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They wander under the harsh fluorescent glare of streetlights, through banks of smoke rising off taco stands, and duck into dingy cubby-holes like Citrus and upstairs dives like Wowiez. Later, as the night wears on, they pour onto the street and around the corner onto the Eje Central, one of the city’s busiest avenues. Paunchy bureaucrats and middle-aged office workers push through the swinging cantina doors at 60-year-old Bar Viena, while next door, at Oasis, the block’s other decades-old standard-bearer, nattily dressed gentlemen and weekenders from the campo and the occasional posh kid from the city’s richer quarters dance salsa and cumbia with envy-inducing grace. Twenty-somethings of every gender line up around the block outside El Marrakech and La Purísima, a pair of nightclubs that face each other across the narrow, construction-chewed street like Scylla and Charybdis (if Scylla and Charybdis were really good at voguing). At midnight on a recent Saturday-any Saturday, really-Avenida República de Cuba, near the sketchy northern edge of Mexico City’s Centro Historico, practically seethes with people.