Estadio Azteca

As I described in a previous post, football is a life-long passion of mine (for me football will always refer to soccer, even if I do quite enjoy the Super Bowl spectacle once a year). And as much as I used to love the intensity of 5-a-side kickarounds during work lunch breaks or the excitement of playing half a match (maybe less) for my tiny college team in Oxford on a Saturday morning, these days I'm happy to sit back on the sofa, preferably with cold beer in hand (not too cold of course, I'm not a philistine), and watch the professionals show me how it's supposed to be done.  

For the most part, I'm irrationally attached to the English Premier League above all other competitions. I might make the odd exception for El Clasico from Spanish La Liga, but otherwise I'm happier sitting watching Crystal Palace v Stoke City on a rainy Monday evening (at least it's not raining on my sofa) than a top game from Italy, Germany, France or anywhere else. Normally I find it even harder to get excited about international football outside of the buzz of the World Cup or Euros: qualifiers just don't do it for me, friendlies even less so. 

So when I realised a couple of weeks ago that club football was about to go on hibernation for the latest international break, my first thought was how I was going to fill the void left behind by my team not playing for a whole 13 days (don't get me started on what's going to happen when the season eventually finishes in May). It was at that point that I noticed out the corner of my eye that the Mexican national team had a fixture against Costa Rica on Friday night. It took several seconds for it to dawn on me: Mexico playing at home...this Friday...in the Estadio Azteca...I'm in Mexico City...I could go to the game! Scratch everything I said 15 seconds ago about international football!

I had actually been to the Azteca once before, three and a bit years ago, to see Club América v Atlante in the Liga MX, the top division in Mexican club football. The third biggest football stadium in the world, behind Barcelona's Nou Camp in second place and the Rungrado May Day stadium in North Korea (learn that one for the pub quiz), the Azteca is home to both América, one of the most popular, successful, and thoroughly hated clubs in Mexico, and the Mexican national team. It is one of only two stadiums in the world to have hosted the World Cup final twice, the other being the Maracanã in Brazil, where back in 2010 I witnessed surely the first 0-0 draw in the history of Brazilian football between Flamengo and Vasco da Gama. The Azteca was also the venue where in 1986 Diego Maradona scored twice in quick succession against poor old England in a World Cup quarter-final: the first "Hand of God" goal being one the most infamous and the second "Goal of the Century" one the most famous in football history.

I was massively keen to return to the Azteca, and pleasantly surprised to realise it was just a short 15-minute ride south from our place. After almost three months here in Mexico City, I'm only now starting to get the vaguest idea of where different parts of the city are in relation to one another. Rosalía and I arrived at the ground with plenty of time to spare before kick-off, enough for me to buy a knock-off classic green Mexican football shirt in order to really feel part of the occasion. Just as we were about to enter the ground, I remembered a peculiar rule at Mexican football stadiums: you're not allowed in with a belt. Luckily, there are dozens of little stalls around the edge of the arena, where as well as selling said merchandise they will look after belts for the duration of the game for the bargain price of 10 pesos (about 40 British pence).

We slowly made our way halfway round the stadium to our seats to find that I had inadvertently chosen the section right next to the away fans. Los Ticos, as the Costa Ricans are affectionately known, were impressive in number and noise-levels, cheering their team wholeheartedly from start to finish, even when it became clear early on that Mexico were dominating proceedings. The remainder of the stadium was a long way from being full; despite the huge numbers of people gathered outside, the sheer size of the place meant that even a crowd of 40-50,000 (I'm guessing) felt somewhat sparse. At other stadiums around the world I've been to they'll often close off certain sections when it's not sold out so the fans are more tightly packed to create a better atmosphere; that wasn't the case here, the Mexican crowd was pretty evenly distributed around the ground.

Similar to our experience at Vive Latino the previous weekend, a wide range of snacks were available without having to move an inch from our seats (yes, even soup again!) thanks to the multitude of waiters wading hazardously through the crowd. Unlike in the UK, alcohol is permitted in the stands, although we were forced to actually get off our asses and hunt the beers down in the bowels of the stadium. In an even greater crime against humanity, the only available beer was Corona.

The match itself was low-key; Mexico scored the crucial opening goal after just 7 minutes through Javier Hernádez, El Chicharito ("Little Pea"), who in the process became Mexico's joint all-time top goalscorer. Chicharito has been a favourite player of mine since he signed for Manchester United in 2010, scoring several crucial goals in Sir Alex Ferguson's final years in charge of the team and always giving 110% (as football commentators love to say); I was particularly sad when he finally left for Bayer Leverkusen in Germany a couple of years ago. It was worth the ticket price to see his special moment alone. Mexico continued to dictate the game, and when they scored on the stroke of half time the contest was effectively over. A further win away against Trinidad and Tobago a few days later puts them in a very strong position to qualify for the World Cup. Fingers crossed for England v Mexico at Russia 2018.

