In Mexico I'm more gringo than I am in New York. No one buys my line about how I'm from a small tropical island off the coast of the United States. For most Mexicans, Manhattan is as much gringolandia as Yuma, Arizona. And Jews are gringos too-- especially because most Mexican Jews are blond and blue-eyed, speak either Yiddish or Hebrew, marry amongst themselves, and are upper-middle class or better (except for the bag lady who lives in an abandoned building a block from my home). Taxi drivers explain that Mexicans have absolutely nothing against blacks, Europeans, gringos or anybody...except the fucking Jews. Then there are the neo-Aztecs, the conchero (shell) dancers in the central square (semi-suburban kids rediscovering their long-lost roots who lecture about the three enemies of the noble Aztec race: women, gays and Jews).

Jews, like gringos, represent imperialism in Mexico. I have seen posters in the central plaza denouncing the Jewish capitalist conspiracy with photographs of Rockefeller. That Mexicans think Rockefeller is Jewish would be odd if they didn't think that every capitalist is Jewish, as well as every corrupt politician (including ex-president Salinas and his whole cabinet).

In New York, you worry about crime. Here, it's the cops. Any traffic violation becomes a policeman's ticket to shake you down. The going rate is somewhere between $10 and $20 for running a red light, while real crimes cost you a little more. Every miserably paid cop has to get his bribe in order to pay off his superiors who have to pay off their superiors. Mexico City recently allowed police to stop "suspicious" people on the street and search and seize. This has been a field day for cops, and several people I know have cut off their long hair and beards in order not to stand out.

And then there are the judiciales, the Mexican equivalent of the FBI, who strike terror in the hearts of good citizens (though not in the hearts of criminals, many of whom are ex-judiciales). The title of a recent film, "Judicial, Pero Honesto" (Federal Agent, But Honest), says it all. Judiciales ride around the city with their car doors open, ready for instant action. They specialize in nabbing drug-takers, drunks, hippies, punks, queers and other criminals who aren't likely to be carrying guns. They're known for creative anti-crime techniques like the Teohuacan water torture, where they shake up a bottle of mineral water, sometimes with a bit of chile added, and spurt it up the noses of their victims.

In Mexico I'm more sensitive to noise than I am in New York, even though my neighborhood is very quiet. Which is precisely why I wake up at 7 a.m. to the sound of the owner of the dry cleaners downstairs sweeping the sidewalk with a broom made from branches, the minute-long shout of the guy selling tamales door to door, the whistle of the guy on a bicycle who sharpens knives sitting backwards on the seat and peddling to get the grind stone turning, the high-pitched birdcall of the balloon man, the clanging of the garbage man's church-size bell, the steamwhistle of the pushcart with roasted yams and bananas, and the toy whistle late at night when neighborhood cops on bikes are signaling to good citizens that they can fall sleep safe and secure.