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I once worked with a teacher who was the walking definition of an oxymoron.  When I met her she was vegan, would talk about it in detail, although getting to the point felt like participating in a one sided game of checkers with her.  When food was offered she never said the simple no thank you, she put on a show.  Her eyes would slide from left to right as she looked at the particular food item, one finger poised to pick up whatever it was, an eyebrow raised, “Does this have cheese in it, eggs, meat,” she would ask, her nose wrinkling.  She was soon given the answer that she had to have expected. Yes, the food has all of those things and probably other ingredients, many of which even the most sound linguistic would have trouble pronouncing.  We worked in public education after all, in middle America.  Vegan options were never a thing.  If there was a salad, which was a rare sighting, it was mostly cheese and predressed, each lettuce leaf dripping with some kind of white goo.  Inevitably someone would ask her the question that I suspected she had been waiting to hear, “Are you on a particular diet?”  “Why, yes I am,” she would then say and I could hear the gloat behind every syllable.  “I’m vegan.” “I don’t see how you do it,” one teacher replied with a shake of her head.  “I just could never have that much discipline,” someone else added.  I could see her rise a bit higher, her chin titled upwards as she smiled with satisfaction because  yes she had the self control that we all envied. She then went on to describe the many recipes that she had tried, how amazing she felt.  She was actually down five pounds and had boundless amounts of energy.  But the next year she had changed.  I watched, confused, as she shoveled cheese and meat sticks into her mouth at our first teacher’s meeting.  What was happening? I thought, but didn’t dare to ask, and neither, apparently, did anyone else.  But I was curious so I watched as she was presented with food. “Does this have cheese, dairy, or meat?”  She asked.  How can this be? I thought.  Last year she was asking the opposite.  She couldn’t stand the thought of eating a single animal product.  Oh, how times have changed, I thought next.   There was another awkward pause before someone dared to ask, “Are you on some sort of special diet” to which she replied with another proud smile, “Yes, I’m keto.”  “I don’t see how you do it,” one teacher said.  “I just could never have that much discipline,” someone else added.  And again I could see her rise a bit higher, her chin tilted upwards as she smiled with satisfaction because yes she had the self control that we should all envy.  She then went on to describe the many recipes that she had tried, how amazing she felt.  She was actually down five pounds and had boundless amounts of energy. I soon came to the realization that this particular person may just be starving for attention and saying something shocking, something that most people could never do, would make them admired in others’ eyes. This same teacher taught English, but bragged about how much she hated to read, which I never quite understood.  How does that even happen?  Or was she just trying to be shocking, once again. She is not the only one with this type of oxymoronic behavior.  There are others, myself even.  It’s almost like we all have a certain version of ourselves outlined for others to look at and enjoy, but when it comes down to it, that’s not who we really are, and maybe for some of us, or most of us, we will never know who that person is.  For so long we have been living with this idealistic version of ourselves, the authentic one buried somewhere too deep to be discovered.  I don’t know whatever happened to the vegan turned keto lover.  She left the school soon after, moved somewhere far away I heard.  Hopefully, she’s not teaching English anymore.  The last thing that we need is someone who hates to read teaching our youth the importance of it.  I do wonder what her new diet regimen is, although I suspect, knowing what I know about her, that she is on some type of GLP 1.  But I’m sure when food is offered, she will still evaluate it with a critical eye before pushing it to the side because she is just too full to eat a single bite.  She probably will wait for a bit, hoping that someone notices her lack of appetite and finally asks her, “Are you on some sort of special diet?” And that is the only segway that she will need to tell them all about the weightloss drug and how she feels amazing, she’s actually down five pounds and has boundless amounts of energy.

