We booked a few restaurants a month ahead of time (one of them - Pujol - was already pretty booked up, so we had to rearrange some things to get a table there), planned a day trip, wrote down some things we wanted to do, and left a good deal open so we could just explore Mexico City while it was celebrating Day of the Dead, a huge two-day festival November 1 and 2.
We planned for a 6 AM flight out Saturday, October 29, and we would return Sunday, November 6, in the afternoon.
Mike hasn't left the country in about 25 years, so leading up to the trip he asked me 10 or 12 or 78 times what to pack for our one-week stay.
"I'll check this bag and carry this one," he said when he thought he had everything.
"You're not checking a bag for a one week vacation," I told him. "You wear basically the same thing everyday anyway."
"I need all this though."
I looked over at his bag.
"You can carry that on. You don't need to check it."
"I know! I meant that I was 'checking it out' to make sure I had everything before leaving, Caitlin. Obviously. Haven't you ever traveled before?"
It was 1:30 AM at this point so I decided to let him have his joke, as long as we were all clear there would be no checking of bags.
With a 6 AM international flight, I wanted to get to the airport 3 hours early. I am late to maybe everything in my life, but I am absolutely never late to the airport. I am stupid early. I have missed two flights in my life - one when I was 20 and didn't take into account how far London airports could be from each other, and another last year in Belize when my car broke down in the middle of nowhere on the way to the airport - and I did not like it. It's expensive and stupid to miss a flight, so I would rather sit on my hands with nothing to do for an hour or two at the airport than risk missing a flight.
Mike works nights, so we knew when we booked the trip that Mike would be going straight from work to the airport without sleeping. I forgot that, with my work shift ending around 11:30 PM Friday night, I also would not have time to sleep before our trip. In fact, it wasn't until I was on my way to work Friday afternoon that I realized we had set ourselves up to be awake for over 30 hours to start out our trip to Mexico City. This wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, but I missed work Tuesday because I was sick in bed all day, and I was still recovering from that. Being up for over 30 hours and flying was not a good remedy for getting over that. Is not getting enough sleep related to getting sick? If I personally believe the answer is no, does that make it so?
At 2:45 AM, Mike and I call an uber to take us to the airport. The driver is in his early 30s and getting an MBA to work in private equity. We talk a bit about finance, and because I know a little about it (very, very little), he tries to convince me to take that career path. I do think finance is fascinating, and what he had to say was mostly interesting, but talking to strangers about finance always entails a bit of "YOU CAN MAKE SO MUCH MONEY BRO" talk and that gets old very quickly.
At the airport Mike and I do a bit of waiting for things to open, and finally we get to security. I get very impatient with slow people who don't know how to take shoes off and separate their laptops in a timely manner. Two people cut me in the security line while was doing my thing, and this was very irritating to me. I'm not slow! How dare you!
I turn around and see Mike and remember I am traveling with a n00b and sigh, gathering as much patience as I was able to muster (not much). Once through security, Mike takes as much even longer putting everything back together. I tease him about it.
"There's no space for me to put my shoes back on!" he defends himself. I decide not to point out that everyone else has the same amount of space because I am, at the very least, not the world's worst girlfriend.
We sit in the terminal and Mike noticed there was a money change place across from us. We both have some American cash on us, and I tell him the best place to change money was a bank, but we probably have to get some money at the airport once we get to Mexico City so we can make it to our Airbnb. He walks over and exchanged all his cash for pesos at the airport money change place, then sits down next to me. I do some math with the exchange rate and tell him he needs to refund his money.
"They ripped you off $60," I say. I show him the math on the calculator. "See, it's 18.98 pesos for a dollar. You should have gotten 1000 more pesos for what you gave them. You won't get all of that, obviously, but 1000 pesos is a lot. You need to exchange it."
Mike sits there, looking at my calculator app and the pesos in his hand.
"I can do it if you want me to," I offer.
"No," Mike says. He continues to sit and ponder the pesos. I was getting impatient.
"Babe, it's $60. It's a lot of money."
"I know," Mike says, now irritated. He gets up and walks back over to the desk. I watch as he speaks with the rep and then walks back, still with the pesos. Assuming the worst - this is how they make their money, after all, and they might not do refunds - I get up and grab the pesos from him.
"Caitlin! She said she had to wait until her manager got there. He'll be in at 5:30."
I give him the money back. We sit down.
"I'm sorry," I say, referring to grabbing the pesos and generally treating him like a kid.
"You just assume I don't know how to do anything," he responds. He uses that voice, his Serious Conversation voice, and I know I can't brush off what just happened with an apology because now he wants to talk about it. No part of me is interested in this Serious Conversation - it's 5:15 AM, we're in an airport terminal, and I'm running on - wait, let me calculate that real quick, oh right - zero hours of sleep. And all this before a week-long trip together!
