with matching tights and boots, ass hugging trunks and of course the ubiquitous masks. One, billed as a sort of jungle man, appeared in leopard print trunks and horns in his long, curly mass of hair. He did remove the horns before the match began.

A great time was being had by all until.......