Life, Death and Food Poisoning in Mexico City.
Abel and I landed at Mexico City's international airport on a Friday afternoon to a casual immigration line that felt more like waiting to check out at the supermarket.
Our bags were dispatched on a conveyor belt that came to a full stop before they all finished coming out. Mine was sitting on the threshold, barely peeking out, so I had to climb up the belt to fetch it. Mexico.
The Uber ride to Condesa was just over half an hour. Traffic was bad. We passed through what felt more like an endless neighborhood than a big city; small houses with life pouring out onto the streets and little taco stands or meat markets or cafes on every corner. Somewhere between the architectural outskirts of Madrid and the battered charm of Havana, I was thinking.
My experience with Mexico spanned from dancing with the devil at a club in Acapulco, the poverty stricken border town of Matamoros, predictable American style resorts up the west coast, to the jungle on the Caribbean side. But I had never experienced it as a metropolis.
Starbucks and other American chains were ubiquitous. But at least it was the kind of Starbucks situated in an interesting historical building.Our Condesa hotel was an old mansion that blended into a quiet tree-lined street. It was both peaceful and brimming with life. What Palermo in Buenos Aires aspired to be. Somewhere between the bohemian polish of European cafes and the wild intrusion of a jungle.
The first night we had a late dinner at Blanco Colima in Roma Norte. The moment we sat down a DJ started playing loud music 30 feet in front of us. Dinner was a vibe. A pregame with people of all ages. They greeted us with complimentary mezcal. We had ham croquettes, pig tacos, an octopus sashimi and steak tartare. The fancily dressed waiters properly served us each tapa as if it were an entree, changing out the silverware we barely touched.
After dinner we winded through the trendy Roma Norte to see every cute restaurant and bar packed with people sitting outside. I randomly selected one from a recommendations list, and when we sat down I ordered a glass of red wine while Abel wisely stuck with mezcal. The wine was as terrible as my decision to order wine. I was reminded that even though we were in a major metropolis, it was still Mexico. And I was the butt of his jokes for the night.
Saturday morning we set out for a long walk to el Centro, stopping by a few plazas, el Mercado Central - a market sprawling with artisanal goods, and el Barrio Chino. We walked through streets made prettier with tiled buildings, some empty and under construction. We witnessed both the beauty of colorful outdoor floral shops and the sobering sight of pick up trucks packed with the national guard standing upright, holding assault rifles.
The more we got lost in the side streets and strayed from Condesa, the more I saw the non-trendy heartbeat that makes Mexico City what it is. The rich, European-style Mexico City, the tourists' Mexico City and the reality lived by most all came together to coexist as a very heterogenous capital. El centro was one of the busiest downtowns I'd ever seen. Every shop hustled to get us inside. Every corner had hordes of people trying to get every which way. The museum of tiles proudly stood in the chaos as proof that Mexico City was for artists.
In our short walk to Plaza Zocalo, the gravity of human existence haunted me. I understood why Mexican culture held onto ideas of heaven and superstitions from the past. It's unbearable to think about how one day our life just ends, and with that, becomes insignificant.
In Mexico City, the fragility of life felt visceral. While I was in that contemplative state, my mom called me from home to tell me she had been diagnosed with a brain tumor. It was like I divined it. Luckily, everything is ok now. But, I will never forget how that dark, superstitious energy of Mexico City led me to that moment.
Downtown was overwhelming. We walked back towards Roma Norte to have lunch with Abel's friends who drove up from Cuernavaca to meet us. A Spaniard named Alberto and his Mexican wife Miriam. We chatted in Spanish over a massive plate of 20 tacos at a very unassuming taco join on one of the plazas. True to Latin style, we were in no rush and continued on for coffee, and then postre, and then beers. A Mexican friend of mine joined us and talked to me about how people in Mexico City chose family over isolating themselves during the height of the pandemic, no matter how at risk it put them.
Not even the threat of death can tear the Mexican idea of togetherness apart, I thought.
We walked Abel's friends back to their car and discovered it had a boot on it and couldn't be moved.
This wasn't the first time it happened to Alberto. The police, he told us, were notorious in Mexico for demanding "multas", or bribes. It could be for a parked car or a random pullover on the highway for speeding. They abused their power and they would tell you what you needed to pay to get out of it. In this case, Alberto's plates were from outside of Mexico City. He would have to go to a local pharmacy to pay the fine, and we would all sit in the car and wait for hours until a guy on a bicycle who worked for the police came to remove the boot.
By the time we got home we were too tired to go out to dinner, so I ordered sushi delivery to our hotel. It was an even worse decision than ordering red wine.
On Sunday we went to El Museo Nacional de Antropologia, which tells the story of Mexico before it was conquered by Spain. There were masks symbolizing mythological and religious practices. Pyramids that required a feat of human sacrifice to build in the middle of the desert. Civilizations that were confronted with death on a daily basis and still linger in modern Mexican culture.
After strolling through Polanco, Abel's sense of humor and boundless energy came to a full stop. Something was wrong. We used the bathroom of the W in Polanco and as I called my mom, he carelessly napped on one of the banks at the hotel's entrance.
We walked the 45 minutes to Mercado Roma for lunch. Abel sat lifelessly in front of his paella, barely touching what he loved so much. Food was not the answer, it was the problem. I gave my boyfriend food poisoning, because I had the foolish confidence of ordering raw sushi in a landlocked Mexican city.
On our way out of the market I stumbled on something, and Abel yelled loudly for all to hear in Spanish "lo siento, es rubia!" (I'm sorry, she's blonde!) and all of the Mexican chefs and workers erupted in laughter. Latin men.
Once again we had to ditch any plans for dinner out and spend another night in the hotel. It hit Abel like a bomb. And 12 hours later, it hit me. We spent Monday in bed, taking turns walking to the pharmacy to get more drugs. We pushed our flight to Sayulita.
Laying sick in bed with the Aero Mexico operator on speaker phone repeating "el sistema está un poco lento" and "estamos trabajando en ello" for two hours was not the idea I had for Mexico City.
As we finally took off two days later, I left thinking about all of the things we didn't experience in Mexico City. I did not make it to the trendy Rosetta or Pujol. We didn't see the Frida Kahlo museum or Diego Riveras' murals.
Mexico City kicked our asses. It humbled me. It reminded me of how human I am. It told me to take nothing for granted. And while the world is seeing it as a creative place that's new and intriguing, I felt the spiritual weight of 10,000 years of history overcome me. I didn't see the thin line between life and death, but I felt it.
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