Vive Latino 2017

For Rosalía's birthday last year I gave her a handmade voucher for a day at a luxury spa in Stockholm (i.e. I scribbled on a bit of paper that I promised to take her to said spa at some unspecified point in the near future). Heavily pregnant at the time, I thought a relaxing day with saunas, jacuzzis and massages would be just what she needed to alleviate the strain. Unfortunately we discovered shortly afterwards that pregnancy and jacuzzis don't mix well, so I naively suggested we could simply wait until after the baby was born, palm it off on some friends for a day and hop over to Stockholm to fulfill the birthday promise. Shows how little idea I had of what having a baby would actually be like. 

One year later on the other side of the world and with the voucher still unused, it was time once again for me to think of a birthday present. I figured this time it had to be something with a limited expiry date, and hit upon the idea of concert tickets: it was about time we started taking advantage of the wealth of cultural delights that Mexico City has to offer. After a bit of Googling I came across Vive Latino, an annual rock music festival celebrating its 18th edition in Mexico City. The line up for this year was mouthwatering, featuring several of the biggest Spanish-language artists in the world: Babasónicos, Enanitos Verdes, Hombres G, Jarabe de Palo, Julieta Venegas, Los Fabulosos Cadillacs, and Zoé. I must admit that I'm still a relative newcomer to the rock en español scene, having grown up on a strict diet of late 90s/early 00s British indie rock, and it's entirely possible there were other huge bands playing that I hadn't even heard of. 

Already chuffed with myself for finding such a surefire hit gift, I was then faced with a tricky choice: the festival would play out over two days and I'd have to choose which one to attend. Whilst it would have been great to spend a whole weekend pretending to be 18 again, financial and parental realities meant that I was forced into picking Saturday or Sunday. It was Babásonicos vs Zoé, Los Fabulosos Cadillacs vs Julieta Venegas--Argentina vs Mexico, basically. I suppose there was always only going to be one winner. The first match was pretty much a tie for me, I'm a big fan of both Babásonicos' catchy rock (try this one out for size: Pijamas) and Zoé's batshit crazy lyrics (see No Me Destruyas). In match two Los Fabulosos Cadillacs are, according to Wikipedia no less, "one of the most influential and most-referenced rock bands of the Latin rock world". Like many of the rock en español bands I've come across, there's a strong hint of ska about their sound, and while I certainly appreciate some of their classic tunes (Vasos Vacíos for example), it's ultimately not really my cup of tea. I prefer Julieta Venegas' smart singer-songwriter pop-rock (here's one: Algo Esta Cambiando). I was even inspired to record my own extremely lo-fi version of one of her most famous songs: Me Voy.

We arrived mid-afternoon on the Sunday, and quickly set about getting ourselves fed and watered. 

Satiated, we began following the throngs towards a nearby stage and got ourselves in position to finally enjoy some music.

At this point in time I still hadn't really grasped the scale of the event. I assumed we were at the main stage, and started planning how to make our way further forwards for the bigger acts later in the evening. Rosalía had mentioned several times how huge Vive Latino was; my first impression was that it was amateur hour compared so some of the big festivals I've been to in the UK. All the same, while waiting for the next band to come on we went off to explore the rest of the site until we stumbled across this:

The penny finally dropped: there were tens upon tens of thousands of people there. Part of my misunderstanding had been that I thought the venue, known as Foro Sol, was just a sports stadium; in fact, it's more like a complex of various stadia and concert arenas built inside a Formula One race course. That explained why I was walking on concrete track rather than a dusty field. 

We arrived at the real main stage just in time to see Los Enanitos Verdes, yet another Argentinian rock group, whose most famous tune Lamento Boliviano with its classic refrain "Yo estoy aquí, borracho y loco" is obligatorily sung late into the night at any respectable latino party and is a guaranteed festival crowd-pleaser. Unhappy with the sound quality from the special section up in the bleachers our "platinum" tickets entitled us access to, we moved down into the crowd about halfway through and stayed there the rest of the evening, hopping every now and then between the main stage and the nearby second stage.

