This White Girl Goes Home — to Mexico City
For my 30th birthday, I visited where I was born (for the first time since leaving as a two-year-old) and learned a few things about the country and myself along the way.
“Nací en México.”
Over the years, I’ve told countless people I was born in Mexico. No one expects that from the blonde-haired, green-eyed woman with super pale, lightly freckled skin and an Irish first and last name. (Being born in Mexico makes for a killer option in a game of “Two Truths and a Lie.”) People especially don’t expect me to open my mouth and break out a flawless Spanish accent — although my grammar can get a bit iffy. I majored in Latin American Studies at Cal and had to write a 12-page paper about the concept of time in “100 Years of Solitude” … in Spanish. I’ve scuba dived in Cabo San Lucas, ziplined in Mazatlán, and wandered the streets of Puerto Vallarta. But I’d never been back to Mexico City, where my parents lived for two-plus years and where I came into the world.
I didn’t really understand what being born in Mexico meant until I went back.
For my 30th (!!!) birthday, I decided to make it a memorable one — which involved booking a flight back to Mexico City and exploring it with family. I’ve always felt like Mexico was a part of me — yes, yes, I know, typical white girl who spends time abroad and comes back changed — but it always felt a bit far away from my identity. I knew I was born at ABC Hospital. I knew my dad ran the Wall Street Journal bureau down there. I knew my first word was “agua” (“water”) and my first sentence was “dámelo” (“give me that”). I knew the broad strokes of my early years, and I could see glimpses of them in pictures. (We had a stone duck on our porch.) I had pieces of that time from stories.
But let’s be honest. I’m an American — with a passport that just so happens to say, “Born: Mexico City.”
Still, my early years in Mexico shaped me. They’re why I majored in what I did. They’re why I read as much as I can about Aztec and Mayan mythology. They’re why my apartment is full of Oaxacan animals. They’re why I own a molcajete and a tortilla press — and they’re why I have way too many dried chilies in my pantry. They might also be why my dad frequently asks me, “Would you like a chip with that salsa?”
I ate endless tacos, and my body weight became almost entirely micheladas. It felt so nice to speak in Spanish again (and mostly understand what people were saying), to explore the roots of the country at Teotihuacan and the anthropology museum, and to hear my dad’s stories about those years in Mexico and be able to see what he was talking about. (“Oh, yes, my office was a block away from the Angel de Independencia” or, “I used to drive along this route from our house to work.”) I felt like I was understanding a to-that-point blurry part of my timeline.
While we wandered through countless museums, I got to point out things I remembered from my History of Mexico class at Cal to Clare — although I took the class in 2015, so she had to take what I said with a grain of salt. I got to see up close the tortilla-making techniques I’ve read about in cookbooks — the women I watched cranked out about 20 tortillas in 30 seconds, while I can barely manage one. I got to see the artwork of some of my favorite Mexican artists; Frida Kahlo’s “Las Dos Fridas” moved me to tears, and I haven’t stopped thinking about David Alfaro Siqueiros’ “Tormento de Cuauhtémoc.”
In many ways, the trip was a wonderful reminder that Mexico isn’t a monolith. Yes, I ate lots of tacos while I was there and had the best quesadilla of my life from a woman on the street, but I also had dinner at a place that specializes in Mexican food and deserves at least a couple of Michelin stars (Quintonil). Some of the city’s streets were lined with booths where people sold goods for cheap, while others were lined with lush plants and colorful doors. I saw pyramids that inspired the Mayans and Aztecs, churches that were built by the Spanish half a millennium ago, and houses that today are home to people who are probably some sort of mix of the two. I bought vintage clothing and art and chocolate and books.
Too often, people “other” Mexico and think it’s nothing more than burritos and mariachis and the border. But my experience in both Mexico City and San Miguel de Allende was nothing but colorful and diverse. The cities and people were vibrant and made me feel alive.
What didn’t? Driving — aka being in the car as my dad was behind the wheel. We (he) rented a car to take us from Mexico City to San Miguel de Allende (where we spent my 30th birthday), which was, all in all, a wonderful excursion. But San Miguel de Allende really isn’t built for cars with its narrow, one-way cobblestone streets. The other thing we learned about driving in Mexico? Check to make sure there aren’t any truck blockades on the horizon. We got stuck in one for four-plus hours… and missed our reservation at Quintonil. I was crushed. Clare, my dad, and I all chatted with the people at the restaurant several times to update them on our ETA (and then to say we weren’t going to make it) and must have done something right to make them (or the food gods) smile down on us because the next day, the restaurant called us to let us know they had a spot for us that night at dinner. It was the best meal I’ve ever had. (And my dad paid for it.)
Overall, my Spanish held up when talking to people at restaurants and hotels… but didn’t so much when we were at a tollbooth trying to get onto the carretera and the people working there were telling me I needed to buy some sort of EZ Pass–like contraption. That excursion ended with me (idiotically) just shoving money at the guy. No, we could never figure out how to get the technology to work (you could only confirm your account with a Mexican phone number), but yes, I kept the damn thing as a souvenir.
In Mexico City, we spent most of our time in Roma and Condesa, and I kept saying how much I could see myself living there. (I may have even Googled apartments for rent.) Clare and I walked through tons of parks and relaxed in the shade and enjoyed all the dogs running around and playing in the fountains. We sat next to the coolest people I think I’ve ever seen for lunch… where we ate delicious sushi. We watched the Super Bowl with Mexican fans — who were mostly pulling for the San Francisco 49ers. We went to a Cruz Azul soccer game and sang along to songs for players that we learned on the fly and then watched a fight break out on the field.
On our final day in Mexico, I looked at Clare and my dad and told them I didn’t want to go home. Clare, our resident immigration lawyer, did some quick Googling and told me I maybe didn’t have to: Taking my birth certificate to an embassy should get me my Mexican citizenship. Clare also told my dad that, as the parent of someone born in Mexico, he’s entitled to permanent resident status. Clare, however, is straight out of luck. I guess she can come visit.
So no, this trip wasn’t an, “Oh, now I know who I am!” moment for me. I already know who I am. But being back in Mexico City did something restorative for my soul and filled in some blanks. This trip gave my dad the chance to point out bits of our life here: the ice cream shop where my mom would satiate her butter pecan pregnancy craving, the Hard Rock Cafe where my mom realized she was in labor, the house we lived in when a high-level politician snuck over to be my dad’s source on the story that made him a Pulitzer finalist.
Now that I’m back home in my D.C. apartment, I’m not suddenly walking around using obnoxiously correct pronunciation for Spanish food — only because I do that already. I’m not starting every sentence with, “Well, when I was in Mexico…” But I am prioritizing reading books by Mexican authors. I am making sure the two Oaxacan animals I came home with (a leaping frog on a lily pad and a statuesque Pegasus) and the wooden wolf mask all have prime locations because they add some color and culture. I am working on my Spanish, only partially so I can travel the carreteras without issue next time. I am reading Álvaro Enrigue’s “You Dreamed of Empires,” a reimagining of the fall of Tenochtitlan. I am trying to get faster with my tortilla press, and I’ve broken out my molcajete to make salsas.
With this trip in the books, I’m feeling happier. I think that’s partially just the travel aspect: Travel is good for my soul. I’m a naturally curious person, and I love walking through a museum for hours on end. I love seeing art, and I love trying foods (yes, including grasshopper tacos). This birthday trip has made me remember how much I love exploring new places.
But I think this trip was even better for me because it was Mexico City.
As I left Mexico, I realized I’d really like to go back. So yeah, I’m an American. But also:
Soy una chilanga.
Soy Méxicana.