Like independence days all over the world (except maybe some Asian countries where I understand more solemn and reserved affairs are the norm), Mexico was drunk on patriotism, heroes of the past, traditional ballads, fireworks, and of course alcohol. The night started innocently enough in our apartment with tequila, chelas, and costumes, but by early morning when the six of us were piled in a taxi my vision was reduced to blurred colors, primarily red, white, and green. My speech was inaudible. I remember Tracy doing “the worm” in the middle of the dance floor (“I don’t know why, but my hips hurt today”).  I remember “the earthquakes” (aka the Richter sisters). I remember hearing a recently arrived French Canadian shout “viva meh hee ka!  viva meh hee ka!” I remember a fight in the crowd, flags, accordions, daughters on dads’ shoulders, guitars, umbrellas, a uniformed officer asking me to kindly step back from the ledge . . . I remember our rooftop view of the Zocalo, the smiles and collective energy of a proud nation exploding in song and sparks above the cathedral, I remember a solitary moment or two when I recorded this: Zocalo (click to listen)