A Mexile Returns

We landed at Benito Juarez airport, early afternoon. It was nice to hear the excited Spanish chatter. Less pleasant to inhale the stench of sewage that permeated the terminal. Outside, it was a delight to feel the sun on my skin. My lungs once again took a battering as the fumes of a million cars assaulted them. The traffic was every bit as terrible as I remembered. I could feel the altitude as well.

Our trip to CDMX was to say our farewells, in more ways than one. The city still felt traumatised by the covid pandemic. Few pedestrians wore masks, but more so than in the UK. It seems to be the done thing for employees in hospitality to don a face cover. One can argue about the medical necessity. But I understand. I was shown photos of groups of people more than once. Fingers pointed to faces on film. Him. Him. Her and him. All gone. We went from the airport to a cemetery to say a two year delayed farewell to one of them.

What to do then? We’ve done it all, a thousand times over, even if it was many years ago. Except for the Museo Soumeyer. And Linea 12 of the metro to get there. They are new, so we went to see them. That done, we set about revisiting our old haunts. The Carillo Gil. The Franz Meyer. It felt like we were saying goodbye to the city itself. A forever farewell. Yes, it’s a city we love and it felt so good to be back. But it’s an expensive 5,000 mile journey from home. Too far and too costly just to satisfy a nostalgic itch. And we had just said farewell to the person that would have brought Mrs P back. So goodbye this might be.

I have missed the cobblestone streets of Coyoacan, the gardens, the two main squares, the Jarocha coffee shops and the sounds and smells of the town where I once lived. I absolutely loved than Sanborns still try to sell telescopes and smoking pipes. We had a breakfast in Moheli, just off one square. It used to be a favourite, but you can eat better for less in the market. It was sad to see that the once bustling and upper market Altavista shopping centre near San Angel was just a shell of its former self, a zombie mall. The Centro Historico also felt a bit jaded, if truth be told.

We were treated to an early show of jacaranda blossom that I remember so fondly. There are three seasons in Mexico, not two. Rainy, dry and jacaranda. I discovered late in the trip that the World Trade Centre now has a viewing gallery, so we headed there. I discovered too late that it was closed that day. We treated ourselves to an extortionate coffee in Bellinis, one floor up instead. The coffee might have been extortionate but the view from the worlds tallest rotating restaurant is priceless. As was the rendition of Maldita Primavera by a talented singer in a cantina.

Every morning, I would take advantage of the time Mrs P takes to get ready and pop out for an early stroll. Big yellow butterflies rise into the air, birds sing gleefully, the sky is a joyous shade of blue, the bougainvillea paints the town purple, yellow, blue, pink and red. And the big polystyrene cup of chocolate atole that I buy is the perfect pre breakfast feast. It’s more than a drink. I was happy to be back. Why would anyone want to live anywhere else?

Well. We do live elsewhere. The last day came, we packed, we rushed to the market for a final breakfast, we enjoyed a last walk through Coyoacan’s historic centre, we posed for photos by the Diego and Frieda statues and then we closed the door behind us as we left our rented townhouse for the week. The heart aches to say goodbye again. More so when it could be the final goodbye. And yet. And yet. We were home. We felt home, here. Home has an enormous pull on the soul. Home is where the heart is. Perhaps this isn’t goodbye. Not forever.

We stayed in a particularly good AirBnb, just a seven or eight minute stroll from the historic centre of Coyoacan – https://abnb.me/D52zzh2sfyb. Highly recommended, should you find yourself in the market for similar accommodation.