in which we encounter angels

We bolted past cops and across five lanes of Mexico City traffic, waving and whistling at our driver as he cruised past the meeting point. A policeman side-eyed us but let us go, figuring we had reasons or hesitant to leave his post or not being paid enough. Paka yanked open the rear door before any other obstacles presented themselves. The driver muttered something about almost canceling.

For Paka, Frida Kahlo’s Casa Azul was the most important site on our itinerary and nothing else was really on the list. It might have been the inspiration for meeting in Dallas and flying to Mexico and taking a week of Spanish classes.

I had ordered tickets in advance that stated our 12:30 arrival time and carefully spelled out the fifteen-minute tolerance for latecomers. Which we were about to be.

At the start of the day I had calculated that we had time for breakfast and a walk to the Palacio de Bellas Artes, home of enormous murals by Frida’s husband Diego Rivera and mi hermano José Clemente Orozco. We walked up the Paseo de la Reforma, Mexico City’s grand boulevard, one of the great streets of the world. I paused to look at the angel atop the Monument to Independence, sparkling gold in the morning sun.

We paused longer at the encampment constructed by parents of the 43 students from the Ayotzinapa Rural Teachers' College - now more memorial than protest. I translated vivos se los llevaron, vivos los queremos for Paka as they looked at angelic faces staring back at us, 19, 20, 21 years old.

At the museum, Paka set a timer. We were on schedule, but Paka’s tío’s calculations had not considered time spent trying to find an ATM and struggling with Telcel’s poor service and hotspots and app delays. By the time we hopped in the car and looked at our arrival time at the destination, it read 12:48 p.m.

Paka’s tío had also not calculated the effect of midday traffic in the centro historico. Our driver sauntered down cobblestone streets. I debated saying something, but he had already seemed annoyed, and I wasn’t seeing an open lane we could dart into. The app updated our arrival to 1:04 p.m. We looked at each other. Cooked.

“Can you call the museum?” Paka asked. Ehh, I said, shrugging, but a couple minutes later I punched the number on the website. An extremely polite voice answered.

“Buenas tardes,” I offered in the most obsequious Spanish I could muster under the circumstances, “Sé que hay una tolerancia de quince minutos, y obviamente somos culpables, pero …” Etc.

The voice very politely explained that the tickets clearly stated the fifteen minute tolerance, and that the museum could not inconvenience our compatriots.

“Entiendo, pero hemos venido de Estados Unidos, y es muy importante a mi sobrine, y….” At some point I heard the words “en su corazon” come out of my mouth.

Again, a patient explanation involving our compatriots.

“They get that all the time,” Paka sighed.

After we finally broke into paved roads, the app miraculously updated our arrival time to something in the 12:50s. Not good enough. But good enough to play the remaining card.

“Ángel,” I said. “Ángel, tenemos que llegar al museo antes de 12:45.” He had heard all this, I assumed. “Lo siento, pero si algo que podría hacer para tratar …”

Ángel said nothing, looked straight ahead, and floored it. We dodged trucks, ran a red light or two, ignored any conventions that may exist in Mexico City. The anxiety in the back seat, as we alternated glances at the app and peering ahead to glimpse a blue house, was matched by Ángel’s unflappable dedication to duty. After an eternity a crowd appeared on the right. 12:45 exactly.

“Ángel, es el mejor,” I thanked him. He finally smiled a little as the muchas graciases cascaded on him. We ran to the crowd, where a man in a blue shirt offered help without actually providing any. In the moment Paka exuded only hope, but later reports indicated a fear that I was going postal. I can only report that my exchange with the man in the blue shirt ended with him scolding me, “No me grita!”

At 12:46, or maybe 12:47, a woman wearing an official museum blouse asked to see our tickets, offering the smile of one who can grant blessings. She consulted a moment, and returned with instructions to join the line of 12:45 to 1:00 p.m. visitors. We exhaled, laughed, high-fived each other.

I could tell you what we saw, but you can find better sources on Frida Kahlo than me. All I can really remember is Paka’s smile.