the other side of the border

"You should write this down," he said, "your thoughts, your observations, this seems like the kind of thing you'll want to be able to remember."

Last week, I came back to San Francisco from... San Francisco. I'd spent six days in my dad's Mexican hometown. It was not, as so many assumed, "fun". But it wasn't not fun. Instead, as another friend told me after listening to my recap, "it sounded so beautiful, and so special that you can connect with that side of you, and it's so close generationally, still." Yes, exactly. It felt like that.

My brother and sister hadn't been there in ~22 years. They hadn't known what to expect. They haven't pursued post-grad studies and application of Spanish in my same way. I might assume then that the experience we shared might be more poignant to them. For all intensive purposes, they saw and heard, for the "first time", the world my dad was born into. They had more questions. While he re-embraced his original norms, they observed (more often than not) with reverent curiosity. I imagine there was distinct magic to it.

Even still, I'd consider myself distinctly privileged to have some familiarity, recalling my last visit and remnants of the nearly annual childhood trips. El rancho always feels far "from home", but it's not quite as foreign to my heart. I was able to recognize their experiences and that of my father, and dare I presume, appreciate both.

What was new, this time around, was my full-circle understanding of the following truths:

• My dad grew up rich; if we consider rich surrounded by extended family, nourishing locally-sourced food, clean and clear skies, respect for hard work matched with active leisure (read: soccer) and convivial rest.
• My dad accepted the fact that he loved his home but wouldn't find the opportunities for financial success that he desired.
• So my dad left; he haphazardly entered the cruel American grind with a weak grasp of English and the kindness of a few friends/family who'd arrived before him, and he figured that sh** out. I imagine some days, and weeks, and months were harder than others--they had to have been--but he did it. He worked multiple jobs and went to school at night and fell in love with mother and started a family and then his own business. He achieved the American dream. He said so out loud last week, while visiting his parents (who live on the same property where he and his eight siblings were born, by the way, but now with two new houses and a multitude of modern amenities) with his three college-educated children, two of whom also have master's degrees. What's even more amazing, if such a concept is at all possible, is how he built this life with as much generosity of spirit and faith in humanity as he continues to possess. My mom sometimes call it naïveté. My father is certainly a flawed man, as any one of us are, but my gosh how I aspire to embody and pass on such wholeness.

baja at 29

Nearly one year ago, on my golden birthday, I woke up to the Pacific Ocean. I was taken aback by how familiar that body of water has become. My 19-year-old self would've been astounded to know I'd been in Los Angeles for nearly three years at that point. An hour or so later, we drove to the border. I was unreasonably hungry (because we never do grow out of some ways of being) and nervous–what with my last name and the current President. The passport exchange was somehow more painless than previous drives from Canada; we found roadside churros also. Back in California, I turned my cell on to a cascade of happy 29th wishes via texts and voicemails. After a refreshing three day weekend in Mexico, I truly was. Happy, that is.

Happiness hasn't been something that's come easily in my twenties. I'm too learnedly cautious, or, as some may say, cynical. Whereas I desire an incredible amount from the world, I expect very little. I think that's why I've ended up inhabiting four cities in the past ten years. Submitting to one place requires a a reckoning with mundanity I've been far too intimidated to take on. And there's pressure in the choosing. And that's before considering the people that will matter there, the vulnerable investment true bonds require...

Clearly I'm still fearful. But I've also been ruminating over something my mom once said, about how 34 was her favorite because it was the age she fully embraced who she was and felt wholly satisfied with life she was creating. Even then I found the concept so beautiful. Now, I dually appreciate the courage that made it true. Living that sentiment might be what I'm most looking forward to. (For the record, I also intend to refute the claim that time's running out to visit these destinations. Are you kidding me.)

When he'd asked what I wanted to do for my birthday, I thought back to my 28th. I fondly remembered that Mexico has a wine country. We stayed by the water and dined in courses amongst the vines and made time for horseback riding, and ocean-front reading, and margaritas after a farm animal meet n' greet. We tasted a delectable array of smoky, sophisticated wines. It was such a privilege to satisfy so luxuriously; magical even. Here's to accepting more of that into this wild and precious life. Next month: 30, (Paris, Greece!).

the birthplace of tequila

I find it disappointing how often cosmopolitanism doesn't represent that which is 'cultured', or 'worldly', or better yet, 'open minded'. Still we continue to use it so frequently, and with such vigor. Paris is cosmopolitan. New York is cosmopolitan. Guadalajara... ? The hierarchal distinction was on my mind a lot while visiting family in rural Mexico. As per usual, I blame my thesis research :).

Anyway. I've been back in the city of haute cuisine for a mere four days now, and I'm already craving street-side tacos; preferably the ones my parents and I stopped for on our way to "the city" (as my dad called it) over two weeks ago. Gosh those were good. Then again, I also recall being excited to be in Guadalajara as I enjoyed their deliciousness. Not because, as my mom argued, we've flown in and out dozens of times without having ever seen it, but rather because tenía ganas for a cosmopolitan dining experience.

Both of our bratty desires were appeased in our last 24 hours in Mexico. With the preloaded directions on my iPhone, I directed my dad to Perla Central, a cool boutique hotel my mom had booked last minute. Then, we walked to the historic center, took a bus tour, bought souvenir in Tlaquepaque, happy hour-ed with corn, queso, guacamole, and margaritas, and eventually, dined at Cocina 88.

Dinner was exquisite. Soon after arriving at the "turn-of-the-century mansion", a server came by our table and asked us to follow him. We chose a catch-of-the-day (for my mom and me) and a cut of beef (for my dad) from a butcher case. Next, we selected a wine straight from their wine cellar; our first Mexican wine. The live music began just as our appetizers arrived. The lime soup, in particular, was amazing. The singer and band were as well. After eating our meals, we sat there with coffee/tea just to keep listening.

"What a day", I reflected as we drove to the airport the following morning. We spent such a short amount of time well. The contrast of traditional and contemporary, wealth and... not, was incredible. It reminded me of How Tacos Explain Mexico's Labor Market.

In Mexico, it seems you are where you eat. Mexico City’s young professionals dine at a mix of modern, formal restaurants and old-school informal street stands. Investors are opening a new wave of world-class restaurants in many neighborhoods in Mexico’s capital city, targeting the growing budgets of the city’s upwardly mobile young professionals. But the formal economy isn’t robust enough to provide jobs for the entire workforce. Like meat in an over-stuffed taco, many people don’t fit into the formal sector and fall out to the sidelines.

I'm no expert of economics, but this trip and my research has me questioning so, so much. Tequila originated in the state of Jalisco for which Guadalajara is the capital. It's consumed all over the world. I happen to love it. But, tequila isn't comparable to wine. One is more respected than the other. And I suppose craft beer falls somewhere in the middle? Cosmopolitan food for thought maybe.

pueblitos

As I meet up with friends once more before Paris, I've found many are curious about how fun my trip to Mexico was. The thing is, it wasn't really. I spent six days in a very small town with my parents. We stayed at my grandparents' and visited with great aunts, uncles, and cousins I haven't seen in years. I appreciated the conversation, food, and affection. But it was all wonderfully calm.

Then again, we did take a few day trips around the region to Sahuayo, San Pedro, Quitupan, Valle de Juarez, and Mazamitla. And once, along the way, stopped for 'authentic' pulque. My mom and dad both agreed it tasted like a sweaty boot. That was entertaining.