We managed to see all the bands we wanted to see, nobody disappointed, the whole evening was a big success. There were similarities to British festivals: the beer prices were extortionate, the toilets were grim; and there were differences: rather than having to actually go to a bar to get a drink, you could just accost one of the dozens of waiters moving tenaciously through the crowd at any one moment with arms stretched directly above the head, carrying precarious-looking trays of pre-poured pints:  

And that was just the start of it; you could also hail down a pizza, a hamburger, a soup (who the hell eats soup in the middle of a festival crowd?). As the night went on many of the beer carriers switched it up to mezcal (easier to carry with tired arms). 

We left elated and ready to drop when Zoé finally departed the main stage after a rousing set of their greatest hits, walked what seemed like an eternity to get far enough away from the masses to be able to order an Uber, and crashed into bed well after 1am. I can't tell you if it was 2am or 3am or even 4am when the baby started crying; I guess it doesn't really make any difference. But we'll both remember Vive Latino 2017 as a special experience, where for a few hours at least we could just relax, have fun, and listen to some great music. 

Let's just hope that by next year's birthday I don't still have the spa day voucher hanging over my head.

Swimming in Mexico City (or: A ramble about exercise and a small digression about difficulties in cross-cultural communication)

When my wife and I were looking to buy our first apartment back in Sweden last year, proximity to the local swimming pool (the lovely 50 metre job on the right) was pretty high up my list of criteria. The fact that Fyrishov also happened to be five minutes away from the studio where Rosalía practises yoga was a bonus, and helped narrow our search area considerably (to be fair, Uppsala is a pretty small city so it would have been hard to find somewhere that far away). I've been swimming on and off my whole life, from weekly lessons at primary school in Jersey to sporadic semi-hungover sessions before maths lectures at university in Bath to a pretty consistent 2-3 times a week throughout my time in Uppsala, even if time in the pool itself has gone down in recent years just as time in the post-swim sauna and jacuzzi has gone up.

I hadn't really thought about swimming in Mexico before I arrived, other than hopefully the odd dip in the sea if and when we venture to the coast, but after a few weeks here I started to feel desperately in need of some exercise. For me working out is important not just for my physical health, but also for feeling good about myself and the positive knock-on effects it has on other areas of my life. I've dabbled with various different types of exercise over the years: at various points in my career I've been a terrible if enthusiastic football player, a half-decent long-distance runner, and even a highly inelegant but dedicated Bikram yoga practitioner (Rosalía's influence). A short-lived boxing career also failed to take off when I couldn't find the right-sized gloves (see picture). These activities have all fallen by the wayside for one reason or another, persistent niggling knee problems often being a key factor, but swimming has withstood the test of time like no other as a way of keeping myself in some kind of physical and mental shape.

While still staying with the parents-in-law during the early days of our time here in Mexico, to my surprise I came across a sports centre with a swimming pool close nearby. I decided out of curiosity to find out what the deal was; I was somewhat stunned to discover I would have to provide a birth certificate, proof of residence, ECG and blood tests from the last 6 months, two recent passport photographs, as well as paying a joining fee and monthly membership. By contrast, in Uppsala the process of going swimming basically consists of turning up, buying a ticket and jumping in the pool. Needless to say I passed on that opportunity.

The pool had to be behind
here somewhere

A few weeks later, after moving across town to the apartment where we're now staying, I began to hear rumours about another swimming pool, even closer-by than the previous one. I couldn't actually see the place because it's hidden in one of many closed neighbourhoods here, where the residents basically get together and shut off the streets to anyone who doesn't live there by installing gates with security guards at all the entrances, despite the fact that legally they are completely public. However, the clues were everywhere, like the signs saying "swimming pool" with an arrow painted on a nearby wall, the convincing website saying that there was in fact a swimming facility just up the road, the sight of people walking around everyone in tracksuits, goggles and swimming caps (not really). I eventually took the plunge (pun intended) and wrote an email asking what times the pool was open and how much it would cost to swim a couple of times a week.

What happened next was a real lesson in cross-cultural communication for me. In my mail I specifically mentioned that I wanted to be able to just turn up and swim on my own, that I had found information on their website about swimming classes but I couldn't figure out if and when the pool was open for general swimming. The first reply came (roughly translated):
"Good afternoon Señor Smith, we offer swimming classes between one and five times a week from 5.30am to 9.30am. How many classes would you like?" 
Miffed at the complete disregard for my actual question, but willing to accept that perhaps I hadn't been clear enough, or that my Spanish was letting me down, I replied to say thanks, but I wasn't interested in classes, I was interested in knowing when the pool was open for general swimming without an instructor. The reply came:
"Señor Smith, we invite you to come take a free swimming class and get to know the place. The advantage is that you will improve your technique."
At this point it became clear to me that this person simply could not bring herself to say that they don't open the pool outside of the context of classes. I've begun to see a real cultural difference in communication here: I found it infuriating that my questions weren't just answered directly, but as others have noted (see point 3 here) people really don't like saying no, preferring to answer a different question or simply make something up in many cases.

