I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this moving around type of life and the effects it has on someone who’s part of it. There’s no one I can turn to and say, “Remember when…” Not having anyone to share any of your memories with kind of feels like those mindscapes could have been invented.
My mother expected a beachy culture, as if you’d all be wearing Bermuda shorts and hot-pink leis. Mariachi music, spicy food, eighty-degree weather year-round. But what I’ve found so far is harsh, stark, striking. Mexico City has a dark underworld, far from the daily existence of the vendors and taxicabs passing by as the haze in the sky brightens, then fades with the setting sun. Even the weather is dramatic, constantly changing. I was freezing at the bus stop this morning, icy dew covering the plants in my yard. Now, as I write this in the afternoon, the sun is scorching the pavement outside in the school yard. At night, I’ll need a warm jacket again. It’s using up four seasons’ worth of clothing in one day.