101 Places Not to See Before You Die - Catherine Price [38]
Convinced of my imminent death, I tried to find distractions. But the government’s shutdown of all public venues—concerts, restaurants, nightclubs, even archaeological sites—left me with nothing to do. Instead I took to wandering the near-empty streets and amusing myself by keeping track of people with unusual face masks, like a woman who’d decorated hers with a smiley face, or a goth kid with a spiked collar and spiked hair whose all-black color scheme was rudely disrupted by his mask’s bright blue.
It was a lonely experience, which was made worse by the fact that Mexico City is at a ridiculously high elevation, so the air is extremely dry. Which, not being used to it, made me cough. A lot. Which, naturally, made everyone around me assume I had swine flu. And would kill them.
Then, on Monday, a 5.6 earthquake hit Mexico City.
Still, it wasn’t all bad. On Tuesday night, a Mexican friend of mine was determined to take me out somewhere. After calling his friends all over the city, he found the only thing open—an Irish pub that was technically outside the city limits, and thus not subject to the closing restrictions. So, in a metropolitan area of almost nine million people, we went to the trendiest, most happening nightspot there was. Five other patrons were there. At least they had tequila.
MICHAEL BALDWIN is the creator of the CommonCensus Map Project.
Chapter 56
The Wiener’s Circle
In terms of food, the Wiener’s Circle, a hot dog joint in Chicago’s Lincoln Park, doesn’t stand out much from its competition. It’s got greasy burgers; it’s got cheese fries. What makes it different is its attitude: show up late on a Saturday night, and your food is likely to come with a side of screaming douchebags.
That’s because the Wiener’s Circle staff has made a game of insulting its customers, serving up orders with catch phrases like “For here or to go, motherfucker?” and “Pay me my money or get the fuck out.” According to the Wiener’s Circle’s owners, Barry Nemerow and Larry Gold, this tradition started accidentally when Larry, frustrated that he couldn’t get his patron’s attention, called a customer an asshole. That was fifteen years ago; these days they estimate that the Wiener’s Circle’s free-for-all nastiness has doubled their business.
If they were all playful, the back-and-forth insults might be okay. But as the night wears on and the patrons get drunker, a side of humanity begins to show that, as a video segment on This American Life pointed out, is better left unseen. The Wiener’s Circle is a microcosm of segregation in Chicago, with a black staff catering to a predominantly white clientele. Add alcohol, a hot kitchen, and an atmosphere free from the usual rules of social interaction, and the results aren’t pretty.
“Nice headband, you fuckin’ whore,” said one customer caught on camera.
“Fuck you, you sagging slut,” said another.
“It’s like an abortion, bitch!” shouted a different patron, presumably about his cheese fries. “I’m eating your babies and you love it!”
If you order a hot dog during the day, you should be fine. But when evening falls, the Wiener’s Circle becomes exactly what it sounds like: a gathering place for dicks.
Chapter 57
The Top of Mount Everest
Really? You really want to see the top of Mount Everest before you die? Why—because you want to boast to your friends that you’ve climbed the world’s tallest mountain?* Or is it because you want the thrill of adventure that comes from paying $65,000 for a guided climb and then risking a team of sherpas’ lives (not to mention your own) so that you can spend fifteen minutes breathing supplemental oxygen at the so-called top of the world? Unless you love frostbite, hypoxia, blinding snow, and high-altitude games of Russian roulette, do Nepal a favor and stay home.
Chapter 58