Agar-the-Criste Mystery November 10, 2022
In my former occupation, agarose was always in ready supply in the laboratory. Without this refined polymer, derived from seaweed, it was not possible to perform the gel electrophoresis necessary for forensic analysis of DNA. In its coarser form, as powdered agar, my transformed Escherichia coli microbes—those beautiful babies—once relied on the stuff for nutrition, in their 37-degree petri-dish nursery. However, since this is not Our Man in a Genome Lab, gelatinous agarose will have to take me on a different avenue of exploration.
In this mission, that is, to discover a local source of agar in the city, our first avenue on the journey is Calle Ignacio Aldema, a beautifully bumpy cobblestone lane in the northern neighborhood of Jalatlaco. Spanish colonial streets are invariably narrow—they were conceived in the era of horses—and all but the unlucky few are one-way for cars. Narrower still are the streets of Jalatlaco, where sidewalks are nonexistent, and pedestrians and motor vehicles compete for space, sometimes with elbows and sideview mirrors.
The mystery of the moment in Jalatlaco concerns the wreaking piles of uncollected garbage bags that plague the city. There are no piles here. In fact, there is no sign of any garbage whatsoever, not on the streets, nor anywhere else in view, including the popular park surrounding Templo de San Matías Jalatlaco. Someone is collecting trash here. I am envious.
The colonial homes and cafes and boutique hotels are brightly painted, the flowery gardens lovingly tended. This is one of the finest neighborhoods in the old city, and skyrocketing property values only confirm it. The whole scene is, at least visually, reminiscent of Frida’s Coyoacan, or Diego’s San Angel, minus the Tiffany’s and Starbuck’s. This is where the intellectual elite from all over come to congregate, occasionally live, and invest substantial capital.
The center of activity in Jalatlaco is El Templo, built in the 17th century, although local literature notes, more than once, that “the town of Jalatlaco already existed in the Valley of Oaxaca when Francisco Orozco’s forces arrived on December 25, 1521.” Jalatlaco thus gains coveted status as a pre-Columbian settlement, attracting all the mystical significance (and money) that goes with it.
I missed an opportunity the other day to get a free haircut here, in the small park surrounding outside San Matías Jalatlaco, administered by an army of experimental student-barbers. Although grateful for the invitation to clean up my act, so to speak, the line for those awaiting a simple trim was just too long. Moreover, watching the young apprentices shave ambiguous symbols onto scalps—yes, I saw this—I became a bit concerned as to what “experimental” entailed. Push on.
Jalatlaco is bordered on the north by the main highway through the city, the 190, as Californians are prone to call it, near the ADO bus terminal, Guerreros Stadium, and the solitary McDonalds. The closest major drainage to downtown also flows through here, covering a large watershed that reaches the flanks of Fortín. Today’s creek is barely a trickle.
Across the chronically congested I-190 begins Colonia Reforma, wherein we hope to find agar and a better life. We are now out of the old city, as the more modern architecture of this mixed neighborhood shows. Along with Barrio Xochimilco, to the west, and Jalatlaco, due south, Reforma is one of three neighborhoods most sought by those of means, where security is improved, English is frequently spoken, garbage is privately collected, and shops tend to specialize in higher-end products, in this case, powdered agarose.
Among a grid of pleasant streets named after flowering plants—Palmeras, Sabinos, Almendros, Jazmines—we finally find what we are looking for, on a friendly street named after opium poppies, Calle Amapolas, in a small store called, naturally, Organics. The agar here is utterly affordable, and the cheerful masked clerk assures us that supply is never a problem. In addition, the nutritional benefit is beyond question, whatever that may be. I am now ready to begin the forensic analysis, should it come to that. Escherichia coli will not be hard to find—I merely head straight home toward the Zócalo. And while I am not yet sure as to the nature of this mystery to be solved, I am reasonably confident that, wearing a mask and sterile latex, I should be able to pick my way to the bottom of it all.