By train, it takes a long, long time to get from Coyoacan to its neighboring district, Xochimilco. Even with my new found adoration for moving about Mexico City, as I got on to the third train of the day, I began to wonder if it would be worth it to go. I didn’t know what to expect once I got to Xochimilco other than a trip down a canal on a colorful boat.
I was by myself and not sure how that would alter the experience. A group of Americans staying at my hostel told me I definitely needed to go with a group or it would not be as fun. An American solo traveler told me she had gone alone and it was weird, but worth it to go anyway.
I thought it might be possible to find others to join up with when I got there, but when I arrived at the dock, there were a lot of empty boats and no other tourists in sight. But I figured that since I’d gone all that way, I might as well just go.
Out on the river, I was entertained by drunk college-age kids who jumped in to the murky water, intrigued by the old women who rowed by selling beer and snacks to boat riders, and calmed by the serenity of Xochimilco and the reflections on the canal.
A family standing on a bridge smiled at me and called out, “Tranquilo?”
“Si, si!” I replied. But I was still not convinced that the experience outweighed the time it took to get to get there. So when I floated by a mariachi band on a snack break and they asked me if I want to hear some music, I said yes. Anything to enhance the day. The man rowing their boat stuck his foot on mine to get closer and row alongside.
They straightened themselves out and began to perform, five men and a girl who looked to be no older than 15. The girl sat out on the first song, writing in a notebook, maybe doing homework. They asked if I want to hear another song and I said yes again. This time, the girl sang backup. And then I said yes to another song. This time, the girl sang a solo.
You know the overused saying, “Sing like no one is listening”? This girl’s mantra seemed to be, “I know you’re listening, and I don’t give a crap.” She leaned over into my boat, looked me directly in the eyes, and sang with a convincing passion I have never heard before from someone so young.
Her eye contact made me uncomfortable, but I couldn’t look away. It almost felt like she was challenging me to reveal my inner workings through her own revelation. She gained the attention of other boats and they slowed down to listen to her voice soar to highest notes a voice can possibly reach.
Her soprano voice is one that is capable of piercing through layers—deep into sorrow, fear, unfulfilled dreams—whatever you have hidden the best and stored the furthest away from the surface. She draws it out of you and takes it into her song. And with each crescendoing note she holds, she exhales it, sustaining and growing the note, making you confront it in its entirety, ending the note only when the toxicity of whatever it is has dissipated.
Goosebumps crawled up my arms as I tried to make an applause as loud as one person possibly can. The mariachi band asked if I want to hear another song, and I said no. I knew it was best to leave it at that. Back on land, I returned to the train station for the long ride back to Coyoacan. Xochimilco had been worth it, even if only for a few minute music therapy session.