So we talk, and Mike brings up a few other instances that I thought we'd already talked about, but I guess he wants to talk about again - here - now. He's worried I think he's a dunce who can't take care of himself.
"Just tell me you don't think I'm dumb," he says. I groan. This isn't a Serious Conversation where we both talk about our flaws. This is him bummed that my carelessly superior attitude sometimes makes him feel an idiot. I take a breath and try to figure out how to word what I want to say.
"I know I sometimes make people feel stupid without meaning to," I said. It's a realization I only had about a month or so ago, and it's a frustrating one because I don't know when I'm doing it, so I don't know how to fix it or stop doing it. Do people call me out on it? I don't think so. Maybe they do and I don't hear them calling me out because I think we're all having fun and they're thinking "man, Caitlin is being a dick rn."
"I told you that a few weeks ago and asked if I ever made you feel that way, and you said no," I continue.
"Well I've thought about it since then."
"I wouldn't date you if I thought you were an idiot. I just... it's just, we all have gaps. I think sometimes you would rather not deal with something and give it up as a loss, that's all. I do stupid shit too. I ran out of gas just last year in a brand new hybrid on the freeway. Who even does that? How does that happen?"
Mike laughs. "I remember that snapchat."
"I don't think you're stupid. I'm sorry."
"It's ok." He kissed me and I put my head on his shoulder and the Serious Conversation was over.
At 5:30 Mike walks back to the money change place and they give him a refund.
On the plane I try to sleep and succeed for maybe an hour. Mike doesn't even bother trying. Maybe he's too wired. By the time we land at noon, we hit our 24 hour mark.
We make our way through customs and had to find a taxi. The woman running the airbnb had asked us to call when we were on our way from the airport, but we can't figure out how to call a Mexican number, and the internet at the airport isn't working on our phones, I decide we should just taxi to the airbnb anyway and, worst case scenario, find a coffee shop to hunker down in and figure out how to call her from there.
I change a small amount of money at the airport - enough to get us to our room and then a little extra.
Almost everyone we spoke with at this point - customs agent excepted - spoke only Spanish. Money changing and ordering a taxi were easy enough (point at a thing, use the few words I know, etc), but I'm starting to worry. I assumed some people in Mexico City spoke English because I am a child of the privilege wrought by generations of American imperialism and I demand the world revolve around said privilege, but it was becoming clear my optimistic assumption was wrong. Mike speaks no Spanish either, and already several people have directed their part of the conversation to Mike in the assumption that he at least spoke Spanish. Mike is half Mexican, which is why they assumed he could speak the language, but he does not speak the language, so those people only ended up disappointed.
We probably spent about 20 minutes total in the airport after we had gone through customs, but when we got in the taxi, Mike turns to me.
Mexico City is enormous and not as many people speak English as I had hoped. I'm out of practice in this kind of situation. Every time I want to try to speak Spanish with the phrases and words I knew, it comes out as French, which is not super helpful. I think in my head "est-ce qu'il y a..." and realize I don't know how to translate that into Spanish at all. Useless. Some stuff I can understand, based on the stale French I remember from my time in France 6 and a half years ago, but a lot more of it I can't. And I certainly have trouble responding.
For a few seconds at the airport, when I saw the signs for Avis, I thought about renting a car. I always think about renting a car when I'm in a new place. Driving a car means more freedom. I quickly ignored the impulse, and thank Jesus for that. The taxi ride is arguably the most terrifying taxi experience in my life. Are there rules of the road in Mexico? The driver does u-turns whenever he feels like it. Are there lanes in Mexico? I sees cars next to each other, going the same way, but no marks to signify said lanes, and they cut each other off as if that's just what driving is. Our cab driver almost hits a parked car multiple times on the way to our room. Sometimes we're so close to the taquerias I wonder if I can order one from the car without having to step out.
We get to our location, and there's a small cafe next to us where they let us use the internet (some English on their end, and more pointing at things on my end, helps us communicate). I figure out how to call a Mexican phone number - you don't need enter the Mexico country code when you're INSIDE Mexico!!!! Duh!!!! - and we call the neighbor we're supposed to call. She speaks minimal English, but she understands enough to know we're downstairs.
It is 1:30 PM and we have been awake for so long. We get inside and she's again mostly speaking to Mike, who in his head has already decided I'm in charge of communicating with other people. He will tell me this at lunch later.
It's a cute, quaint apartment complex, colorfully painted. We walk up 37 flights of very narrow metal stairs and then down 16 flights of narrows metal stairs to get to our room. (It might have been four or five flights up followed by one down, but I was not expecting these stairs at all and we had our luggage and I was very tired so it certainly felt like 37 flights of stairs.) She hands us a piece of paper with the rules (people live here, so don't be a dick at all hours of the night, here is the internet, here is the supermarket, here are the banks), hands us the keys, and leaves.
Just have to climb a few flights of stairs to get to our room.
