Having barely slept the night before, and then only cramming in a few hours on the plane, I was quite worn out when it came time to explore. I made a half-hearted attempt to get in the adventurous mood as I wandered around Zocalo, the historic center of town, but even the festivities all around me failed to move me. I wandered amongst the throngs in the main square. There is a large winter festival going on and there was a large ramp covered in imported snow, which local children were sliding down in inner tubes. Nearby was a 100' tall fake Christmas tree. Another area had a make-shift arena which people were queuing to enter but I couldn't tell what was inside. Perhaps an ice rink? It was all a bit surreal as it was sunny and the temperature was in the high 70s. I was wearing sandals, shorts, and a hawaiian shirt.
I wandered over to the adjoining Templo Mayor, the only Aztec site in Mexico City not completely razed by the conquistadores, but I simply was too tired and so stumbled back to the hostel to read and relax. The inelegantly named Mexico City Hostel is actually quite a jewel. Tiled floors, stone and plaster walls, a pleasant inner atrium which let in the right amount of sunlight, and numerous amenities all belied the fact that I'm paying only $14 a night. Sure, the dorm room itself had the sickly-sweet locker-room/barracks smell that hostels the world round have, but all in all, it's one hell of a place.
As I sat and read in the atrium, others watched a violent Andy Garcia movie about the Cuban revolution. A local man, a guide hired by the hostel it turned out, asked me if I were part of the Lucha Libre group. I told him I wasn't but that I wanted in. For those who don't know, Lucha Libre is Mexican wrestling in which the wrestlers typically wear masks and flamboyant costumes. The guide informed us that there would also be midget fights and perhaps even "chick fights", though he did reluctantly warn us, "not sexy..."
The group I joined was a pair of Aussie college guys and a twenty-something couple from California. We all made our introductions but, in all honesty, I didn't even attempt to remember their names. In the course of this trip I'll meet several hundred people, most of whom I'll only be around for a matter of hours, if even that. It's enough for me to enjoy their (brief) company. At any rate, the guide brought us complimentary tequila shots and corona. I really wasn't feeling drinking because I was so worn out, but I figured it went part and parcel with watching sweaty men in TIGHT tights manhandle each other.
We left the hostel and met up with a group from another hostel. Several more tequila shots and off we went. I can honestly describe Lucha Libre as being akin to a high school production of the WWE. The wrestlers were mostly burly, pudgy men and they were as convincing at delivering their stomps and punches as porn stars are at reciting lines. That being said, an open palm chest slap from a 230lbs man or a seven foot dive off the ring on to the wooden floor has to hurt regardless. We arrived after the first match had begun.
There was not a strict midget fight; instead, a midget in a white and silver mask and white body suit ws on one of the "teams." He was on the "good" side. He was by far my favorite performer because he was so amazingly acrobatic. He'd jump off the ropes, land on the chest of his standing opponent, spin himself around the man's body twice, and then fling the opponent across the mat after wrapping his midget legs around the opponent's head. Every once in a while the opponent would catch him mid-air and dwarf-toss him across the ring. Whenever this happened, the crowd erupted in laughter. The match ended when one of the bad guys kicked the midget so hard in the groin that it lifted him off the ground. Of course, the referee wasn't looking until the midget had been pinned. He writhed on the mat after the match as the victor raised his hands and the audience booed.
Vendors patrolled the aisles offering beer, popcorn, souvenir masks, and even, strangely enough, light sabers. My personal favorite was the woman selling Maruchan Cup of Noodles.
In the other matches, the only other item of note was the gigantic white wrestler. He was blonde, about 6'6", and 260lbs of chiseled muscle. He towered over all the other wrestlers. He wore obscenely tight blue latex briefs with his name, Marco, in white letters across his butt. Several times he would stop in the middle of fighting, place his hands on either side of his head, and gyrate his hips at groups of ululating women in the audience. Of course, he was pinned twice in the course of the match and kicked repeatedly in the groin.
After that excitement, we were led to the Plaza Garibaldi, the only place in the city where it is legal to drink beer on the street (otherwise it's a $200 US fine). I wanted to eat, so I went over to a little eatery on the plaza and after a few minutes the others joined me. Apparently, drinking beer in the midst of 20 mariachi bands had grown tiresome quickly. We all sat and traded travel stories for awhile over a few beers and then I bid them an early good night.
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