We breakfasted on cakes in the Zócalo where many Mexicans were taking a morning walk amongst the trees and hedges. Old men sat chatting on the benches and the shoeshine men were starting another day’s work.
We walked around the market and shops but couldn’t quite find the leather belts that we were after, as seen in Oaxaca. After a fruitless search for a food shop, and there were an infinite number of clothes, hardware and chemist (farmacia) shops, we went back to our hotel to doss about for a while.
We went out again at noon and walked through the bazaar area which was in full swing. Indigenous Indians squatted in the street selling fruit and sweets outside the established stalls (tiendas). We went on down to the huge, air-conditioned Blanco Supermercado and walked around the aisles with our mouths watering amongst the imported western foodstuffs.
Back at the Zócalo there were two sideshows, one on each side. Crowds watched the singing and acting, and a general holiday atmosphere prevailed. The central Mexican national flag flapped lazily in the breeze.
We returned to our hotel and went out onto the roof to enjoy the afternoon sun. Our sunlit corner of the roof got smaller as the sun went down behind the wall around the roof and eventually, we were left in shadow. Then we showered and went down to the Zócalo where a huge expectant crowd was gathering.
The roads were blocked off from traffic and speakers and discotheques were being setup. Children in fancy dress scampered around the electric Christmas tree as we sat and drank Coca Cola in the warm evening. A half-drunk Mexican beseeched us to join him for a few beers in a nearby bar but we declined his kind invitation and went off to a posh looking vegetarian restaurant.
Here we met Urkan, a Turkish Cypriot from Tottenham in London, and his girlfriend Sabina, an attractive German girl from Hamburg. They had just flown into Mérida after touring the United States of America for three months. Urkan had a great mop of curly hair and a character reminiscent of Danny Baker.
Danny Baker is an English comedy writer, journalist, radio DJ and screenwriter. Throughout his career he has largely presented for London's regional radio and television. Baker was born in Deptford to a working-class family and raised in Bermondsey. He is a keen Millwall fan ("No one likes us, we don't care."). From 1977, he wrote for the punk zine Sniffin' Glue, and from there was hired by the New Musical Express, where he worked as a writer, reviewer, and interviewer, moving into television in 1980.
We joined this couple for dinner. An eye peered around the corner of the patio, followed by a smile. Then, our alcoholic Mexican acquaintance from last night sidled up to our table clutching a bottle of beer in a plastic bag. He sat with us at the table and took surreptitious swigs from his bottle while going through the same song routine as last night.
We paid for meal and fled while our new amigo went to the bog (toilet). From here we met a Californian couple who knew Urkan and Sabina and we went to a restaurant that boasted four beers for a $US dollar. Sadly, they only had eight bottles of the offer beer in stock, so we retired early at 22:00 hrs. The mosquitos in our room were active all night long.
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