Walking at a very slow pace across the Brooklyn Bridge, preoccupied that I have to be in Montclair, New Jersey, in a few hours, as I was invited to a film screening in a small festival.
It is very hot… I can hardly put one foot in front of the other… I have to go and take the metro to Central Park… It’s getting late. I am very thirsty and tired, and suddenly at the end of the bridge there is an indigenous girl selling mangos just like in Mexico. I couldn’t believe it until I realised that small cup cost 5 dollars —3 times the price in Mexico, and the portions are three times smaller! Still, I gladly bought my mangos and tried to have a conversation in Spanish with the girl… Like where she was from, but useless, she was silent, probably very scared of this old man; he may be a pervert or worse, an ICE agent. I ate my mangos while admiring the Frank Gehry building, and then, like magic, I wasn’t tired anymore.
I took the metro to Central Park, a truly religious experience —anything goes —it reminded me of the one in Mexico City, but this one was way more dirty.
I got out more or less near the Plaza Hotel. I had to be in Central Park West, where a limousine was waiting for me in about an hour, so why not walk trough the park? I arrived beside the lake and felt very tired. The weather had turned; it was freezing now. I sat on a bench by the lake, and just besides me there was a pair of very expensive Italian glasses. There was nobody nearby, and then I looked to the lake and there was this woman screaming and trying to drown herself. People started shouting, and an ambulance and firemen came. Now it was drizzling… I realised it was getting late, so I picked up the glasses, which I assumed belonged to her; she obviously wasn’t coming back to fetch them. I walked to where I was to meet the film director —she is very particular, so I can’t divulge her name or anything about her —sorry, she will probably assume that I am trying to cling to her fame if I dare mention her.
The day after, the organisation that paid for my plane ticket — Neon —told me that I had to take a covid test before boarding the plane the next day to Mexico City, and guess what? I was positive. I went nuts worrying about what I was going to do —no hotel, no money —so I decided I had no choice but to try to get on that plane, maybe they would let me pass.
I was lucky that they didn’t ask me for my test results; if they had, I would probably be dead by now… without a place to stay and no money, I would have had to go and sleep with the hobos by the docks.
I went onto the plane fully covered by an n95 mask. I felt really guilty until I realised nearly everybody else was coughing, and even harder than me; in fact, I forced myself not to cough inside the plane.
I arrived back in Mexico… home sweet home; after five days of isolation, everything went back to normal, with a new pair of glasses.
Kuate.
August 1st 2025 Mexico City.
kuate 