“Run, Tourist?, Run!”

Thorsten and I walked up Jose Vasconcelos, after pre-gaming at a mutual Mexican friend’s flat. As we turned on to a side street Chicontepec, by the Russian Embassy entrance, two patrol cars, sirens dark and silent, let out four cops.

I scanned left and right. Nothing newsworthy. Then I looked down into my Red Solo Cup. Ah…that’s the crime. By now, I knew the drill. And downed my 60-proof cocktail in a gulp and a half.

Destroying evidence.

Now, I can imagine them saying “Evidence? We don’t need no stinking evidence”. They don’t take this to court. Rather, they wanted what Mexicans call a mordita: a little bite.

More quotidian morditas, like during rush hour traffic, came with earnest requests: "algo pa' un refresco?" (something for a soft drink?)—a few coins. As much tip as bribe.

Again, I looked at my scarlet vessel. I literally had something for a soft drink.

Yet I knew better to offer that. They’d want more.

Since my last run-in, I brushed up on Mexican open-container law. While the Swede was typically terse, I elaborated we’d take the ticket and pay the fine—fairly modest—after the weekend. If they took us in, I reminded la policia, they’d have to contact ALL of our embassies: signaling Thorsten and I had different nationalities and implied even multiple ones. Imagine the red tape!

Though, I kind of knew they planned no paperwork. Then, I thought of the embassy gate 20 feet away. Though dark on a Saturday night, the compound’s guards should scare off corrupt cops. But I couldn’t remember much Russian. Would they recognize my Polish? Well, Poles say Russian sounds like drunk Polish and luckily, I was… I noticed Thorsten was no longer by me, as I then pondered how slurry my Spanish sounded.

Then, I saw them put Thorsten in the back of a patrol car.

The cocktail coursing my arteries became starter fluid for impulsivity.

I ran.

I ran down the one-way Chicontepec—against traffic. Not that there was any traffic, in that leafy residential block. It was quiet. I saw not a soul; even the street lights were dim.

The thin, cooling, night air entered my lungs. My anxiety gave way. I felt energetic, free.

I felt fast, but that first block felt loooong…

Of course, traffic laws rarely impede cops anywhere; in Mexico less so. A siren’s flash came from behind me. The car passed me and came to a stop diagonally in front. From the shotgun side, a cop jumped out grabbed me, and using my own momentum, threw me on the trunk. Mere seconds later—no frisking, no handcuffs—he had wrestled me into the back seat.

Thorsten was beside me, behind the driver. I could only nod to him as caught my breath. As we rode off, slowly I panted out to him. “Sorry…” I grabbed another breath. “I ran”.

He shrugged. Then put words to his Nordic practicality. “You should have run the other way”, he said.

Huh. That meant crossing Vasconcelos’ eight lanes; doable. Across lay a Sanborn’s—Mexico’s eclectic, compact diner-slash-department store chain—an upscale Woolworth's open till 1 am. Cops wouldn’t have followed me in there. They prefer to work, to lurk, in the shadows.