I got nothing but a big-ass county fair in my hood, which is all I could ever really ask for from Melchor, Gaspar, and Baltazar -- the guy in black-face. The fair ended Thursday night. I miss it already. That's where I'd been eating, according to my calculations, about ten different kinds of mega-healthy fair snacks on each of the, oh, five or six nights I went.
The funnest -- most fun? -- Tilt-a-Whirl rides play that kind of Mexican tribal. The dudes who run them, Tepito-style to the core, stand on the track the whole way, hopping on your carrito to make it swing more furiously. They even, swear-to-god, grabbed the top of the car sometimes, in a flash, hurling themselves into the air so their legs hit the ceiling of the ride itself, then pressing back down, twirling you till it hurts.
(One of the dudes -- sensing something? -- lifted his shirt a little at our mixed crew while a-whirling and did a little gigolo gyrating move in between, with a smirk. Thanks a lot, guy.)
At the feria, I had tlacoyos, blueberries dipped in chocolate and chocolate sprinkles, esquites, freshly fried french fries, cotton candy, fresh-made hotcakes with cajeta, lechera and (more) sprinkles, and something called a jarrito loco. (No idea, but as long as it had ice, chile, lime, and salt in it, it was fine by me.)
I loved the excessive P.D.A., the little kids out all night with their faces painted like tigers or fairies, the liberating kitschiness and tackiness of it, the sense that this hood -- downtown -- belongs to the always-stylish and hyper-stimulated tepiteño kids who populate it and culturally "run" it. That's the way it is, pretty much today, tomorrow, and as long as Centro is Centro. The feria is our focal point.
We took a photo with the Reyes, yes. But didn't get on "The Inverter." Maybe next year?