Mexico brought me home once again
- Melissa Herrera: Not Waiting for Friday
- October 8, 2023
- 1434
The square, brutalist homes met my line of sight from the plane window as we descended into La Capital de Mexico — Mexico City, a jewel nestled amongst low rising mountains, a sea of lights upon what was once a lake.
We’ve arrived once again, back to the biggest place that formed the adult me: the one who takes chances, the one who steps out. My heart skips a beat when I see the vista.
It’s startling to see aging in-laws after two years. Smallish mannerisms and soft, crinkled eyes greeted us as we exchanged hugs with tired bodies. They were still themselves, and I wonder if we looked older to them. We will always be kids to them, just like our kids will always be kids to us. It’s an infinite circle we travel through.
This morning, after sleeping off and on for hours yesterday, shedding the bone-weary travel days, I awoke early and full of clarity. We are here to visit, sip café con leche and hear what mi suegra (my mother-in-law) has to tell us. We are here to knock down a little concrete and put a house in order. We are here to set some things straight that became crooked.
I lived in this house for many months from 1989-90. I learned to speak Spanish here and learned just how hot peppers can be. I eat them hotter than my husband, savoring the beautiful burn that settles on my tongue.
The sky is a sharp blue, and yesterday it rained hard, washing away the dust.
“Mucho polvo,” said Eva, my mother-in-law. “La lluvia limpia todo.”
“Too much dust. The rain washes everything.”
And when the rain blew through, dampening the dust that covered everything, the night crept in, and in the morning I slipped on my sandals and gave my face a good scrub, putting on first a facial oil and then a good moisturizer. I washed my hair and towel-dried it, the invigorating zing what I need to begin the day.
Mexico is more than her coasts. In the high central plateau, she greets you with a nip in the air before the fingers of sun spread into full bloom, reddening your cheeks. She is harsh and open, welcoming all who enter.
I was greeted with a cup of hot atole and sweet pastries for breakfast. Atole is made from ground oats and sometimes fresh corn. It simmers gently with a bit of canela and sugar. The pastries here are works of art, all shapes and delicacies filled inside flaky layers fit for a queen.
I broke my pastry apart and dipped it in the hot drink and groaned. Sensations flood me of past flavors and current longings for the foods I’ve come to love. I plan to partake of all of them in our time here.
Today I sit inside this square block home that is so familiar and dear. The sun warms the patio, and their longtime cat meows its plaintive cry, knowing our arrival signals extra bites of food.
I write some words for you to read while I’m gone, hoping bits of this life can transfer onto the page, easily into your minds. I want you to feel my love for this country, the other one I’ve come to know, the other one I’ve come to love.
So I rise to step out into the light and walk the streets of Maquixco, the little hamlet that sits outside San Juan Teotihuacan. Tonight we will buy pollo rostizado (roasted chicken) with hot, fresh tortillas and guacamole. We will tear apart the bird and savor the crunchy skin and tender meat. We will put into order what needs ordered.
Melissa Herrera is a published author and opinion columnist. She is a curator of vintage mugs and all things spooky, and her book, “TOÑO LIVES,” can be found at www.tinyurl.com/Tonolives. For inquiries, to purchase her book or anything else on your mind, email her at junkbabe68@gmail.com or find her in the thrift aisles.