Mexico City is surely one of the great cities of the world.  It is the second largest city in the western hemisphere (behind Sao Paolo, Brazil) and the population of its metropolitan area eclipses New York City in 53% of the area.

    I can attest to the fantastic street food, Mercado Sonora, La Virgen de Guadalupe church, Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo’s creative compound, the European feel of neighborhoods Roma and Condessa, and one of the great plazas of the world – El Zócalo (aka Plaza de la Constitución).  The footprint of this monstrous open heart of the Distrito Federal measures 240 m x 240 m (787 ft x 787 ft), covering 57,600m2 (620,000 ft2).  It is surrounded by The National Palace, various government buildings, and the Templo Mayor – the main temple of the Aztecs in this, their former capital called Tenochtitlan.  Some of my favorite moments in Mexico City were spent six floors above, sipping coffee, looking down upon the Zócalo, watching the parade of travelers, lovers, families, and friends across the strong foundation – especially at dusk, the light fading, trumpets and drums, soldiers entering, marching, and retrieving the proud flag of their country that had flown again for another day.

    Just off the Zócalo is the Metropolitan Cathedral.  It is a work of art 250 years in the making.  Its interior occupies 7550 m2 (81,300 ft2) and its towers climb 67 m (220 ft) above the Mexican motherland.

    As I sat in one of its pews, humbled by the faith in God – albeit imported and imposed – and the works of man, a small, meek, older woman approached.  I could see she wasn’t, but asked if she was okay.  Her voice shook and tears welled up in her eyes as she pleaded, “We are not bad people.”

    My heart broke for her and all Mexicans.  It had been over a year and a half since Donald Trump threw his name in the presidential hat and Mexico under the bus in successive sick breaths.  Inexplicably, not only did he not suffer, but instead was seemingly rewarded for his racism and fear mongering, ascending to the highest office in the world just 17 months later.  I told her that I thought neither she nor her fellow citizens were bad people, that I was halfway through a most enjoyable time in her country.  I explained to her the difference between our popular and electoral votes, and that this president did not reflect the thoughts and attitudes of the majority of Americans.  I am glad she didn’t ask about the almost 63 million Americans who did vote for him or the 93 million who didn’t vote at all, if for no other reason than to reject such a monster.

    We spoke of the divide between rich and poor both here and in America, of politicians more focused on money and power than people, and leaders betraying those they lead.

    She told me that she was having a meeting with a Senator in the morning and invited me to come along.  So I did.

    I showed up at the Mexican Senate on January 31, 2017.  My heart was beating as I got off the bus outside the gates on Paseo de La Reforma.  My life was pretty trippy, but this was extra trippy.

    We had agreed to meet there at 9am, but she was late.  I wandered around, took some pictures, had a few reality checks.  What exactly is happening?  I’m doing what?  Where?

    She finally showed up at 11.

    We signed in, passed through metal detectors, had our bags checked, and headed to his office.  By the time we got there, Senator Mario Delgado Castro was leaving for a press conference.  

    I learned that she had simply requested a meeting available to all his constituents. His assistant did give us some time. Sortuv. He spent most of our brief meeting on his phone, nodding to my friend’s concerns. She introduced me and told me to relate my perspectives on the current political situation.  He nodded periodically and showed me some pretty sweet pictures of a recent trip to the Yucatan Peninsula. Looked great! 

    Still, it really was something to be in the building where representatives from Mexico's 31 states conduct the business of the country. It is a beautiful building, inside and out.

    Outside, we encountered protests against low wages, poor farmers, unchecked inflammatory U.S. rhetoric, and high gas prices. Gasoline was then the equivalent of $3/gallon, and the next of two more price hikes would be going into effect the next day.  Many workers’ wages were $4/day. Mexico paying for a wall was unfathomable.

    She wanted to know everything about everyone. We talked with police officers, soldiers, farmers, protestors, and bus drivers. 

    After that, she took me about town a bit - to the Plaza de Revolución, the Museo de Palacio de Bellas Artes (Palace of Fine Arts), and then back to the Zócalo, now half-filled with protestors.

    We ended our day with a coffee above the plaza, in the café that she had introduced me to.  We talked about everything as the light left the sky and the crowds left the Zócalo. She made a call, spoke for a bit, then passed her phone to me. Her husband, José, thanked me for reaching out to his wife, and told me how he had enjoyed his time in Atlanta 14 years ago - the place, the people, America.

    The woman's name was Alma, the suspicious nature of which did not escape me.  What allowed me to embark on this journey after 19 years of dreaming was the sale of the building that housed my photography studio/art gallery - del Alma Gallery, meaning "gallery of the soul".  

    They invited me to dinner at their house the next night.  José, Alma, their twin girls, and I had pizza and made both small and large talk.  It was simple and glorious, and I reveled in my life on the subway back to my cheap hotel across town.