My grandfather died this week.  It was expected and as far as death and dying go he had a seamless one.  My dad spent every night with him up until the end, even when he went into hospice’s care and he just peacefully went away in his sleep.  I sometimes wish I had been a bit closer to him growing up, but I was one grandchild of what often felt like a billion and I wasn’t that exceptional anyway.  I wasn’t the doctor, or the CEO, or the funniest or the saddest, or first or the last grandchild.  I was and still am very very average.     Even though it was expected it still hit me harder than I thought that it would.  You go a lot of your life trying to pretend that death will never exist for someone like you and then it hits you that everyone’s end is inevitably the same.  One day you simply will cease to exist altogether and then what?  There are different theories of course.  Humans are bundles of energy and that energy once our bodies have given up on us has to go somewhere, but where that is will always be a mystery for the living. While others, like most of my family believe that you are whisked away to heaven and all of those years of believing will finally pay off in a mansion in the sky. Whatever actually does happen is scary to think about or at least it is for me. I have a hard enough time doing new things by myself and dying is the ultimate one of those things. Life stops when there’s a death and then there's a domino effect of things that you have to do. There's the visitation, funeral, burial, and family lots and lots of family that will need to be talked to, smiled at, and engaged with.  It’s all so very exhausting, overwhelming and my anxious heart just wants to bury herself into mounds and mounds of pillows in a room somewhere dark and secluded.  But I know I can’t do that; I mean I can, but it’s not very healthy to wallow, so I decided that staying busy was the next best thing.   I was invited to a concert on Monday night, G was out of town, but the invite still stood for just me, so I went.  Sometimes it’s so tiring being in charge of me, and I really don’t know how I did it for so long, but I decided I would embark on that challenge even though I didn’t know anything about the bands that were playing, but this was a new character opportunity:   metal punk rock girlie.  My friend Kim had box seats, which was a new experience for me and it came with euphoric bougie feelings that I was completely there for.  I got to stare down at the other concert goers, sweaty, standing in each other’s space and I felt like royalty for a moment, so maybe I’m now princess metal punk rock girlie.  The bands, much to my delight were less metal and more punkish.  The first to take the stage was THE FUNERAL PORTRAIT.  High energy, gender fluid, and entertaining. Then, DAYSEEKER.  They performed in the dark but still had a ton of energy and I was entertained, and isn’t that the whole point? The headliner, ICE NINE KILLS reminded me a lot of the Rob Zombie and Alice Cooper concert I went to last year.  Each song was inspired by a horror movie which involved props on stage, as well as actors.  I was there for all of it.  My little geeky theatre heart rejoiced at such attention to character detail.  Also, the band members were really pretty and my imagination went wild with the what ifs.  What if they saw me in the crowd and wanted to meet me?  What if I quite my job and became a roadie or one of the actors that I liked so much on the stage?  How much do they make? I needed to know the answers to these questions because I'm fully ready to make a career change. This evening was just what I needed.  A little strange, a little morbid, and a little bit of horror can turn anyone’s day around. The second evening was a bit different, but was what I so desperately needed.  One of the best human beings I know came to town to go with me to the TRAIN concert. We had previously gone to one music festival years ago and still laugh about it.  We made one of those core memories that changes your brain chemistry for the better. I've seen TRAIN multiple times and even if you aren’t a huge fan of the band, their concerts are so much fun.  We danced, we sang too loudly, we laughed, we ran in circles trying to find our uber after it was all over and then we lay in bed, laughed some more, and recounted the evening in detail. Two evenings that couldn’t have been more different, but it helped me to get out of my own head, which is never a fun place to be and is something that I often have to deal with. It gave me what I needed to face the brutal world where dying is a thing, death is a thing, family obligations are a thing and I suspect I will have to create another character to get through it all, so stay tuned for that.

It’s taken me six years to get another tattoo.  Six years of pining for one, having ideas and then either forgetting about them or disregarding them as not being quite good enough.  But this summer something happened to me, something that changed my perspective in ways that I never could have predicted.  It caused me to look up the name of the artists that gave me my last tattoo and quickly send him an email about my idea. I wanted to add to Frida, give her another life, and I wanted it to cover the entirety of my arm.  I honestly didn’t think he would email me back, maybe that’s why I was so bold in saying that I wanted a full sleeve, but he did, and now the only thing for me to do was go through with the damn thing. “I would love to give you a full sleeve," he wrote back.  "Do you want to maintain the Frida theme or just a tribute to Mexico?” “Frida all the way,” I hurridly replied. I'm going to visit Frida’s house again in Mexico City, I said, I will get inspired I said next, but I trust your art, your vision.  And if you look at his portfolio you will definitely see why I have put so much trust in his artistic capabilities. It's not just how he draws with straight sure lines, it's his shading, color usage, and how he places images on the human body that brings them to life. I did go to Frida’s house this summer and loved every moment of it.  I had been years ago and knew that this was one thing that I had to do again, however, I was a bit disappointed that some of the deeply personal letters, sketchings, photographs were no longer there, but that does happen.  Another museum commissions the art, borrows from somewhere else so that other people who may not be fortunate enough to travel to Mexico City can also enjoy it for a time, and isn’t that the way it should be anyway.   