High Cost Of A Shoeshine: Getting Around And Getting Taken
Determine the price of all services in advance. I failed to follow this rule my first night in Mexico City and wound up with the world's most expensive shoeshine.
On a sidewalk in the Zona Rosa, a smiling, talkative young man with a shoeshine kit offered to shine my black Rockports for ``whatever you think is fair to pay for polish.''
As he worked, he offered advice in English about tourist attractions, welcomed me to the city and said he hoped I enjoyed my stay. Then he mentioned a miracle shoe wax which - I thought he said - sells in stores for 49,000 pesos (about $17) a bottle.
But when he finished, it turned out the price was 49,000 pesos per shoe!
I reminded him of his original offer: that I could pay whatever I thought was fair. Yes, he said, but that was for the polish, not the special wax.
As I protested, two of his friends appeared, taking his side and strongly suggesting that I pay.
Seeing no clear or safe alternative, I handed over the money - just about all the pesos I was carrying. I left that corner a little wiser, $34 poorer and with a disposition not nearly as bright as my feet.
Drivers in Mexico City negotiate traffic the same way generals win wars: by seizing ground and holding it. That can mean ignoring lane dividers, running a wheel up on the curb or turning in almost any direction without notice.
One tour driver, squirting his van through a seemingly
impossible opening between two flatbed trucks, explained, ``In this traffic, you don't have time to think. You either do it or don't do it.''
A couple days later, I rode with an even more resourceful cabbie. After struggling through a maze of rainy streets to get within one long block of my hotel, he was disappointed to see that the one-way street my hotel was on ran in the opposite direction.
But that didn't faze him for long. He just spun the VW bug around, and slipped down the block backwards.
For the visitor, driving in Mexico City is neither advisable nor necessary. Many of the main sights are near one another, and taxis are plentiful and, by U.S. standards, cheap.
In addition, the area has a comprehensive public transit system, combining several modes of transportation to explore, depending on your taste for adventure.
Transit-bus routes cover most major destinations. Somewhat quicker are the peseros, white vans and small buses that can be hailed along major routes and have their destinations posted on their windshields.
By far the cheapest and fastest way to get across town is to go underneath it in the Metro, Mexico City's subway. A passenger can go anywhere on this system, transferring as many times as necessary, for 300 pesos (10 cents.) Caution is advised, however: Wallets and handbags have disappeared during rush-hour Metro rides.
Those who insist on driving should be aware that a red light may not mean stop, a green may not mean go.
During rush-hour, traffic through some major intersections is directed by police officers, in crisp tan-and-brown uniforms. With one white-gloved hand, an officer will wave toward the lanes that can proceed. His bare hand holds a whistle on which he blows to keep everyone's attention.
So in busy traffic, look not only at the lights; look for the white glove.
If you know any Spanish, use it. Even the shopkeepers, waitresses and residents who understand some English will appreciate your attempt to communicate in their language.
Don't be afraid to make mistakes; that's the only way to learn.
Unlike at the beach resorts, many menus in the capital city are written exclusively in Spanish, without English subtitles. But any traveler worth his pesos has managed to pick up that pollo is chicken, huevos are eggs and enchiladas are enchiladas.
A Spanish-English dictionary can come in handy, and to a lesser extent, so can a Spanish phrase book. But be careful of dated references to money; compared to the U.S. dollar, the Mexican peso drops faster than a Mazatlan sunset. A 1972 phrase book I have suggests that a good tip for a hotel bellman is five pesos. If you could even find such a coin, it would be worth about one-sixth of a penny.
The infinitesimal value of the peso makes some price tags look astronomical, especially because the ``$'' symbol is also used in Mexico. At the exchange rate during my visit last month (2,875 pesos to the dollar,) an entree listed for $18,000 in pesos is actually $6.26 in dollars. Prices in a fancy department-store window look even more intimidating: Blusa $169,900.00 marks a $59 blouse.
When it's time to visit a marketplace, decide whether you're hunting for souvenirs or looking to observe the capitalinos (Mexico City residents) shop for their daily needs. Chances are you'll find both quite interesting.
For the shopper, Mexico City has an almost endless variety, not just of goods but of marketplaces, many specializing in a certain type of merchandise. Here are a few:
La Ciudadela in the Balderas area, six blocks south of Alameda Park, offers shops with silver, brass, onyx, obsidian, blankets and lacquered trays; Bazar Sabado, operating Saturdays only in the San Angel area south of the central city, is a lively place to look for folk crafts, paintings and jewelry.
To see the locals hunting and bargaining, prowl La Merced, which seems to sprawl for blocks in every direction southeast of the Zocalo. At its heart are the rows of stalls and shops said to make up the world's largest food market.
Oh, a last word about the shoeshine biz: A Mexican friend explained that my $34 mistake had been to do business with someone who sidles up on the sidewalk instead of stopping at one of the many red-canopied shoeshine carts that post their prices. (Shoeshines are a big business in Mexico City, because dress is relatively formal and the sidewalks are dirty.)
So a few days later, my miracle wax sufficiently scuffed, I summoned enough nerve to patronize one of the shoe-shine cart operators. He offered no chat, promoted no miracle product and the whole transaction, including a tip, was about $1.10.