Calle Article 123
Mexico City, June 2016
Cuauhtemoc Distrito Federal is simply called DF (said, Day Effay) by the Chilango locals, although yellow t-shirts publicizing the recent name change to CDMX appear all over the city—folks love free shirts, but they may hate giving up the ease of DF. My present home is the downtown of the nation’s capital, and I cannot even properly pronounce the word: Cuauhtemoc, the Descending Eagle, Moctezuma’s royal successor and Cortez’s pissed-off subject. His sad dignified statue on Paseo de la Reforma still faces his people, where cars fly around it, horns blaring, like taunting children.
The foot traffic on Avenido Balderas is oppressive. Sidewalks here are narrow even before the food carts arrive. Now the wide brooms and Cloro bleach of the morning scrub give way to bustle outside the Juarez Metro station. I weave to avoid alternating pedestrians and hot metal pots of hominy posole. My bulky daypack will not permit me to stop and eat, reducing me to an obstacle for the millions. I have to get out of this steaming mess.
Dodging left at the first opportunity, I find a bit of peace on Calle Articulo 123, a narrow backstreet of some historic significance. It provided the address for Mexico’s earliest free press, as well as the birthplace of Lucha Libre, at Palacio Chino, before the ground collapsed thirty years ago. My friend Luis was a childhood fan of fake-fighting with capes, as he and his dad rejoiced in the shared spectacle. They returned together by subway to bear witness only hours after its demise. Remarkably, despite the 8.0 tremor, the Metro never stopped running that day.
Calle Articulo 123—uno, dos, tres, to remedial Spanish students like myself—is named after Los Derechos de los Trabajadores, the Mexican Constitution’s guarantee of the liberty of workers to organize and strike. There is no sign of trade union activity here today, however, as the Leftists tend to stick to Barrio Roma these days. Instead, I discover on Articulo 123 a porcelain river of appliances. Every single shop along the narrow street is dedicated to plumbing and bathroom fixtures. Considering the state of the bathrooms I have visited in my new neighborhood, I am surprised not to see more brisk business. A slight stench wafts from curbside grates.
Like old New York, specialty shops cluster on particular streets downtown, to provide easy access to city inventory. For example, Calle Donceles specializes in old typewriters and tape players; Calle Isabel in quinceañera gowns; Avenido 20 de Noviembre in cloth fabrics by the roll; Calle Bolivar in musical instruments and sound equipment; and Calle Articulo 123 evidently in toilets.
Palacio Chino is closed indefinitely. Lucha Libre wrestlers took their masks and tights across town to El Coliseo, a smaller venue but at least one with level floors. The 1985 earthquake was devastating to this street, splitting tarmac in two and destroying Mexico City’s first “cult“ Protestant church, a gothic stone edifice commissioned by Anglican King George in the 18th century. Palacio Chino suffered severe structural damage as well, but at least it did not fall down, more like a boxer than a wrestler.
A young fellow wearing CDMX yellow offers a guided tour of the famous old fighters’ theater, but I am skeptical. The t-shirt would look more official if I hadn’t already seen so many today—on sweaty venders and preoccupied mothers and countless other thrifty wanderers. His so-called tour involves little more than lifting the Clausado tape used to indicate a construction site, or to mark a crime scene. The heavy front doors of the palace are unlocked, but it is too dark to safely enter, and it smells bad inside, like some business opportunity for a plumbing shop down the street. No matter. “Cinco pesos,“ says the yellow man. I honor his constitutional right to insist, which amounts to one Metro fare.