Colibrí is the word for hummingbird in Spanish. I learned it one night while visiting a German friend here in Mexico City who had graciously invited me to a dinner party at her apartment. Prior to the party, I had only met her once, randomly on Isla Holbox off the coast of Cancun. She was traveling with a few other Germans and a classmate of mine from Norway. We all had breezy seaside drinks together and ambled along sandy streets barefoot and buzzed for half the night. On the night of the party, I got a quick tour of the apartment and noticed a hummingbird feeder outside a bedroom window, it was then that I learned the meaning of “colibrí.” It wasn’t until the other day that I got to thinking that all of us foreigners are a kind of colibrí feeding off the chaotic nectar of culture, language, and experience that is Mexico City. My friend is back in Berlin, but I feel incredibly fortunate to have shared time at the feeder. The following is a snippet from her “fiesta de despedida” (going-away party) in our apartment. If you listen closely, you can hear all kinds of accented Spanish, English, German, and a little Radiohead while we try to snap a photo.  Los Colibríes (click to listen)

It was the night before I went to San Francisco for Christmas. I was “thinking about packing” (which is my version of packing) while neighbors assembled in the plaza.  It was an inexact scene. If it were a party, the modest stage where some had gathered would have been the bar, or the kitchen, maybe the television at a critical juncture of the game; the green iron benches where lovers lingered and elders rested would have been reserved for the first comers, perhaps the hosts’ most reliable friends, or at the very least those with intuition or a working knowledge of the layout in the apartment; the satellite spaces circling the fountain would have been inhabited by the newly arrived, or on this night, unleashed dogs, their owners, and kids too young to take notice of the nearby piñatas stuffed with candy. The plaza taking shape before me was a not-yet-crowded room awaiting an announcement. The announcement came in the form of a tape-deck loop and a searing one-man band’s version of “White Christmas.” I stood there with the windows open, recorder in hand, thinking about snow-fallen Christmas eves in Chicago, my “Christmas” outfits, someone else’s presents in the trunk, the cold back seat of the car, frosted windows, snowflakes passing arced street lamps, the sound of winter driving as the heater warms and slush slides away from the tires, Christmas songs all along the dial, a lit-up church across a distant field, a cemetery where nobody I knew was buried, my father’s extra concentration when crossing bridges, the by-now-ordinary passing of my family’s old workplaces, city colleges and hometown, the loneliness I felt for truckers on the expressway and solitary drivers in depressed cars, the last minute stops at Walgreens or Osco, the reassessment of whether we “had everything,” that sudden blast of cold air, those first steps in the snow on the way to the door, and the embrace of someone who no longer lives to read this. I can remember white Christmases and there was something sad about the fact that there was no chance of experiencing one this year. White Xmas (click to listen)

A “camote” is essentially a Mexican sweet potato sold on the streets. The “camote guy” pedals a bike of sorts and attracts attention by allowing steam to escape his tin-man type contraption. The escape sounds like a whistle if it were to ascend the crest of a hill, it’s the sound of a journey, the end of a shift, the soundtrack of an emotion, it’s the sound that a solitary bird might make in a Murakami novel.  The Camote Guy (click to listen)

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)

Crónicas, at least as I understand them, are these little portraits of life, or specific aspects of life. I’m learning about them at school and thought I might as well write some, this is the beginning of one:  The Writer (click to listen)