Dear Mexico City,
Where do I even begin? You had me under your spell before I even arrived.
You welcomed me with open arms, your warm air enveloping me like a hug from an old friend. My visit was somewhat unexpected, yet entirely welcome and even, dare I say, necessary.
The invitation to explore your sultry streets with Cantimplora Travel arrived like a package in the mail I’d long since forgotten I’d ordered.
My eyes twinkled, my heart rate spiked, and I smiled that big, goofy smile I can’t help but smile when a dream hangs on the cusp of fulfillment. I’d long yearned to make this trip a reality, and the opportunity was one I simply could not let go to waste.
Fast forward a few months, and I was touching down at Benito Juarez International, still not entirely sure I wouldn’t wake from this fantasy at any moment. While I never knew exactly what I would find, one thing was always certain: That I would love you no matter what.
My hosts and the owners of Cantimplora Travel, Bernie and Sam, are two of your most impassioned ambassadors. Their love runs deep and they speak of your greatness with ironclad conviction. I couldn’t have chosen better guides if my life depended on it.
As they led us through the streets of your historic center, the moments of silence were rare; your history, first turbulent, then tragic, then triumphant, was recounted to us in great detail. In the end, there was too much to say and simply not enough time, but your story left its mark on me anyhow. Not every city can boast such resilience.
We took in your greatest sights, beginning with many of the most famous, and working our way slowly toward the obscure. Your grandiose cathedrals, monuments, and historic buildings left me wonderstruck, especially the slanted ones that sink slowly year after year while the soft ground beneath them gives way to their weight. Perhaps not the most structurally sound place to build an empire, but a quirk that only endeared you to me more.
We learned of your heroes; the fighters, the liberators, the artists and the revolutionaries. We listened to the stories of the characters who’ve gilded your name, and of the sorry few who’ve dared sully it. Each day my heart was broken and mended, broken and mended.
It was exhausting, falling in love with you.
We explored your markets, tasting your fruit. Oftentimes literally–mango with chili sauce, fragrant pineapple, guanábana frozen on a stick. Other times your fruit was rather…fried. Sopes, gorditas, quesadillas, tamales. Corn in more forms than I thought possible. Tacos. Tostadas. Pozole. Elote. Always with a side of fresh lime. I could go on, but now I’m hungry.
We sampled your beverages and fell for those, too. The saccharine sweetness of horchata and freshly squeezed fruit juice. The refreshing lightness of your beers; León, Pacífico, Negra Modelo, Victoria, and Bohemia were among my favorites. And, of course, the smokey complexity of your mezcal, which we sampled widely and in many forms.
When we needed to refuel, great coffee was never far away. Whether we were sipping the traditional café de olla, prepared in earthen clay pots, flavored with cinnamon, and sweetened with piloncillo, or downing rocket fuel espresso shots at your bountiful modern cafes, as a certified addict I can confidently say I was not disappointed.
Our guides certainly played a role in furthering our relationship; they allowed us to travel like locals (and traveling with a professional photographer certainly didn’t hurt). Without them, your true essence may have remained a mystery to me. With their help, on the other hand, we dove deep, felt truly submerged. I saw the light in you, and you brought out the light in me.
Each new neighborhood revealed a new piece of the puzzle, a new glimpse into your history. Stepping into Coyoacan felt like stepping back in time. To a simpler time. To a time when passions lasted a lifetime and honor was everything.
Drifting through the Aztec canals of Xochimilco aboard a trajinera named Beyonce Renata reminded me of the infinite ways of living, of the infinite human stories in the world, of the infinite stories I will never know. It reminded me, most profoundly, of the infinite knowledge I will never possess.
You might not know it, but you changed me, and for that I thank you.
It pains me to know you are still so misunderstood, to know that you are often stigmatized and even feared.
There are people ready to dismiss you as dangerous, unworthy of visiting, unlovable. There are people poised to reject you without ever giving you a chance.
But these people don’t know you, Mexico City. They don’t know you like I do. They don’t know you like Cantimplora knows you. They are seemingly impervious to the truth.
And while this is unquestionably a tragedy, it’s not a tragedy for you, but for them. They don’t know what they are missing, and they don’t want to.
They don’t know what they don’t know, and that is perhaps the greatest tragedy of all.
Keep inspiring and illuminating. Those of us who want to know the truth will seek it out, and we will be forever changed.
In love and gratitude,
Leah
All photos appearing in this post are courtesy of Cantimplora Travel. I was honored to participate in their tour of Mexico City as a guest.