After walking around in a minor huff for a couple of days, I began to ask myself if taking a swimming class would actually be such a terrible thing after all. It might actually be good to work on my technique, and having a regular class would increase the chances I actually turn up and swim a good hour a couple of times a week (in Uppsala I'm very pleased with myself if I last half an hour, often it's considerably less). I decided to take up the offer of a trial free class after all, and after finally succeeding in extracting the relevant information about exactly how the classes work--basically you show up at half past the hour with a bunch of other people and the teacher divides you into groups and barks instructions for an hour--I went along one morning, talked my way past the security guards, talked my way past the receptionist (my email contact had promised and failed to leave a guest pass for me) and had a thoroughly exhausting and exhilarating session. It wasn't sooo different from what I call general swimming at the end of the day, the only differences being having to try and remember whether the teacher said 50 meters crawl or 75 meters backstroke or arms only or legs only, listening to the odd minor stroke adjustment and feeling a slightly heightened motivation not to slack off while possibly being observed.

I came out of that first class feeling rather ecstatic, decided that I was going to sign up for regular classes, even if I knew they weren't going to be cheap. Fitness and sports activities are extremely expensive in Mexico City, even by Northern European standards. Rosalía's yoga studio in San Angel, for example, charges a standard joining fee of $5,200 pesos (roughly 220 British pounds or 2,400 Swedish crowns at today's exchange rates), plus a monthly fee of around $2,000 pesos (£85/930kr). Given that the minimum wage in Mexico City is just $80 pesos per day, it's shocking to see just how far out of reach these kinds of activities are for huge swathes of the population. When I asked my email contact how much I would need to pay in total to join (what's with the joining fees here?) plus my two classes a week until the end of June, I was quoted $6,200 pesos (£265/2,900kr), which didn't seem too extortionate (although I would have paid 1,580kr in Sweden for the same period and been able to swim as many times as I wanted.) After a brief disagreement when they tried to change the price to $8,300 pesos at the last minute when I went along to actually pay, claiming there had been a miscalculation in the original offer (there hadn't), I eventually paid $6,370 pesos, the extra $170 covering my brand spanking new ID card, which I'm pretty happy with. I guess the computer systems here in Mexico couldn't cope with the fact that I only have one surname, so I ended up with this:

"Smith Smith Aaron" 

So far I've been to half a dozen classes and I have to say I'm happy that I went for it. In fact, I probably should have taken swimming classes years ago. Perhaps when we finally return to Uppsala I'll aim to spend a bit more time in the pool, even if I'm not quite ready yet to give up on the after-session saunas altogether.

A Pram-pusher's Guide to Mexican Pavements

I think it's fair to say that Mexico City is not the world's most pedestrian-friendly place. Walking from A to B is rarely the done thing here, particularly if A and B happen to be separated by more than about 3 blocks. I've been met with gasps of disbelief when I've told people that I walked to a park or a shopping centre half an hour from home. I had more than one person assert that it simply wasn't possible to walk from our apartment to the centre of Coyoacán, something I now do almost every day. Those who like to move about on foot are treated like second-class citizens on the roads here, and oddly they seem willing to accept the role. I see motorists honk and scream at each other on a daily basis, but most pedestrians stare passively into the distance as yet another car goes charging through a red light and over a zebra crossing. Perhaps they're simply resigned to their fate.

Getting about on two feet is one thing, getting about on two feet and four wheels supporting a 10-kilo monster baby plus paraphernalia is another. This is largely due to the fact that pavements in Mexico City are bad. Ridiculously bad. How can they possibly be this bad, bad. The following is a guide to the different types of sidewalk-related problems one can expect to encounter wandering around Mexico with a pram.

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1. The absurdly high pavement

For some reason they love really fucking high pavements here. I'm not sure if the photos do justice, but examples like these 30 cm beasts on my daily route abound. It wouldn't be so bad if you could mount the things once and walk a decent chunk at a time, but given all the obstacles (see points 2-4), you're up and down these bastards every 15 seconds. Guaranteed to wake up even the most deeply sleeping baby. On the plus side, a free fun roller coaster ride for the happy rested little one.

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2. The random obstacle

Being able to move in a straight line is a privilege here, and one that apparently people with prams or wheelchairs don't deserve. In case getting up onto the pavement in the first place was too easy, the authorities have helpfully gone around the whole city and placed massive hurdles everywhere. No worries lads, I'll just step out into the oncoming traffic. It'll probably be ok.

