How do you say vertigo in Mexican?

My first of nine mornings in Mexico City started with the discovery, one block away, of a locally owned coffee place that not only was not Starbucks (they are everywhere), the coffee was great.  I may have butchered the colloquial way to say "small latte with an extra shot of espresso" but I got my point across.  I sipped the coffee on my way to El Bosque de Chapultapec, the massive urban park that houses four major museums, a zoo, and more chicharones vendors per hectare than any place on earth.   Relying on my map and my memory, I headed down Paseo de la Reforma to what I remembered to be a grand entrance to the park, the monument of Los Ninos Heroes.

Unfortunately, where I thought the entrance should be was a massive construction project.  The only way into the park appeared to be over a temporary pedestrian bridge made of aluminum framing wrapped in yellow warning tape.  Dozens of locals, including women carrying large baskets, young children in various states of running, and elderly people with canes, were casually making their way up the stairs, over the 50 foot bridge, and down to the other side where they could wind their way to the park entrance.  I anticipated no problem.  Then I started up the staircase.  The whole structure appeared to shake with each of my huge gringo steps.  The railings, though likely to code in Mexico, appeared to be six inches below my high center of gravity.  Slowly, carefully, grabbing on to the railing with each step, I made it to the top.  Next, the bridge, created from a series of sections of mesh metal, to enable a nice view of the roaring traffic below.  As old women balancing laundry baskets on their heads skipped over the bridge, I took deliberate, slow steps, trying not to look down, which was difficult given that I had to make sure there were no gaps in the sections before I took my next step.  When I got to the middle, as a twelve year old skateboarded by me, I froze.  It reminded me of a panic attack I had traversing a 18 inch path between two volcano craters in Costa Rica.  That time, I made it across by scootching on my butt.  This time scootching was not an option.  I tried to breathe my way through it.  Deep breaths, then a tentative move of my left arm over my right while gripping the railing and a slide of one foot over a few inches.  Then repeat.  The mocking glance of a pregnant woman with two young children in tow did not help (they were small enough to slip right through the gap of the railing, what if one of them slipped...)  Perhaps the transfer of my anxiety to the children caused a shift, but after they passed me, I started walking gingerly, but facing forward, and made my way to the base of the opposite stairs.

In some masochistic twist of fate, the past two days I have continued to find myself at the peril of my vertigo.  It's hit me while riding the glass elevator to the top of the Monument de la Revolucion, traversing another pedestrian bridge (this time a permanent one) over a highway, and staring at the Rufino Tamayo mural across the four story atrium of the Palacio de Bellas Artes.  It's almost like I forget that I have a fear of heights, and then, duh, I find myself at the top of a 20 story monument in a cold paralyzing sweat.  Or maybe, in a dictionary definition display of stupidity, I start the climb thinking this time will be different.  Whatever my subconscious motivations, one thing is true, I am still here.  I am happy to report that I did not fall to my death in the marbled Art Deco splendor of the Palacio de Bellas Artes, nor did I exercise an involuntary impulse to leap from the top of the monument, and I did not end up as a surprise on an unsuspecting driver's windshield.  Maybe that's what keeps me climbing.