I’ve developed this distaste, almost fear of travelling. Maybe because I know the plane ride will suck. Vacations should be luxurious. What’s so indulgent about having a turbine blaring in your ear, or trying to sleep upright? And nothing’s complimentary anymore. American Airlines, ugh. Blues, grays, drabs. “$8.00 a blanket”, I glare back at the Steward. “It comes with a blow up for your neck,” he tries to appease. He thinks I’m whispering because I’m wearing my noiseless headphones. “I’ve lost my voice, actually,” just to wipe that smug face off him. There I am, munching away on my persimmons, and this terrible Vietnamese sandwich. It’s really not what they used to be. The shredded carrots are suspiciously pickled now, the mayo lackluster and messy. There’s no tiny screen in front of me. Usually, the only time I can get engrossed in a Jennifer Aniston flick. So, I take my muscle relaxers, without water, and as it dissolves in the pocket where near my gland is swollen I put my head down on the pullout table listening to Nico.
Waking up in Mexico City, a blanket of white smog covers the view I love to see of how cities are organized. It smells like toilets and is about 70 degrees out. I don’t have Jacinto’s number, nor address. I look for him where all the other Mexican families wait to receive their kinda chunky done up daughters with their diamonte handbags. I go out to the curb and look for his black Volvo. I have a second of fright not knowing if he’s coming and not being able to phone anyone. I sit around for about an hour, and he arrives. Skinny and sweet-faced Jacinto. He takes my black Fendi carry on and we head towards the subway. He’s sold his Volvo, as it’s American and can’t drive it here, he tells me. His neighborhood reminds me of Tokyo-manicured little gardens on the sidewalks, glass phisods, and wide streets. I’m exhausted. Abdi’s inside the apartment with his Spanish tutor. I plop down on the couch and hear him murmuring about “Arte de Pop”. There’s a picture of Liz Taylor torn from a magazine on the table. I doze off and we venture around the neighborhood for food when I wake.
All I want to try is the street food. Thinking I could prolly get by cheaply here, but happy to do whatever Jacinto wants to do too. Blue corn quesadilla vendors 10 pesos ($1 usd) looks so tempting. A torta stand across the street 20 pesos ($2). An icecream cart with mural-like paintings of chocolate coconut popsicles that look hairy. He tells me he wants to take me to “Patrick Miller’s” on Friday night. It’s a club that plays 90’s electro and kids dance in a circle and are directed 2 by 2 to have a dance off in the middle only when pointed at are you allowed. We eat instead at this pre-fix luncheria in a contained courtyard full of business people who look proper and wouldn’t be caught dead standing with a blue corn tortilla in their hands. The tortilla soup has no chicken. Just tortilla and a pretty bland broth. The pounded chicken is soft and goes well with a lot of lime juice. And we drink “Agua de Naranja” kinda like a fancier Tang or orange fresca. The quince paste mystery dessert is a nice sweet finish.
We return home and the American neighbors, JP and Kenny invite us over. Jacinto brings a bottle of cider, saying his Aunt’s family produces it. They mostly live in TJ. I’m imagining an affluent family, as he commuted to highschool to the US every morning to UNI. Or as we, OLP girls used to call them, UNI for the loooney. Or, really, we never called them at all. Their house is just across the street, and so cute. They’re subletting from a Mexican artist who has tons of shells and paintings everywhere. They pour me a drink of beer into fresh squeezed lime juice into a salt-rimmed glass. It’s delicious but I’m still under the weather, and whispering at the table. Now, red and prolly a lil’ bit puffier. We talk about puffiness. Abdi wonders if you can tell if a stranger’s puffy or just like that. We mention Oprah’s puffy. My boyfriend told me before I left, sick in bed, “I don’t care what others may think, I think you’re the most beautiful when you’re puffy.” I miss sleeping next to him. I’m freezing in bed alone. We go home and Jacinto cooks us this lovely meal of wheat pasta with hongos and dark spinach leaves with raisins. I read a bit of Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho and get under the covers. Fully under with my head tucked under. Cough, cough.