But I soon found out that a separate Frida museum will be opening in the fall.  Kahlo’s parents purchased a property right next door to the Casa Azul (the blue house and where the museum is located) and then passed the property down to Frida and her sisters.  The Museo Casa Kahlo will be more focused on Frida’s life and who she was as a person.  This makes sense, I thought.  It was the deeply personal items that I fell in love with when I visited her house the last time.  Here I am sitting on her bench and standing in the middle of the courtyard that her house encircles. Her studio looks like she just stepped out for a smoke.  Wet brushes chilling next to paint that is only half full. I didn’t immediately email the tattoo artist my inspirations.  I didn’t want to appear overeager so I waited.  I waited for about a month out from my appointment. I like that things are never what they seem with Frida.  You may look at her flowy bohemian dresses and think, wow what a trailblazer of the time, but she had to wear what she did, more for her own comfort then to be a blazing fashion icon.  She had polio as a small child which caused one of her legs to be shorter than the other.  And then, if that wasn’t bad enough, when she was a teenager she was in an almost fatal bus accident where a iron handrail went through her abdomen and uterus, which caused infertility, something that I don’t think she ever got over,  and chronic pain because of the fractures sustained in her spine, collarbone, ribs, pelvis, and right leg. She often worked lying down, an easel strapped to her neck or her chest. In the museum there's a seperate room where some of her clothes are on display. You can see them in their deconstructed form, along with a drawing that Frida did of how she felt inside wearing such beautiful garments.  When the day of my tattoo came, I was nervous of course.  I talked a big game.  I’m going to be full sleeve tatted girl character.  A bad ass in my own mind; someone like Frida Kahlo had to have been, someone that shouldn’t be messed with. But, what if I changed characters? The sneaky thought played sommersaults in my mind.  What would I do then? I didn’t cancel my appointment.  I sucked all of that anxiety about what my future self would think of the present one and showed up still nervous, still shaking, and awkward as hell. The tattoo studio or do they say parlor? Is Black Cobra in Little Rock, Arkansas. Matt O’Baugh is who did my Frida Kahlo as a catrina and who I can’t see anyone continuing to tattoo this arm especially.  I was so impressed with his first work and I still get comments on how cool the design and execution are, even getting stopped in Mexico by a tattoo artist who couldn’t quite staring at it. Matt presented me with the design.  I was a little shook to be honest, didn’t know how to react.  He said that we wouldn’t complete the entire sleeve today, but would start it.  I don’t know what I was expecting, but honestly it wasn’t that, it was better.  Once he placed the stencil underneath my arm and on the back of it, I began to get excited. I do remember emailing him that I wanted to stay away from the elbow and pit area.  Well Matt like the honey badger didn’t give two fucks about my pain level and I’m really glad he didn’t.  The pit didn’t hurt near as much as the elbow. I sat in his chair for six ½ hours and have never felt so much continuous pain in all of my life.  It felt like he was taking a burning knife and chiseling out my skin.  It felt like he was taking Shylock’s pound of flesh to feed to Hannibal Lector. I felt the need to talk to Matt.  Say things like, I really wish the book I brought was better or do you know who David Goggins is or this is my 20th year in education, where does the time go.  To be honest, I get annoyed with mindless chitchatters and half the time I don’t want to listen to them, engage with them.  Matt, on the other hand, was drawing art onto my skin, some of which he was freelancing with a marker first, and he still managed to give me a few nods and murmured yes’.  Why I felt the need to converse?  Nerves perhaps?  I was annoying myself after awhile and then I eventually shut up, much, I’m sure, to his relief.  I let him work, and I experienced the pain.  I found that focusing on it, wallowing in it released something in me.  I looked around at all the other fellow pain seeking tattooees and loved the fact that the placement of my tattoo was one of the most painful.  I felt powerful, which is a very rare feeling for me. We finished the first half of my sleeve and I promptly made an appointment in two weeks and then in a few days had to call the studio, I like how that sounds over parlor, and changed the appointment for November.  All of this caused two points of anxiety in me. First, that I will be judged by my family and G’s.  Looked upon with sad eyes and gaping mouths and whispered statements of why I would do such a thing to my poor left arm.  I would himhaw my way through an explanation that I'm sure will not be satisfactory to anyone, because I rarely can say what I feel when wanting to please the person standing in front of me.  And second, that I had to postpone my appointment.  Will Matt be upset was my first thought.  Will I disrupt his artistic flow was my second.  I know I’m the customer and his prices are a hefty hit to my bank account, but I can’t help how my brain tries to make irrational thoughts seem very very rational.  Oh, and there’s a third thing.  I want to change his original design to something else and the thought of emailing him more ideas makes my heart want to shrink to the size of a marble. I know I will follow through with my November appointment; I won’t wait another six years, I just hope from now until then my anxious mind will relax a bit although I also know that is wishful thinking.  I feel like I'm growing more anxious by the minute and maybe that’s another reason why I love getting tattoos because I relinquish creative license over myself, if that makes sense.  For that extended period of time I can't really think about anything else other than the pain of that tattoo gun burning a beautiful line into my skin and maybe that’s why they always say that tattoos can be addictive for they not only stay with you, but so does the experience for its refreshing quiet.  I will keep that in mind the next time when I feel the need to tell Matt about the breakfast I had or the misbehaving child I had to deal with or another inconsequential moment in my life because maybe he wants quiet too to think, to create.

