"We Crown Hall," he said as we walked in the direction of Casa Boker, once the center of the world for my father, a devotee of the machines and tools. "You do not have much luck, my queen, I thought. "I spent my time in preschool." "We're going to Isabel," he said. "Where?" Said the queen, and then realized that its historic center mob scene was rather limited. The inhabitants of the first table knowing we lost a lot of urban renewal that area, but there are still pockets of which will take a while to be dispossessed, and among them are the bars. My good friend Enrique Calderón, God knows what will be parked slum, was my guide in this world of experiences, stories, journalism alive, eager to find among the nebula to the Duchess of Duke Job, with a little kid boots mistreated by the disappointments and a revolution that did not taste good.
recently died journalist, poet and novelist John Ross, dean of the correspondents in Mexico. Two situations can approach him. One of them was his deep connection to Michoacán, where he ended his days, the other being a resident of Isabel hotel in the Rue de Isabel La Católica, in the center of the capital.
The Isabel, the old house of Lucas Ala, is a building that holds many stories. Transformer into a hotel, is one of those magical places commonly frequented by foreigners who follow the recommendations of other visitors, preferably through the network. Has been the scene of several shootings, including, as I recall, in a video of Arjona.
There is a compelling force in the unexpected and Isabel. Some years ago I lived some time in it. Few people however repairs on your bar-cafeteria, a place infamous happily spend a little fame outside diaphanous enjoyed by the hotel.
Unlike many other bars that have become popular, the bar retains its status Isabel antrum, the redoubt, personal entrance to an underworld only be shared with other outcasts evening.
is no place for children, or to couple office, foreigners, many hotel guests enter this joint with the stealth of a Protestant indicated visiting Catholic churches, to fit his usual Corona with a slice of lemon inserted into the bottle. Fit on a table, aware that it is a world apart, marginal, which could add some time, but now, for now, can not. Drink his chela with parsimony trying to ingratiate himself with the rhythms of the trio, the recorder, the drunk on duty. Drink quietly, in awe: I am a bit beyond the distance, with my hearty white Havana in hand, with lots of ice, as he liked the good Manuelez.
"That's why I like coming to the canteen," he once told a colleague. "Back at home my mom scolds me for littering the bathroom. And here I can even make figures on the ice. " The canteen is fraternity, no time, no rush, no complaints. "We are sucking quiet" is a reality fulminant time chat, history, the gloating, the memory. "Only fools get drunk" summed up the first century BC philosopher, and the bar is checking it.
tuning bartender is the emancipation of the working hours, family pressures, the eternal squares. There is time to drink, to dream, to love, to write poems that end up in the trash.
Isabel
The bar has experienced earthquakes. I remember when, for example, some years ago, there was a crisis between the customers (in effect), when the bartender decided to migrate to a nearby, Champion, for some very celebrated by the generous drinks to be served any time. The resignation was seen as treason, some customers migrated to the Champion, not without reason outside of sarcasm and mockery by the faithful followers of Elizabeth for a long time.
When Isabel arrives, he will select. There is a force that takes you, you make, you choose, just as to live on site and must bring in the blood a sign of doom that makes you enjoy the rarefied atmosphere. When Ross left, he was a bit of that magic that still spans the walls of the historic center that many have lived for years with good and bad, so putrid and sublime in our center, with Sor Juana and teporochos.
Today I write from this my bar, Isabel. Those who have been with me remember, and know how to remember. Squalid thin, friendly, generous, loyal, very nearly submitting Kaliman emulating. Someday the historical center will be the first world, then the old specimens of the capital's bars will surely be gone.
0 comments:
Post a Comment