It seems, we won’t be able to write the article with the theme “Mama, it’s over.” Things happened even at the last minute and it would be wrong to end these entries without writing them down.

Right now we are waiting at the airport and our eyes are filled with tears.

Why? Because while we were on our way back to DF (New Mexico) we were thinking about the days that we were going to spend over here. And a few places to go. And we found out DF is the place to see in spring. There is a belief that “a city welcomes a person”, and I hold on to that… Does a materialist person believe in such things? Of course… What does a western do when they visit İstanbul? They go to Sultanahmet, to Topkapı Palace. But do they go to Fatih Mosque to sit on the stools by the wall and drink tea? Do they shop from Siirt Bazaar or sit in an old style silent coffee house where people play checkers or chess? Do they find the most hidden taverns and have a chat with the waiter?

If they do even one of these things, then it means İstanbul has accepted those tourists. The same goes on for here, too. DF accepted us on our second visit. Everything’s different. People are different. So are conversations.

We want to stay so badly. There is no way you can guess how much we want to do that.

Anyway… We’ve been spoilt enough and there is no sense in creating a sad atmosphere. Let us tell what happened.

Yesterday, we wandered around in the streets the whole day. We saw the Ottoman Clock we told about the last time we were here. The Clock has a very central location and that’s why we couldn’t drink even a glass of rakı.

We talked to everyone we could. We practiced our nonexistent Spanish. And in the evening we found a most genuine Mexican place to eat with the friends we met but never managed to memorize their names.

The place is called Hostaria de Santo Domingo. It reminded us of Çiya in İstanbul, but here has a better decoration.

It’s a bit kitsch and cool at the same time. At first, the meaningless ornaments on the ceiling looked like the tasteless, awful ones they kept us doing with those thick, pale coloured papers when we were small. You know, the ornaments called “cat’s ladders.” I still don’t know why they made us do those. Anyway, that feeling goes away very quickly. Because there’s a strange harmony. It’s kitsch, but in a nice way. Not like the crying children photos. It’s like the ones with the swinging dog heads.

And our rakı stock was finished. We could almost count the drops. I don’t know if they would allow us to drink there if we had rakı, anyway. Then Fikret had an idea: to drink Mexican rakı! Meaning, aniseed tequila…

We loaded our selves with tequila. We ate fish with tequila.

First we ordered ourselves soups. They brought mine. Fikret had something with rice. We said, “We didn’t order that.” And they said (I think) “No, it’s yours.” It turned out it was a soup as well. Yet it was more like aubergine and chicken on rice. It was nice, but still, “IT WASN’T SOUP!”

Fish, aniseed tequila, music… We left there feeling tipsy, and wanting to drink more. If you ever come here, you should keep your senses and shouldn’t drink much. We didn’t keep our senses and drank a lot. But it was our last night. What else could we do?

We are not always acting on Elçin’s advices. This time, our old friend Tan wrote us these: “Somewhere very close to the centre of Mexico City (the zocalo square) there is bar where Pancho Villa was shot. It’s quite nice and historical. The bullet hole on the ceiling still remains. I suggest you to drink there. And I sent you my kisses.”

We immediately kissed him back and found the place. Its name is La Opera.

We had a very nice time in La Opera. So nice, that I could write two more pages about it, if there were no risk of missing the plane. I will try to summarize.

It hadn’t been five minutes when Fikret said “I can see where we would hang out if we lived in here.” We started with Corona. There was a tipsy journalist sitting at the next table. He was very amusing. He murmured something to me and I said “I am one of the imbecile tourists who don’t know how to speak Spanish.” He started speaking English. He supported “the other team” (there was a football game on TV in the bar.) I asked “Which one is the other team.” And he said “Does it matter?” We had a laidback theoretical conversation on “always supporting the other.” And there you go… We made friends.

I had to smoke. So I went out. I bumped into a green eyed, long white bearded, very cool homeless with a backpack and a blanket on. I offered him a cigarette. He found my gesture very gentle. He lighted my cigarette. Then he started talking. I gave my classical answer: “Ingles, Ingles.” Guess what happened? The homeless started speaking fluent English. He said he travelled, didn’t work and was alone. He loved to travel and meet people. He travelled in the USA and Mexico a lot. He learned English while travelling. He asked me where I was from and I said “İstanbul.” He said “I like there a lot, I wish I could go.” And I said “You are young, you still have time.” And he replied “Of course I am. I’m only 62.” What a homeless. We were about to have a discussion on Spinoza.