I told myself that I wanted to accomplish one of two things on this Mexican adventure of mine.  Maybe both if I was feeling particularly daring, but I shouldn’t think too far ahead, my anxious mind, anxious heart may not be able to stand for such things.  First, I wanted to learn how to scuba dive, which I find absolutely terrifying.  I go through epps and flows of course. When everyone is sitting around talking about their past scuba diving exploits, I smile and nod along, not wanting to appear like the scaredy-cat that I most definitely am. I think part of my problem is that I have never had to save myself from a situation that could lead to my unfortunate demise and I don’t know what kind of savior I would be even if it was me that needed the saving.  Would I be the type that jumps into action, brain clear and at the ready to immediately get me out of the deadly situation or would I be the someone that freezes, panics with open eyes, saliva dripping down my chin frantically looking to someone, anyone to save me, but also being too embarrassed to admit my screw up because, people pleaser here? G did take me to a scuba diving shop and I stood there awkwardly and waited while they discussed the logistics.  He dazzled them with his abundant knowledge already, him having been a dive master or maybe he still is, I don’t know how all that works, and me standing there, nervously gnawing at my just done nails as I replay all of the potential terrifying what if scenarios.  I have a pretty good imagination so I can take myself through a situation and actually feel like I’m living within it.  Needless to say, I was panicking and found myself inching towards the exit door, praying that maybe G will forget that I had ever expressed any interest in doing such a thing to begin with and this made me think. Do I really just like the awe in the other person’s eyes when I say I want to get scuba certified? Like I belong to a community of dare devils, thrill seekers, people that I have always found to be so much cooler than me. Do I just like this new character? Someone more interesting who I can escape behind. Second, I wanted to take Spanish classes.  This option doesn’t give me near as much anxiety as the first and I find that it is also a much more necessary one.  I have been married to a Mexican for six years now and sadly my Spanish is still quite limited.  My 20 minutes, well if I’m being honest with myself 10 minute, Duolingo lesson every other day really not cutting it.  And my old brain and lazy tongue, someone told me that some people have this, I don’t know who per se did the telling, but it was a someone and I couldn't have related more.  Even if I know the Spanish word I find it difficult to wrap my tongue around all of those syllables and unusual sounds. As luck would have it there was a Spanish school just down the road from our apartment.  I did check on two other schools and this one proved cheaper for the amount of time and consideration I would be getting from my tutor. They had two options: immersive or semi immersive.  I chose the immersive option for at least the first week.  I knew that I would be with other people and it would last from 9 to 1 every day.  I thought it was a real steal. Two hundred and nine American dollars for four hours of Spanish for the week. If I was by myself it would be the same price for three hours. I showed up a bit nervous, not really knowing what to expect, but we went to the store the day before and I purchased a notebook just for the class.  I actually felt like this was a first day of school moment.  Should I take a picture to commemorate such an occasion? I briefly thought .  I didn’t if you were wondering. Fortunately for me there was only one other girl in the class and she was from Germany.  An interesting side note: Germany has a program where each year whoever you work for has to grant you five professional growth days where you can take a class or travel somewhere to improve upon your professional life.  She decided to take Spanish classes in Mexico.  She already spoke perfect English, German of course, Chinese, and wanted to one day move to Spain so Spanish was her next language of choice.  I was expecting her to be way better than I me, but we pretty much were both on the struggle bus.  One reason I like this school is that they try to pair you with another student(s) that are on the same level as you are. I had to complete a brief quiz before the first day of class to see where I was at. I found that I knew more nouns than she did, especially when food was concerned.  Of course, that shouldn’t be a huge surprise.  Seventy five percent of the time G’s family is discussing food: which tacos are better, which restaurant should we go to, you get the idea. This was the first room I came upon once I entered the school. And this was the classroom. Our instructor’s name was Antonio. I was a bit nervous to ask to take his picture for my viewerless blog, so I secretly shot this. I did eventually ask if it was ok and was given the green light. The first day wasn’t as bad as I thought it could have been.  