Mexico had never been high to visit on my personal list. It may have had something to do with the proximity to home, the misguided thought of “it’s not exotic/adventurous enough”, a lack of knowledge on the country itself, or having already visited. There are a couple things wrong with the above. For starters, a five hour flight to the capital is by no means a short hop and the diversity of the country in terms of languages, landscapes, and cuisine is enough to make a sociologist blush.
My family had visited over a decade ago, visiting Tulum and Riviera Maya. Cenotes and beaches do not an entire country make. Fast forward to the present and on a whim, I was browsing flights and found a cheap one into the capital. As luck would have it, the weekend I was due to arrive, Club America was playing a game at the Estadio Azteca. For football fans, the stadium is a mecca, akin to one of the seven wonders of the world of football stadiums, along with Wembley in Britain, Maracana in Brazil, and the Santiago Bernabeu in Spain, to name a few. Instantly, I was hooked. Flights were booked and tickets were perused, with zero expectations holding the two together. Little did I know, the weekend would turn into one of the most enjoyable trips I would come to take.
Tickets to Club America matches only went on sale the week of, unless you were a socio, or member, of the organization. They could be ordered online only by paying with a Mexican credit or debit card, neither which I possessed. Ergo, the only option was to purchase tickets in person and arrive early to the stadium to cue. Games are played on Saturday or Sunday evenings, making it easy to time the long trek via the metro plus a bus transfer to make it to the stadium. Easy does it.
The Friday morning sun broke through the wispy curtains of my hostel bunk; an implicit signal that breakfast had been served on the rooftop deck. Stumbling over backpacks and clothes strewn on the floor, I headed up the wrought iron stairs to catch a glimpse of the skyline as well as fill my stomach with beans, tortillas, and chilaquiles; a welcome respite from the previous weeks of chain hotel continental breakfasts. Plate piled high with carbs, I sat down with a few other hostelers to gauge interest in the match. Around our wire-frame circular table sat one Kiwi and two Germans. Each one traveling alone, we bonded quickly over discussing sites to see, potential activities, swapping travel stories, and sharing itineraries. The majority found themselves in CDMX to learn or practice Spanish as well as take advantage of the low costs of living (albeit temporarily). With the match being played Saturday night, I raised the idea. The Germans had no interest in attending while the Kiwi thought the opposite. Due to stadium capacity of 80,000, we decided it best to purchase tickets in line on premise.
As luck would have it the next morning, I brought up the idea again to gauge interest. The Kiwi relayed that he discussed the match with 3 additional Kiwis also staying at the hostel and that they’d like to go. Phenomenal; we had a veritable troupe to take in the experience. Fast-forward to a couple of hours before game, we re-grouped on the rooftop and created a plan of action to attend the match. Another Canadian had joined the posse to make us 6. Although uber was a cheap alternative, we sided with a more local experience to take the combined metro and bus to the stadium gate for a pittance. Despite being pickpocket and deposed of my phone for any contact or directions, I decided to give the metro another shot. We disembarked towards the metro, but not before picking up a pre-match snack of chapulines, or grasshoppers. Rows of stands selling meats, vegetables, drinks, and other bites lined the promenade before the entrance to the metro. I am never one to turn down eating bugs when given the opportunity. A tiny bag, filled with hot sauce, chili powder, and topped with line came to a little more than one dollar. Gas station fare, this was not. Although we had an early start, in typical traveling fashion, things did not go according to plan. First, the Canadian, ever dehydrated, dropped like a stone on the metro proper. We exited the first stop, rushed to grab her water, and luckily, she came to and was rejuvenated. One of the Kiwis hailed a taxi as she returned to the hostel. Two of the Kiwis then left to use the bathroom and promptly got lost. Returning 15 minutes, already now behind schedule, we jumped in a car and speed off. Jumped is too of a word. One of the Kiwis, as the doors were closing on our entry, stuck his arms inside and physically pried them open so that we could all enter. Brute strength combined with the smallest bit of liquid encouragement kept us on track.
As we sped down the road making it to the bus and then transferring for what seemed to be hours, the bus suddenly ground to a halt, the Azteca in front of our eyes. Only one problem remained: purchasing tickets, sitting through a rain storm, and waiting in line. Side note; the game and started and 10 minutes had already passed. Churning through the line ever so tortoise-like, finally the gate approached. 5 tickets were purchased, upper level and to the NW of the home team’s goal. Sprinting to our seats, slightly wet, and turning down offers of overpriced micheladas, we had arrived. Though an off night, the grandeur of 80,000 seats stood abreast. Piling in, air buzzing with thousands of screaming fans and the drums of the aficionados, the night was electric. Vendors began to circle the seats. American vendors would do with taking a page out of their book. Ramen, mac n cheese, elotes, cotton candy, Subway, Wendy’s – it was like being a glutton in a mall fast food court, with everything at half price and the constant bombastic cheers in Spanish. Simply to take in the sights, sounds, and smells made worth the $6 price of admission.
From a footballing perspective, America ran circles around the opposition. An entire gulf in class apart, the home side pinged countless effortless balls over the top for their runners to latch onto as well as possessed a defense that handled any whiff of trouble with ease. The keeper was rarely tested. Minutes before the half was to end, a deep diagonal ball to one of the fullbacks beat the opposition’s backline. As the center halves dropped in, the fullback produced a cutback to the top of the penalty box where the America forward put his foot through, placing the ball into the back of the net. GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLL erupts thousands of screaming fans. The drums get louder, beer is drank rapidly, and hugs, high-fives are exchanged all around. Strangers and neighbors turn into friends, even for the brief 90 minutes. As the game continued and more concessions were procured, America managed another, around the 70th minute. Cue goal sequence number 2 with no less aplomb. Final score: America 2, opposition 0; 3 points to the home squad. As we filtered out of the stadium, though the football could have been higher quality, we were all satisfied with the experience as a whole. Another stadium, another match, another check off the list. Latinos are passionate people, and nowhere is this greater identified than while attending a classic futbol match. For neutrals and hardcore fans alike, the atmosphere alone is enough to transport one to another locale. Quite possibly the best $6 I’ve ever spent.
Dispatches by Alec 