NOVEMBER 3, 2007
JAVA HEAD
I had pretty much scoped out Mexico City. I figured I would go to Veracruz. I shoved a notebook, a toothbrush, ink stained copy of Artaud's Anthology, and some underwear in a small linen knapsack and left the rest of my stuff in a locker at the train station.
The overnight train was leaving in seven hours. I wandered into the cafeteria down the street from the now defunct Hotel Ortega and ordered a bowl of codfish stew. Fish bones were abundantly swimming in the gold colored stock and a long slim one lodged in my throat. I was obliged to pull it out with my thumb and forefinger without gagging or drawing attention to myself. I wrapped the bone in a napkin, pocketed it, summoned the waiter and paid up.
I searched out a bathroom that had a female stenciled on the door, washed my face and regained my composure. I still had several hours to kill so decided to go to the Casa Azul where Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera lived and worked. I made the trek to Coyoacan in the southwest section of the city only to find it was closed for renovation, a reoccurring theme in my life. I walked a few blocks to the house where Trotsky spent his last days and contemplated his energy as I examined his desk and books and bed. I had a coffee in a cafe, lit a candle at the Church of the Baptist and headed back to the train station. I sat on a bench with my hands folded, periodically assessing the minor damage to my bruised throat. I was still hungry and gratefully paid a roving vender a few pesos for coffee and a hot bun.
Magnifying my happiness was the kindness of a porter who allowed me to board early. I had a small cabin with a sleeping compartment with a pillow. There was a wooden seat that folded down. I dressed my sleeping area with a multi colored striped scarf and propped my Artaud book against the peeling mirror. I was really happy. I was on my way to Veracruz, an important center of the coffee trade in Mexico. It was here that I imagined I would write my post beat meditation on my substance of choice.
I could drink fourteen cups without compromising my sleep.
The train ride was uneventful with no Alfred Hitchcock side effects. I ran over my plan. I desired no major experience save to find fair lodgings and the perfect cup of Joe. The first hotel I hit was all I could want. I was given a white washed room with a sink, an overhead fan and a window that overlooked the square. I tore a picture of Artaud in Mexico from my book and taped it to the wall. I reasoned he would like being back. After a brief rest I counted out my money, took what I needed and stuffed the rest in my sock. It was a hand woven cotton lisle sock with a tiny rose embroidered on the ankle. I had sadly lost the other one, but it made a pretty wallet.
I hit the street and chose a well-situated bench as to clock the area. I watched as men periodically emerged from one of two hotels and headed down the same street. At mid morning I discreetly tailed a fellow through a winding side street to the cafe that despite it's modest appearance seemed the heart of the coffee action. There was no door. The black and white chessboard floor was covered in sawdust. Burlap sacks heavy with coffee beans lined the walls. There were a few small tables but everyone was standing. There were no women inside. There were no women anywhere.
I stood at the entrance and vowed to return the following day.
On the second day of my beat, I sauntered in, shuffling through the sawdust. I wore a raincoat I had bought second-hand on the Bowery. It was a high-class job, paper thin and slightly frayed. I had my Wayfarers, bought for twelve dollars at the tobacco shop on Sheridan Square. My cover was a journalist for Coffee Trader Magazine. I sat at one of the small round tables and lifted two fingers. I wasn't sure what this meant, but the men all did it with happy results. I wrote incessantly in my notebook. No one seemed to mind.
The next slow moving hours could only be described as sublime. As I took my seat I noticed a calendar tacked over a sack overflowing beans marked the Chiapas region. It was February 14th, Saint Valentine's Day and I was about to give my heart to a perfect cup of coffee. It was presented to me somewhat ceremoniously. The proprietor stood over me in wait and when I lifted my face to him, it was covered with tears. "Hermosa" I said, and he smiled broadly. And it was truly beautiful. An elixir divine. Highland grown. A marriage of heaven and earth.
The rest of the morning I sat watching the men come and go, sample, break beans with their teeth, shake them and hold them to their ears like shells, roll their hands over beans on a flat table as if divining a fortune, then placing an order. In those hours, the proprietor and I shared not a word, but the coffee kept coming. Some times in a cup, some times in a glass. At lunch hour everyone departed, including the Proprietor. I rose and inspected the sacks, pocketing a few choice beans as souvenirs, taking in the aromas of the finest coffees in Mexico.
After a time he reappeared with two plates of black beans, roasted corn, tortillas with sugar, and sliced cactus. We ate silently. He brought me one last cup. Hot strong and sweet. I settled my bill, and showed him my notebook. He gestured me to follow him into his office. He took out his official seal as coffee trader and solemnly stamped a sheet of my writing. We shook hands knowing we would never meet again.
I vowed I would write about it one day. Now I have.
--From notes: Hotel Internacional February 1972 .
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