much time has passed unbeknownst to me. for weeks i have vacated the driver’s seat, both literally and figuratively, in ubers, my parents’ car, on planes, in elevators, just trusting i’ll get where i’m trying to go. i arrived in mexico city on monday, november 29, which is where our story, as told by my journal, both begins and ends.
chronological documentation can be a real pain in the ass, assuming you’re writing about your day on the day you had the day. this technique, while ideal for detail retention, takes time out of said day that could be spent living more. if i have four days in mexico, and the rest of my life somewhere else, doesn’t it make sense to live now and write later? shouldn’t i give myself something more to say?
the problem is that when i get back to somewhere else, it doesn’t feel all that different than four days in mexico. my laziness has a passport and it’s just as traveled as i.
i arrived early monday morning on almost no sleep, save a couple measly hours i salvaged on the plane. i waited anxiously for my bag for over an hour, in which time i did my makeup in the family bathroom adjacent to baggage claim. i have done this more than once, specifically in the family bathroom. only as i write this do i realize i have sort of an irrational fear of doing my makeup in front of other women, as i have always suspected i am doing my makeup wrong. like i said, irrational. unless there is a right way, in which case, beautiful makeup-savvy women, i’m begging you to fill me in.
when i walked outside to find my ride, a man peddling cabs immediately attempted to hoodwink me.
“you need a cab?” he asked, noting my conspicuous americana.
“no, thanks, i have an uber.”
“ubers don’t come to the airport,” he lied to my face.
with an awkward laugh and what i hope was not too sarcastic of a smile, i proceeded to get into my uber.
this was perhaps the only time all week i was regarded as a clueless american woman. overwhelmingly, in the city itself, i was treated with respect and humor and authentic human kindness.
i liked that people assumed i spoke spanish. i did not like how embarrassed i felt when they realized my spanish did not extend beyond a few elementary exchanges. as someone who passed the AP spanish test, this was rather disconcerting. what do you mean i’m not fluent? i’m joking, before you drag me.
the single scariest moment of traveling solo is not customs or navigation or walking around at night. it’s getting out of that first uber and realizing you are alone. the shock fades fast, but only because it has to – shoved out into the world alive and bustling in its rehearsed chaos, i had to find wherever it was i had planned to store my bags, so i could explore the city hands-free while i waited to check into my airbnb.
after walking up and down the same street upwards of six times and pathetically pleading various shopkeepers for help, i found the hostel in the back of a restaurant that appeared to be just opening. this “hostel,” oddly, had no visible accommodations, but it felt too late to change my mind, and my gut feeling was supportive. i left the life i brought with me in the hands of two strangers, smelling citrus from the kitchen as i emerged into the city, my own two hands empty, eager to hold something new.
i was downtown in el centro, the historic center of the city, and intended to spend the next few hours at a handful of museums. an unfortunate lack of foresight and uncharacteristically bad planning meant i had designated my museum afternoon for the only day of the week all museums are closed. funny!
no matter. rumination is travel suicide. i settled for the gran hotel ciudad de méxico, with its vaulted stained glass ceiling and spanish revival style architecture. i like those elevators encased in metal that move up and down in their cages. i like seeing the thing that’s moving, when you shouldn’t, or usually don’t.
i asked a girl about my age to take a photo of me in front of the house of tiles. i choose photographers strategically, like i might choose the camera itself.
i walked through alameda central, which i learned later is the oldest public park in the americas. 1592 is too unfathomable a number to be a real year. i put my airpods in and sat on a bench and a tiny bird i’d never seen before hopped right up to my feet.
i thought of the elote carts, the trash cans, the fountains, all the hot colonial concrete where the aztecs used to trade. who finds beauty in erasure? but we did, and we do. the place suddenly felt empty, like a walmart, or a graveyard.
i slipped off the main drag down a side street and found a coffee shop with outdoor seating. i ordered a cortado and a slice of plantain cake, which was so different than banana i said “huh” out loud, intrigued.
still hungry, i made a last minute reservation at caracol de mar (“sea snail”); the dining room was indoors, but felt outdoors, like a courtyard. i ate sea bass ceviche and an eggplant tamal with peanut mole and some variety of foraged leaves that were probably nettles, the latter being my favorite thing i ate the entire trip. i sipped a basil margarita and pretended i wasn’t using the wifi. the server kindly reminded me to put my napkin in my lap.
i picked my bags up without a hitch and ubered straight to my airbnb, took a cold shower against my will and got changed for the mezcal tasting i’d already booked. when i arrived at the address in juarez, a beautiful young woman let me in, her blue hair and lip ring unexpected but comforting. this was our host, C, and the only other guest was J – a canadian nomad (read: dirtbag) who was already mezcal-obsessed, and thought this qualified him to chime in every 10 seconds with his redundant, unprofessional opinion.
problematic behavior aside, we enjoyed each other’s company; C told such a thorough story of the culture and history of mezcal. the mexican people call agave maguey and frequently disagree over the proper names for each variety. my favorite was tepeztate, which was rich and earthy and herbaceous; i was floored by all the variations in texture and flavor profile. it reminded me of tasting wines side-by-side for the first time, and finally detecting their myriad of distinctive notes and characteristics.
“mezcal is romantic,” C said, dipping a finger into her glass of cupreata and massaging it into the skin on the back of her hand. she raised it to her lips, took a tiny sip, and smiled. “wouldn’t you rather be kissed than shot?”
obsession of the week
this meme account.