We flew into Mexico with the lightning. The flight attendant pressed the button and said, “For the next hour we will be in danger of turbulence” and I wanted to point out to him that for a moment there he had just told a plane full of people, “For the next hour we will be in danger…” I wanted to tell him, hombre, you can’t take that back. That shit is frozen in our bloodstream and bones. If cannibals eat us for lunch one day they will find the fear of that moment inside of us. He then did the whole thing over in Spanish and the other half of the plane fainted.
I braced myself for el peligro de la turbulencia, but to be honest it never came. The plane flew strong and true through dark clouds and flashes of lightning, as if we were being reborn, viajeros, Mexican travelers, and soon we were looking out on a city that never ends. We went lower and Milo said, “It has a lot of trees” and then we landed and the wheels held firm on wet tarmac, which to me is like a milagro and we were there, which is here, in the city of some 20 million, seven thousand feet into the clouds, in the final week of remarkable presidential elections, in the midst of World Cup mania: Mexico City.