"You don't have to button it all the way up. It's not even raining that hard. It's drizzling."
"This wouldn't be happening if we had an umbrella."
"It's barely raining. Why are you so sensitive, bruh?"
"How can you even SAY that?!?!"
Mike and I head back to Coyaocan today to see Leon Trotsky's house. We stop first at a Mexican bakery and we wonder how it took us so long to get to a Mexican bakery because damn it is great stuff and very cheap. Make sure to get to a Mexican bakery while in Mexico. The donuts are good, the cheese pastries are good, the sandwiches are good, the churros are good - hey, it's all good.
There are not very many things Mike is adamant about on this trip, but the Trotsky museum is one of them. Mike identified as a communist in high school, and while he no longer considers himself as such (he was always a Hillary supporter even when I was feeling the Bern, so sometimes my politics are left of his), he still loves himself some communist history.
The Trotsky house is beautiful and fascinating. Trotsky had most of his family members killed by the Bolsheviks. In 1928, when Stalin kicked him out of Russia, he moved from Kazakhstan (hmm, places I don't want to be include Kazakhstan circa 1928) to Turkey to Norway to France and then finally found asylum in Mexico in 1937 thanks to a good amount of help from Frida Kahlo, who had communist sympathies herself.
Trotsky's exile travels.
Stalin was obsessed with Trotsky even after Trotsky left the USSR, and Trotsky suffered one failed assassination attempt before the second one finally succeeded - a spy from Spain managed to be his secretary's boyfriend and got access to the house that way, then killed Trotsky by knocking him in the head with an ice axe.
Trotsky's room.
"Damn, that's cold," I say. I belatedly realize my pun. Mike narrows his eyes at me. Guess he knows how it feels now when someone is just trying to go about their day and they are bombarded by puns.
We're in Trotsky's study after having left his library.
"So he gets this whole study to himself while his wife and secretaries and assistants get that library," I observe.
"Yep," Mike responds.
"He gets a whole room to himself. So much for communism, am I right? What about sharing everything you have?"
I think my willful misunderstanding of communism is the closest Mike has ever come to leaving me.
#artsy
After we walk through the museum, Mike asks if I want to do a guided tour of the museum.
"Um, ok. We can latch onto this group that's halfway through."
Mike doesn't want to do that, obviously.
"Because otherwise, if we start at the beginning, it would be like going through the museum an entire two times in a row."
"Yes, that is what I want to do," Mike says excitedly, trying to play like that was my idea. It is not my idea at all.
Oof. I remind myself that Mike has been super chill with the things I've wanted to do. I am not a selfless person, it turns out.
I almost succeed in getting us to leave when a big group of people walk in.
"Oh, great, we're surrounded by Russians," Mike says. I am frankly surprised Mike feels this way and his casual xenophobia almost makes me love him more. He realizes what he says and tries to walk it back but it is too late. I now know he is not always nicer than me, and that weapon stays in my arsenal.
We find a guy who, thankfully, wants the tour to go as quickly as we do. It almost looks like he was about to go on lunch before Mike and I asked him to guide us. He is insecure about his English but his English is fine. We actually do learn some cool stuff, and I am not upset we did the guided tour even after walking through the whole museum by ourselves one time through. I know so much about Leon Trotsky now, so that's a cool thing.
Mike letting his true colors shine.
We get Japanese food for breakfast and it is okay. It starts raining again.
"You don't have to look like a Dragon Ball Z character if you don't want to. It's really not that hard."
"It's Mortal Kombat, Caitlin. Gosh."
"Wow. How embarrassing for me to get that wrong."
"Do you ever feel pressure to be as funny as me? You don't have to, you know."
"I don't feel the pressure."
"Because I'm funny enough for the both of us? I get it."
"Because you set a bar that is... achievable."
"Yeah. It's good to challenge yourself."
I've seen so many Santander banking establishments in Mexico City and it's odd. When I was a finance manager, Santander was a lending institution we used for people with bad credit who wanted to buy a Lexus. They're skeevy, from my recollection. Most lending institutions who
After the museum, Mike is not feeling 100% (fighting a cold), so we go back to the room to rest up before our evening at Pujol. This is our second world-famous restaurant out of two this trip (the other being Biko). They are both on the list of 50 Best Restaurants in the World. It is also in Polanco.
Mike and I get to Pujol and it's quieter and kind of fancier than Biko. Biko is hip, almost, whereas Pujol is almost blueblooded. We both agree we like Biko better, but the internet does not agree with us, so what do we know? Also, I learn Biko is "techno-emotional" cuisine. I do not know what that means but I guess my tastes are not quite so refined.
Pujol is great, don't get me wrong. It's excellent. We did like the food better at Biko but Pujol is still good. The service, however, is... different. In both restaurants the waiters launch into full-on explanations of the food and how they're made and how to eat them and that's cool. But in Pujol they kind of... hover?
We sit down in Pujol and immediately after placing my drink order I think about using the restroom. We haven't even ordered our food yet, so I haven't touched my utensils, and also I'm about to stand up anyway. A waiter comes over, grabs my napkin, airs it out, and tries to put it on my lap. Is he appalled I haven't done that yet? I feel like a heathen. I can't tell if this is supposed to be exceptionally good service or they are throwing serious shade at me.
Later, after our first course, a waiter comes over and cleans all the crumbs off the table. Now we have a nice table but also are we savages or what.
My second course is a beef tongue soup that is incredible. They give me a spoon and no fork and also some tortillas in case I want to make a taco. I attempt but the taco is messy. I spill a bit. After this course is done five restaurant employees come over to change the tablecloth to a brand new tablecloth that has no spills on it. It is a touch humiliating. They are wondering how we even got into this establishment, I'm sure, but OpenTable doesn't ask you about your table manners when you book a place so take that, suckers.
"Why are they changing the tablecloth halfway through the meal?" Mike asks me. "We're just going to need it changed again later."
We are running out of fancy Mexico City restaurants we can safely come back to.
The rest of the meal is amazing and dessert is ridiculous. You hear "avocado ice cream" and go "no thanks" and then you eat a bite and you're like "oh damn my man well done." Because I'm allergic to nuts, they switch out a nutty sweet drink and give me a lemon meringue dish and I feel like that is a win for me because it's very very very good. There is a fancy churro Mike and I share. Dessert was solid.
Lamb taco served with zero utensils, but hey - I'm the savage here. Good taco tho.
Dessert was a feast unto itself.
From communism to snobby fancy restaurants, Mike and I are decidedly more comfortable in some arenas than others.
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