I was not kidnapped

This is what the taxi area is supposed to look like, according to the Mexico City website. However, for whatever reason, I saw nothing that resembled this. For starters, the taxis were not even the same color as above — I only saw green Volkswagen Beetle taxis.

Tonight when I landed at Aeropuerto Internacional de la Ciudad de México, there was no one holding up a sign with my name on it. Which is one of my little insecurities — as in, what is no one comes to collect me? So, to give the guy the benefit of the doubt, I waited for about 30 minutes and then sadly realized that I had to find my own way to the hotel. My phone battery had died on the way to Mexico, which means I could not even call the hotel to find out the proper taxi rate, nor could I call the company who was supposed to pick me up. Oh, and I had no pesos, and not enough dollars to exchange for any sizable sum of money.

I found an ATM and took out 1500 pesos, praying that a taxi to the hotel would not be $150, and then bravely set out to try to find a way to the Presidente Intercontinental Hotel. A guy wearing an airport uniform came up to me and asked if I needed a taxi. I said yes, and he told me to go to "puerto seis." Ok. Along the way, another guy, who looked lumberjack-y, asked if I needed a taxi and I said yes. The guy from the airport appeared out of nowhere and told me to only get my taxi from "puerto seis, ONLY." These other guys were apparently jitney cab drivers looking for fresh meat. Or perhaps just blond girls carrying bright orange Orla Kiely bags printed with coffee cups, and an enormous bag full of sanitary napkins. Oddly enough, there really weren't that many of us at the airport last night.

So, I get bounced from puerto seis to puerto cinco to puerto quatro, and every so often, my airport friend shows up to tell me, "no, go to that gate down there." I am now crabby, and royally pissed off at the event planner for forcing me to drag my huge bag of feminine hygiene through the Mexico City airport, while feeling bilious and bloated, brought on by the food on Mexicana Airlines.

Finally, I ask a guy wearing a taxi badge, which the airport guy told me look for, for a taxi ride. He asked where to and said ok, when I told him, and then started out a rather fast trot up a flight of stairs. Leaving me to fold up my suitcase and carry it, along with my maxi pads and coffee cup purse, up the stairs by myself. I was getting a sort of sexist vibe from all of the airport workers. My deodorant broke by this point, since I was wearing a cashmere turtleneck sweater and my ubiquitous down vest. Halfway through the walkway to some other place, another guy arrives, fast and seemingly angry words in Spanish are exchange, the new guy takes over, and the first taxi guy walks away, pissed off. Uh, oh.

So my new guy leads me through the Camino Real hotel, where I seriously considering staying. Fuck the Intercontinental at this point. But then he carries my bag down the steps to outside, where a giant black Explorer-y kind of truck SUV thing arrives, with all black tinted windows. There is no taxi sign. No meter. Nada. A few little green Volkswagen beetles taxis shoot past, slow down, then speed up when they see the black monster truck enveloping me. I don't have the best feeling about this situation. But I am so tired and annoyed, I am like what's the worst that can happen? They kidnap me? No one will even know I am missing until tomorrow. And its not like anyone would put up a ransom. Plus, this surely would not be worth it, since I am not even from a rich family, and its evident. I mean, I am carrying a laminated canvas handbag, and everyone else on the plane had Louis Vuitton luggage.

So we drive down what can only be described at a sketchy alley. For those of you who are from New York, the auto body repair alleys behind the Mets Stadium are pretty much what the street looked like. One of the two guys gets in and out of the car a few times, and I wondering why on earth I threw away the rest of my almonds in the airplane lavatory. And why on earth did I not buy the peanut M&Ms at the Hudson News in JFK? What if I don't eat for like five more days?! The guys gets back in and shows me a laminated sheet saying it will be 600 pesos to the hotel. $60 is way more than even a taxi ride from JFK to Manhattan, but I am not really in a position to negotiate. So we drive to my hotel, uneventfully — not kidnapping occured, but then when we arrive, the guy demands a tip. Which is pretty fucking ballsy I thought. Aren't tips like a bonus? You can't ASK for them. I only have a 100 peso bill though, and let them know I don't have change. They feign ignorance, and I have to fork over some dollars. I get all rude and American-y on them, and slam my car door for emphasis.

However, I guess, $70 is a small price to pay for not being kidnapped with a dead cellphone and no snacks. So I am happy…that I am not dead in a ditch, or tied to a chair in a little non-air conditioned house with a corrugated tin roof, á la News of a Kidnapping.

Hello, Mexico!