I just spent a few days in Mexico City & like everyone says, it's great. In fact, it's pretty much just like LA.
Let's start with the obvious: traffic. Like LA, there is plenty of traffic in Mexico City. And it's bad. The difference? In Mexico City, there are no Sig Alerts on the airwaves, no slow-poke tree huggers clogging the car pool lanes & no delusional electronic traffic signs spreading false hope. Instead, traffic in Mexico City is traffic how God intended – a bunch of miserable people suffering…endlessly…together. The best part is, in Mexico City traffic, you have constant access to snacks, even in the rain:
Don't tell me you've never craved a coconut on the 405. And, just like in LA, Ferraris are everywhere in Mexico City:
Not the cars, I didn't spot a one–but there are heaps of stickers.
Like LA, which is packed with wanna be actors & models, there are also plenty of extroverts in Mexico City, like Mr. Matador, the traffic cop/ bullfighter:
Just like LA, in Mexico City, there is one car brand dominating the streets. When describing this place, just replace the word "BMW" with the word "VW", & you've officially thrown LA south of the border:
Oh and one more similarity–the place was crawling with Mexicans..
For more on my love affair with Latinos click here:
The other day, my daughter was home "sick" from school. Knowing she was full of it, I did what any good parent would do– dragged her to the pharmacy to buy the world's worst-tasting medicine. That'll teach her…
In the Rite Aid parking lot, we spot this:
I ditch my coughing child and start snapping:
Then my kid catches up & probes, "Hey Mom, who do you think drives a car like this?" Hmmm.. tinted windows, pimp paint job, shiny wheels & then, there's that grill:
Who slaps a Rolls Royce grill & 22s on a Magnum wagon? Gangster? Drug dealer? Gulp. I respond calmly, "I'm not sure, but they may not be friendly. Let's go!" Just as we start to flee the scene, "Chirp, chirp!" A woman walks up, "Excuse me."
She unlocks the Dodge and opens the driver's side door. My jaw drops. "We like your car," my daughter says. As I wait for this chic to unleash her AK47 or for a Cholo husband to pop out of the truck, she says, "It's been a long time coming. A real labor of love."
Now, I'm rarely dumbstruck. A loss for words, I never have. But this woman totally stumped me– not only was she the owner and creator of this masterpiece, but there was a booster in the backseat and, based on appearances, she could've been on the school PTA.
What a joke. Who am I– a moonlighting motorhead mother of two, to be surprised by Sweet Kaos? That'll teach me….
Just in case you're wondering how ridiculously wonderful it is to live in Los Angeles, let me give you a day in the life of yours truly, a self professed Porsche stalker. Now I'm no groupie, not a 911 fanatic and I've yet to log any serious time in the loony bin. However, if the opportunity arises, Mama is sure follow the Stuttgart scent. Even if it takes me out of my way. Case in point, my commute last Friday pm.
I began on lower Crescent Heights, where a yellow glow lured me onto a side street:
A Carrera GT? With Colorado Dealer Plates? Now that's my kind of test drive! Any sales dude that lets you take half a million over state lines is a friend of mine. After a few minutes of gawking, I wipe the drool from my chin & make merry way across San Vicente only to be met with hauntingly familiar burning smell: (for more on my Saab 900T, see Car Slut Confessions)
Poor fool– I've been there pal. I almost sold a couple of eggs to keep my 997 from bursting into flames. As I worked to soothe my PTSD (Porsche Tab Stupefy Disorder), I saw a unicorn. Ok, it wasn't a unicorn, but it was something so rare and wonderful, it may as well have been a unicorn. So I did what any a good stalker would– I followed it..for a while…
This was a caravan, a pupu platter of Porsche magic, doing its best to stick together despite the angst-inducing traffic madness that's standard issue on a LA Friday afternoon. And each and every one had Michigan plates. This meant one thing– this is not a club, not a coincidence, not even a unicorn. These, my excellent friends, were real, live PORSCHE TEST DRIVERS. As my stalking kicked in to overdrive, I followed them to the Vons parking lot for an interrogation interview.
There, in the warm glow of a Panda Express sign, my bubble was officially & unceremoniously burst. First of all, they were at Vons not to meet up for a coffee with Jay Leno or for a 30 second tire change, but they were there for the public bathroom. And while they were happy to talk, they didn't have much to report (except for the guy driving the manual, who had some serious blisters), these guys are hired by the Germans to drive in "real conditions" (like Friday traffic) and the onboard computers do the rest. So sad! It was like Jimmy Hendrix coming back from the dead and telling you it was all Guitar Hero!
Despite the letdown, I went home feeling great. For where else in the world does all of excitement happen? Ever? Not to mention in the span of a 1 hour drive. Sure, I had another 40 minutes sitting in bumper to bumper until I'd be home, but I did so with a sh*t-eating grin, because this kind of stuff only happens in one place– Only In LA.
Pope Francis is the real deal. The Pope of the People. He's the guy that lets greedy kids interrup mass. The Pope that took the bus. And just the other day, I saw him perform a Hollywood miracle. It was at the intersection of Beverly and Robertson, a place where, on any given day, you can witness at least half of the deadly sins simutaneously. Thus it seemed only fitting that the papal winged angels should drop this in plain sight:
What makes me think it was the Pope, you ask? Well, besides the dramatic lighting (which is enough for me) there are plenty of clues. Exhibit A:
Spanish Stroll? Organ pipes? Argentinian Priest? Duh. Maybe he was here to put the vapor-smoking, skinny jeanned waifs of Robertson Blvd in their place. Or perhaps he just wanted to duck into Starbucks, the dude has plenty of reasons to caffeinate. No doubt he's hella fed up with hipster kabbala beads & kombucha. This pope is more of a crosses and chains man (Exhibit B):
Note: the handicapped parking placard. Because if you're the 77 year old spiritual leader of 1.2 billion, you sure ain't schlepping across the Target parking lot for a 12 pack of Charmin. Socialism has its limits.
Now, on the rare, farfetched chance that this lowrider isn't owned or operated by Pope Francis, I'm not hatin'. It was still a gift from God.