My brain felt sharp, ready to embark on this challenging adventure.  We broke for a break around 11, thank goodness for that, although I got the feeling that the German would have rather gone the whole four hours break free.  No thank you.  My sharp brain was dulling at a surprising rate. Antonio was very encouraging and the German and I struggled.  Some days being more successful than others.  I signed up for a second week, this time only three hours and by myself with Antonio, and next week will be a third one.  I know that I’m getting better; I really do know that, but it’s like my brain and my mouth have lost all communication with one another. I think a real low point was when I went to G’s family’s house over the weekend.  My new found knowledge buzzing in the empty spaces of my brain and it took all family members, including Ciara, the maid, who cannot read and has limited writing abilities, to help me say one word and to this day I don’t think I can really say it after all of that practicing. On our last day we had an unfortunate encounter with probably the largest cockroach I have ever seen. The German was adamant that we should not crush it but just spray the shit out of it. I was confused as to the why, but I'm sure there was a scientific reason. Maybe? This did force us to spend the rest of the afternoon outside because of all that spraying and i.e. fumes. Look how cute the outdoor area is; I wasn't mad about the extra time spent there. We also had a visitor and I took it as a sign that I made the right decision in continuing my Spanish classes for the next two weeks. Just so you know Iguana's are my spirit animal. They love the sun, fruit, and have a rough exterior, so they maintain their introvertness, strange people free. We then spent the rest of the afternoon at this free art museum where the German and I tried to only speak in Spanish and Antonio tried to interpret what we were trying to say. I did find it amusing that the German insisted that we only speak in Spanish upon entering the museum. That lasted about 2.5 seconds. Antonio is a great teacher.  I can tell he feels bad that I’m not quite grasping onto the concepts as quickly as his other students, but I’m nothing if not diligent.  I can persevere with the best of them and maybe one day you will see me conversing in Spanish like a true Mexican; I really hope that you do, but for now you may see me instead trying to frantically Google how to get rid of my lazy tongue although I should probably specify it is only for linguistic purposes or who knows what images may pop up.

Fun fact. Before you can legally get married in Mexico you have to submit blood test results, which includes an STD test (I tested negative for everything, not that I was too worried, but my anxious brain will invent things like once I heard you can get chlamydia from a toilet seat, and what if that has happened to me, how embarrassing), blood type (I’m O+, never knew that), and if I’m related to my husband in the United States and soon to be husband in Mexico (I’m not by the by, which makes sense being as he’s Mexican and I am very very white like when I did an ancestry test my people never made it past Scotland). You can get these blood tests done at any of these laboratories in Mexico and it costs about 750 pesos for the both of us or around 40 dollars depending on how the peso is doing. If you ever want to get anything tested: hormone levels, cholesterol, etc. pop into one of these labs and you will have your results mid day. Ours was ready around 11:30, we got there right when they opened at 7AM. I know I’m a baby, but in my defense she said I had skinny veins and that made me happy, maybe because she used the word skinny. Then we went back to the hotel for G to work and I to force an exploration adventure although I would have rather stayed in the hotel. I fought the urge to find the nearest Starbucks, something familiar, after a morning of strange things, but I didn’t want to be that girl so I found this cute little cafe after walking aimlessly around in a huge circle and sweating profusely. Literally that cafe Americano was the size of my head. I tried to order in Spanish; I tried to talk to my waitress in Spanish, but she looked at me a few times and then just switched to English like it’s the easiest thing in the world and maybe for her it is, but for me it’s going to be a life long battle? Or should I say challenge? Challenge probably sounds better. Once our results were ready we delivered them to where we will be getting married on Thursday. Yes it is literally a hole in the wall and yes I am very excited to get married in said hole in a literal wall. Overall I did several things out of my comfort zone, one even without my Mexican husband who usually leads the way and I trip along with the occasional stumble or fall or a healthy mixture of both of those things as I go. Cheers to discovering new things and we will see what tomorrow holds.