There's also a weird fetish for tiny tiny pavements here, barely wide enough for an average-sized human being, let alone a pram, but even these can be subject to a good old random obstacle (left). And then there's the simply bizarre (right). That's a walkway crossed at knee height by several thick permanent metal wires, making it literally impossible for even the world limbo champion to get by.

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3. The parking fail

Of course people parking like complete twats happens everywhere, but it has been turned into a real art form here in Mexico. I'm pretty convinced that people do it on purpose just to piss each other off. If it looks like the guy on the right is on his way in or out, or has just stopped temporarily, he hasn't. He was parked there for a good hour while I pondered what was possibly going through his head from the café across the road.

Tiny pavements can also be blocked by a simple sideways variation on the above, as demonstrated to the left. If the width of your car is not enough to block the whole pavement and also cause sufficient disruption in the road, you can always resort to adding some random bags of rubbish between your car and the nearest building, an innovation pioneered by the moron to the right.

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4. Nature gets in the way

The sheer power of nature is often impressive to behold, even in a simple example like the trees uprooting the pavement on the left. Of course, beholding it from the middle of the road with a mental taxi driver approaching at 80 km/h only adds to the dramatic nature of the scene. If it weren't enough that nature impulsively causes disruption to the pavements, there are numerous examples of people placing huge plant pots on the pavements outside their houses, as seen on the right. I suppose a little bit of greenery here and there brightens the street up a bit. 

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5. The road to nowhere

Disclaimer: this one's actually from Mazatlan, but I couldn't resist including it here too. On our first full day there I took Noam out for a stroll, and followed the pavement outside our hotel literally all the way to the end, which was in fact only about a 10 minute walk away. It's not often one comes to a stone-cold dead end with nothing interesting to see. Probably a good thing, because by the time I got there and back in the blistering 9am heat with Noam strapped to my chest I was in desperate need of a plunge into the pool followed rapidly by a lie down in the shade with a Cuba Libre. 

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Looking for Erik

Eric #1 - Cantona

My hero as a youngster was Eric Cantona, the charismatic football player who helped turn my team Manchester United into the title-winning machine of the 90s and 00s (think a French version of Zlatan Ibrahimović and you're not far off, at least as far as self-belief is concerned). I have a vivid memory of lying awake with the lights out past my bedtime one night in January 1995, listening to the radio at whisper volume, as the commentator described Cantona being sent-off against Crystal Palace and a subsequent altercation with a supporter; it was only the next day I understood the full implications of his infamous kung fu kick. In October later the same year my Mum took me, ten years old, to the Manchester United Supporter's Club in Jersey to watch his comeback live on the big screen after a nine-month ban (actually watching games live was a rare treat in those days, it was all about BBC Radio 5 Live, Match of the Day and Ceefax). As Cantona scored the crucial equalising penalty in a 2-2 draw, a random stranger hoisted me high towards the ceiling in a moment of sheer footballing joy.

It's surprisingly difficult to watch Premier League games in Mexico, particularly given the proliferation of baseball caps and training jackets adorned with United, Liverpool and Chelsea logos. The standard TV packages include Fox Sports and ESPN which seem to cover between them the German, Italian, French, Spanish (standard), Mexican (of course) and even Dutch (wtf?) leagues, but English football is only available via Sky. Very few bars and restaurants seem to have Sky; the last time I was here I searched all over and finally found a place that claimed to be showing a United game, only to conveniently be told after I'd ordered my tacos and beer that they didn't have the right channel after all. We decided to get Sky for the apartment this time, only to be refused permission by the building's administrator at the last minute to install another dish on the roof (Murphy's law strikes again).

Erik #2 - Niva

Fortunately, with a little help from a more technically-able friend, I was able to set up a reliable VPN connection to Sweden and watch the games on viaplay.se. There are many things that we all know Sweden is good at, like social welfare, green living and cinnamon buns, but after living there for the best part of five years I've come to appreciate some of the hidden delights, which include fantastic pizza and top-class football coverage. One of my footballing heroes these days is another Erik, the nerdy-looking Swedish sports journalist Erik Niva. For me he's a welcome voice of reason with an incredible breadth of knowledge amongst the shallow and sensationalist reporting from most other outlets. While it's hard not to admire the excessive celebrations offered by Mexican commentators ("gooooooooool!!!") even for a consolation goal in the 91st minute of a 4-1 victory, in this instance I'm happy to tunnel back over to remote Sweden and enjoy some more reasoned analysis.