Before I got inside, I gave him 30 pesos, the whole changes in my pocket. I asked him to accept them as a gift. He said it was one of the kindest gestures he had ever come across and shook my hand.

When I got inside and enthusiastically told Fikret about what happened, he went out too. We had a small discussion on whether to take a picture of him and put it on our blog. But then we decided it was better to leave the things as they were, and we returned inside, back to our drinks.

Fikret insisted on beer. But it was tequila time for Metin. I asked for one. The barmen we already had made friends with – probably – said: “It’s not the way to ask for tequila, man. Which one?” And I said “Whatever you’re drinking.” He did so. It was superb.

Then I turned to our journalist guy and I told him that I knew the cheerful Mexican revolutionary Pancho Villa was shot in here but I couldn’t see any bullet holes. He was very happy with the information that had come from Tan. We talked about the Mexican revolution, Zapata and Pancho Villa for a while. Then he wanted to show me the bullet hole but he had a problem: he didn’t know where it was, either. The barmen joined us with his laughter and showed me the hole.

Then I showed the hole to every friend of our journalist one by one. I give lectures to the people of DF on DF.

There was a great music in the bar. At least, no Mariachis playing “La Bamba”, their light Mexican music simulation tamed for gringos.

Fikret and I listened to the three piece guitar group with awe and got sorry for not being able to join along. These guys have a tariff system. You can’t just squeeze money in the clarinet like we do in İstanbul. You ask them to play and you pay per song. Since everyone around us asked for songs and we didn’t know any songs to ask for, we hid ourselves behind others. But we paid as well, sending the money with others. The musicians were surprised and happy with this indirect paying method.

In short, after we drank considerable amount of alcohol, we left there smiling and went to our hotel and our bed.

Thank God that we kept ourselves an emergency rakı. We extremely benefited from being cautious.

We went outside of the city. The outskirts, very far edge… We went to Venice of DF, the channel region, Xochimilco. And since we haven’t told you anything about the public transportation in here, let this be an opportunity to give you an idea. The subway is very cheap, useful and fast. 3 rupis. Sorry, pesos. It’s equal to 25 kuruş (1/4 liras). And I think it costs even less if you buy a daily or a monthly ticket.

There’s a non-stop music sales craze in the subways. Some friends with speakers in their backpacks and the CD players in their hands, try to impress you and make you buy the pirate CDs, while changing the music constantly. We didn’t see anyone buying, except for us. But since we saw at least fifteen sellers even on one route, we assume they manage to sell. There are also some sales attempts like the ones on our suburb trains.

We found more than we expected in Xochimilco. We wished we had more time.

Here is an excursion spot where people come in flocks from DF, at the weekends, on Sundays, especially, I mean today. They come and rent gondolas and ride in the channels. When I say “ride”, I mean they drink… They listen to music. And when I say music, don’t think about the enemy-of-the-stomach ugly music of tours in Bosporus. The sturdy Mariachis play the best of Mexican music, live.

We didn’t waste anytime before we got on a gondola. It was a bit expensive but we didn’t mind that since it was our last day. But it turned out that we had rented an exclusive gondola. Suddenly it felt cheaper.

And here it is: the wisdom of the hidden rakı. Our last rakı was destined to be drunk on a gondola.

And then there are those delightful mini gondolas. Ice creams, small gifts, apple candies, food are the ones we remember being sold on them. And of course, the ones with Mariachis on are the funniest.

They abreast their gondolas on yours and sell their stuff. Or they play music. We were again hiding behind others. There was a Maricahi gondola abreasted on the one next to ours, and we listened to continuous, magnificent music. And of course we drank rakı.

I am sorry that I wrote this entry in a bit of hurry. The plane is about to take off. I said to Fikret: “Why don’t we miss it? We can hang out in here.” And he reminded: “No, they are waiting to beat us up in İstanbul.”

For Metin and Fikret, it’s time to leave. We promise to write the one with the title “Mama, it’s over.” It will be the next one.

Photos: Again and always, Fikret Bekler