I know I'm complaining about the stairs, but we do love our room. It's very well-situated in Condesa and it's a nice room inside too.
The view from the patio is also pretty solid.
It's Saturday, so the banks close at 3 PM and won't open again until Monday. We head to Nova Scotia bank. I am very bummed to learn the teller does not speak English (even the bank teller? even he? I am utterly lost) and decide to take out my American dollars and the few pesos I have and try to mime exchanging them for each other. I feel I mostly succeed in making myself a target. This is La Condesa, right? This neighborhood is the neighborhood of the university students, right? This is the "Silverlake" of Mexico City, right? I have never felt more, ugh, American in my life.
The bank has no American dollars and I am trying to contain my outrage because it is certainly not earned, but I am tired and outrage comes easily. I walk outside and tell Mike we'll look for one more bank before giving up. I see HSBC - saved! They MUST have the ability to change money! - but they're closed already, so we hit up an ATM and I take out less money than I realize because doing math in my head is getting harder as the day goes on. Still, it's enough for some light shopping and lunch.
The Condesa neighborhood is beautiful. There are so many trees and so much greenery, along with cobblestone walking paths in the middle of the streets and boldly-colored buildings next to each other. Mike and I are so happy to be here.
Circle K. Nice.
Mike walking around.
Mike and I eat at a place called Azul Condesa. I am not super hungry, and it's after 3 PM and we have 7 PM dinner reservations, so we share food. We try guacamole with grasshoppers, which is interesting but I think the grasshoppers are maybe too salty. Mike loves them. Our waiter gives us tequila to try. I had forgotten I can't hang with tequila by itself, but that half-shot reminded me in a hurry. We get margaritas and I talk us into having two each, which is a decision I still stand behind because they were delicious. The second one was a pineapple margarita and it was great.
Mmm, guacamole with grasshoppers. Salty.
"We're getting up at 7 AM tomorrow?" Mike asks. "For our day trip?"
"Let's maybe reschedule for later in the week. We can go to zomicho... zomilco... zochilmoco... ok, I don't know how to say it, so we'll look it up in the room."
Mike looks relieved. "The open air market sounds cool, but-"
"Let's get sleep instead."
While we are out, Mike and I are sniffling and blowing our noses the entire time. It is very cute. I develop a pimple directly under my left nostril. It looks like I have a booger popping out at all times. My BB cream does nothing to cover it up. I regret leaving my foundation at home.
We find a 7-11 to grab bottles of water but they don't have the other necessities we need - toothpaste, soap, razors - and instead of following up on those needs, we decide we are two effing tired and go back to the room for a nap. It is 4:30 PM.
At 6 PM my alarm goes off. Mike complains because he is still tired and I am still tired but we made reservations and I'll be damned if we miss them because we are idiots who can't plan sleep schedules properly. The restaurant is called Lardo and it's a quarter mile away and it is absolutely delicious.
They have two menus - one in English and one in Spanish - which was helpful but the waitstaff for the most part doesn't speak English. That's ok - we point at things, and it works out. I am still blowing my nose all the goddamn time. I might as well ask them to bring my meal to the bathroom.
"It's weird to think that we can have a conversation in English and no one will understand us," I told Mike. "We can talk about anything."
We talk about something vaguely inappropriate when the waiter brings out a chorizo and burrata pizza and the gentlemen next to us lean over.
"That is the best pizza here!" one of them says in perfect English. "I come here frequently and have ordered several pizzas, and that one is the best."
Well, so much for our secret English language, I guess. The pizza was dope though.
This morning we got up after a solid 10 hours of sleep. I feel much better, but Mike is now fighting a cold. He's in relatively good spirits. We had breakfast at a creperie. I wanted a crepe with chocolate sauce, but how do I ask about nut allergies in Spanish? I try to use the French word for peanuts and Spanishfy it, but it doesn't work. It's a totally different word. Mike pulls out google translate but that doesn't seem to help with the nut allergy question either. I ask if it has "nutella" and still the waiter doesn't understand, which, frankly, is on him, because there is another dish that has nutella in it. They grab an English-speaking waiter and he promises there are no nuts in the dish and everything is great.
"Mike, what did you get again?" "Cuevos con... something." "Thank you."
Mexican crepes with milk, white, and dark chocolate.
Mike and I finally got our life necessities - soap, toothpaste, razors - after breakfast. I know, we are disgusting people. My teeth will fall out in a few years. We also grabbed some food for cooking in the apartment we're staying in. Did you know they have cactus leaves in the supermarket in Mexico???? Mike and I don't know how to cook those so we decided not to get them.
Still I thought that was so neat. Cactus leaves. Wow wow wow wow wow.
Cactus leaves upper right. Coconuts too! Lower left! And asparagus.
Okay Mike is napping so I'm going to wake him up for our Xochimilco - I looked it up!!! - adventure this afternoon. Yay!
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