Tres Andadores December 17, 2021
“The city has allowed this to happen, and violent eviction may be necessary,” one merchant says, in a prominent online forum, describing the state of clutter on the Andadores of San Cristoból, as well as his/her proposed solution.
In the eyes of many storeowners and renters, the street venders are cheating, paying no rent, honoring no inspection codes, contributing nothing to the tax base that keeps the streets safe and clean. In December, more than ever, these wide walkways become choked with makeshift stands and sidewalk displays. Violent eviction, hopefully, will not be the preferred remedy, but there are evidently some desperate enough to suggest it out loud.
To those most invested in the city’s Catholic integrity, the symbolic significance of the Andadores is fundamentally ecclesiastic. This trinity of tres walking avenues—Real de Guadalupe, 20 de Noviembre, and Miguel Hidalgo (El Carmen)—emanates from the central Cathedral like the points of a crucifix. However, San Cristóbal pushes aside the traditional union of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, opting instead for a uniquely Mexican trio: (1) Mary, of course, at least the one described by the campesino Juan Diego, running east; (2) November 20th, the official starting date of the 1910 Revolution, running north; and (3) the literal Father of Independence, Padre Hidalgo, running south. Together, these three walking avenues form a T which converge on the central plaza, and which define the compass needles of the old city. To finish the 4 points of the cross requires a switchback climb, to the west, up to Cristoblito. This pitch is too steep for the street venders, but a few beverage-sellers cling to the hillside with a few items—mostly Coke and Sabrina potato chips.
The Feast of Guadalupe has finally been consumed, in anticipation of the Christmas consumption to come. The wreckage of the great party on the hill is still strewn about—the husks of explosive shells, the vacant food stands, and a host of rickety rides in various states of disassembly. The bumper-car ride is labeled, simply, “Parking,” as if to underscore the way people parallel-park in this city—bump forward, bump backward, until the car fits in its chosen spot.
The Andador de Guadalupe is in full yuletide, festival-of-lights mode, with a shooting star motif that eerily resembles snowflakes, as if snow is something that happens here. For the most part, it does not. Of course, Bethlehem does not see snow either, so it is not essential. Indeed, Bing Crosby’s dreams of whiteness, “just like the one I used to know,” is probably due less to Christmas nostalgia than his parochial racism, at least if his children are to be believed. Ahh, Christmas.
The largest decorated “tree” is atop Cristobalito hill—its bright stars are visible from my house—although it is actually a conical series of lights strung from the radio tower. Closer to home, there is a big fake tree in the central plaza, as well an occasional big fake Santa, wandering about in search of a paid photo opportunity. He has serious competition on the plaza, however, as there is a couple of gigantic Mexicans—at least eight-feet tall, mostly prosthetic head—who seem to appeal especially to sightseers. The couple’s traditional costumes are so bright and shiny, whereas Santa’s are dingy and missing buttons. Too many ghosts of Christmas past.
Pilgrims and holiday shoppers arrive from one Andador and proceed onto the next. The T is congested with foot traffic. More than ever, everyone is looking to buy. Positioned at a visible corner of this nexus, a young man in a sharp hat and pointed boots appraises the opportunities. He has a walk-talkie raised to his mouth—never a good sign on any plaza in Mexico.