Girl Travels with Boyfriend Days 8 & 9: We Shoulda Stayed on Vacation

Mike and I got back last Sunday evening, but I’ve been busy with a couple writing assignments, catching up with work, and some minor political event that definitely hasn’t brought me to tears multiple times in the past week. (Steve Bannon as chief strategist? Good call – the Jews were getting too comfortable in this country for my tastes.)

Mike also wants it clarified that he does not have negative feelings towards Russians. He just was frustrated he would have to wait longer in line to buy all his knick-knacks from the gift shop and all the people in line just happened to be Russian. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmk.

Saturday morning, Mike and I wake up later. I’ve been frustrated with our late wake-up times, thinking we’re missing out on activities, but I will come to realize when I get home that this is something to celebrate, not bemoan. Part of vacation is resting, and the lazy mornings are part of that.

As we walk down the stairs, Mike wants to talk about our future living arrangements.

“When we get a study, what do you think of having busts in there?”

I don’t respond. It’s not going to happen so I don’t see the point in continuing the conversation. Mike is obsessed with the idea of a study. I am obsessed with a place with a dishwasher for an affordable monthly rent. Besides, we haven’t even started apartment-hunting yet, so I’m not sure what the point of this conversation is.

“Caitlin? What do you think of busts in the study?”

I still don’t respond.

“Caitlin. Caitlin. Caitlin. Caitlin. Caitlin.”

“WHAT.”

“We should get busts for our study.”

“Who should we get busts of?”

Mike pauses. He hasn’t thought that far ahead. He only wants to annoy me.

“Julius Caesar,” he responds.

“A little on the nose,” I say.

“You’re right,” Mike agrees. He tries to think of some other names but I’m back to not paying attention. The uber has arrived and we get in.

We start the day with a late breakfast in the Roma Norte district. I get Eggs Benedict and Mike gets something that also has eggs and is probably good.

Some good Eggs Benedict.

“Who is Sam Smith?” Mike asks me.

“The singer?”

“No, he’s…” Mike takes another look at the article he’s reading.

“Oh, the philosopher?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s in the Richard Dawkins camp. He’s very proud of himself for being an atheist.”

“Gross.”

“Yeah. As if that’s a brave thing to be in British academia.”

“Dawkins wrote that article on why women aren’t funny?”

(lolol it’s true – women aren’t funny and America is right to hate us.)

“No, that was the guy who died – oh, what’s his name? That pseudo-intellectual college boy’s wet dream.”

“Christopher Hitchens.”

“Yes!”

“I never read that article. I should go back and read it.”
“No, it’s not necessary. He starts off asking ‘why aren’t women funny? Come on, you know what I’m talking about.’ Then he talks about a study where women understand comedy better than men, and then he talks about how men are funny for evolutionary reasons. To find a mate. Whereas women get pregnant, so they… can’t be funny I guess.”

“Arguments about how men and women are different because ‘evolution’ and ‘science’ are always awful.”

“Pseudo-science bullshit. Oh! He also said fat women, ‘dykes,’ and Jewish women don’t count. So I guess I can be funny by his definition. Because I like women.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You’re my beard.”

“Okay.”

Mike and I continue to discuss philosophy BS before deciding to walk over and see The Angel of Independence, a statue Mike was curious about.

We walk by what we called the Third Street Promenade of Mexico City – McDonald’s, Starbucks, other American fast food chains. Mike wanted to look at a video game and DVD store similar to Amoeba Records (whose lifespan already has an end date – long live streaming) so we walk inside. I see a Spanish-language version of s 2009 film called Miraculous Hands. It’s a biopic of Dr. Ben Carson starring Cuba Gooding Jr. and I find myself nostalgic for simpler times.

The "M" is covered so it just looks like Miraculous Butts.

Several hosts of restaurants shout at us in Spanish to eat at their restaurants. Mike begins to respond to each of them with something along the lines of “lo siento” because we just ate and are not hungry again yet.

“Mike,” I say as I usher him along, “something you learn as a woman is that you do not need to respond to every person who yells something at you when you walk down the street.”

“I know. I just feel bad.”

“They’re trying to get you to eat at their restaurant. You can ignore them.”

We walk along the street that has the Angel of Independence.

“I wish we had something like this in LA,” he says as he takes a picture of another bust. “Just a street of statues of famous people.”

“Do you know who any of these people are?”

“No.”
“Then how famous can they be?”

Mike concedes the point.

The statue is neat and big and we can go inside the bottom like a tiny version of the Statue of Liberty. Mike says he thinks this is better than the Statue of Liberty. I say the Statue of Liberty is much bigger. He repeats that this is better anyway. I move on from this conversation.

There are four smaller statues surrounding the Angel of Independence. One of them is “justicia” with a lady statue representing it.

“That’s my girl Justicia,” Mike says.

“Well, it’s not someone’s name. That’s Lady Justice.”

“No. Justicia is a real person.”

We argue for a bit about it before I realize it’s a stupid argument and why do I get dragged into stupid arguments all the time instead of walking away from the get-go? But Mike has discovered how fun this conversation is for him and he needles me a bit more about the other statues and how he and Justicia are homies.

Afterwards we head to the Palacio de Bella Artes, which is a beautiful museum and the first one we see that doesn’t have any part outside. We start with some ancient artwork from very early Mexican history that is compared to sculptures from Ancient Greece. The sculptures are mostly copies, not original, so that the museum could paint them as they imagined they originally appeared thousands of years ago. They’re much more colorful this way, and they’re clearly painted using Mexican tastes rather than Greek ones.

“It’s interesting,” I say.

“I think I like just the white better,” Mike replies. “The painted ones are a little uncanny valley for me.”

Palacio de Bella Artes.

There are some fantastic murals. Mike takes 16,000 photos of the murals. We see some more modern Mexican art as well. We take a look at an exhibit from a French artist from the 19^th century as well.

It’s late afternoon, not quite dinnertime. We get a drink after walking around for a bit in the Zocalo neighborhood. The place we stop at has dancing, and couples get up and dance with each other.

Walking around Zocalo.

Our final meal is at a food court/market similar to Grand Central Market in Downtown LA. We look around and all the mini-restaurants look amazing. I decide on a burritos with some fantastic-looking carnitas and it is one of the best burritos of my life, even without guacamole. Mike falls victim to the siren song of the sushi burrito, and while it’s good, it is not as good as my carnitas burrito.

I have also, in my time, been seduced by the sushi burrito. It is less than the sum of its parts.

I wait in the world’s longest line for some churros with chocolate dipping sauce for dessert. Between them and the burrito, this is a culinary highlight of the trip. Food malls are great.

Mike and I walk home, making our way through a park and enjoying how nice our last night is. We are sad to leave so early tomorrow.

Sunday morning comes and we get out of the room in a timely manner. We make it to our airport terminal at 10 AM. We find out 20 minutes before our flight at 11:58 PM that we need our exit papers. We lost those. We miss our flight. We get new exit papers. We get home 9 hours later than anticipated.

So, I guess that’s three flights in my life I’ve missed now. I am an idiot.

Let’s not bring this up if you ever see me hahahaha okay thanks much.

So happy to be back in LAX and that my customs pic is so cute wow straight stunna over here.

Was that the universe warning us not to return home?

“Yeah, because Mexico is gonna be a better place to live than the US,” my roommate jokes with me when I tell her about that theory.

Okay. Fine. Point taken.

I’m home now, and the election happened so soon after Mike and I returned that it sort of flows together in my mind.

My trip with Mike to Mexico City was fantastic, and I’m glad I had the experience. I would recommend it to anyone.