I originally did get married in Mexico for those of you who were at the wedding and are a bit confused as to why I am doing it again, however, we had a symbolic ceremony. Don’t worry when we got back to the states we filed all of the necessary paperwork and were officially married in the U.S. Our wedding was beautiful and I woulnd’t do anything to change it although the thought of everyone staring at me and having to be the center of attention had me running to my doctor to get on a good antidepressant to handle my anxious nerves. I like the idea of being the main character, but honestly I think I have more side character energy unless I can pretend that I’m a different person for awhile, which I do sometimes, than I can be that main character all day long. I don’t know why we didn’t officially get married in Mexico the first time when we had the chance. Maybe laziness on our part? It was such a whirlwind that I don’t even really remember it being a viable option. But now fast forward to six years…we decided to invest in some properties. Here is the one under construction in Puerto Morelos, should be done next year. However, if something happened to G, I would not be able to own the properties because I’m not a Mexican citizen. Here in lies the glaring problem, one in which I hadn’t even thought about and probably would never have, if it had not been for my husband, who is always five steps ahead of me. Unfortunately, the Mexican government has to recognize our marriage for at least three years before I can even apply for citizenship, which isn’t a terrible thing for me since one of the requirements is to prove a conversational level of Spanish, amongst a rather lengthy list of documents that I will need to gather, and many forms that will need to be filled out, as well as a questionnaire that I will have to take about Mexican history and culture. The whole process can take four to six months although you don’t have to leave Mexico during the meantime. Fortunately, I can receive my temporary residency right away by providing proof of marriage and proof that my Mexican spouse can financially support me in Mexico. Ha ha. G has some work to do because I require a lot. But I still can’t do that right now because to be a resident I have to live in Mexico for six months and one day. Once we are married and we maintain residency here I can receive a one year temporary residency, renew it for the second year, and then apply for permanent residency (which never expires) or my Mexican citizenship. That’s a lot of stuff and things and I’m exhausted just writing and thinking about it. There are of course benefits to becoming a Mexican citizen, like there are for most countries I presume, not just because I think it’s so cool to be a dual citizen. I can purchase property, have the right to vote, enjoy reduced waiting times in Mexican airports (you think that’s not a big deal until you’re in the Cancun airport at Christmas time), I can even work for any employer in Mexico, and the list continues, but those are the ones that mostly apply to me and my situation. So, Thursday I will be officially married in Mexico and one day will call myself a Mexican, which will be fun to confuse people. Don’t ask me how my Spanish is coming along though; I will try to answer in Spanish and by the time I figure it out you will have forgotten what you asked me, not that you would be able to understand my horrendous accent anyway.

Did I forget how to ride a bicycle? The short answer is yes and I’m embarrassed to say it hasn’t been the first time. In college I went to London and my group decided that we should bike inside and outside of the city. Hell yes, I thought, I’m in. How fun. An adventure awaits. At the time I wasn’t even anxious; maybe my anxiety has grown the older I have become and why is that? Shouldn’t age provide you with a sense of grounding maturity that you can figure out life, especially the things that you were taught, I don’t know, in grade school? But I digress. The point is I did forget how to ride a bike, twice now. I still shudder with embarrassment thinking of all the car honks and yelled profanity as I wobbled my way through downtown London, almost running into many a pedestrian. So, imagine my trepidation when G suggested that I try out his mother’s bicycle. I have been adamant that if I want to live in Mexico and stay in one piece it would be better for me and all of the people in the Mayan Riviera that I do not drive a motorized vehicle and walking can be quite hot, especially in the summer months and especially if I want to get groceries and such, so that leaves biking as my only viable form of transportation. I didn’t even entertain the scooter, or better yet the motorcycle idea G threw my way. So, here’s the bike in question. It looks so innocent doesn’t it, in its shade of pink, but do you notice there are no brakes on the handlebars. It’s the kind of bike that requires you to push backwards on the peddles, something that even my childhood bike did not have. Let it be noted, I did not want to do this. I was already having one of those low self esteem days, the kind that leaves you grumpy, annoyed, and very short tempered and now G wanted me to just try, that’s what he kept on telling me. But I don’t want to, I wanted to pout like a petulant child and wallow in my self doubt instead. But alas, G won. The next several pictures will show you my journey, albeit a frustrating one, in the short 10 minutes this took. Yes, my heart was beating quite fast at how embarrassing it was that a 43 year old grown ass woman could not ride a bicycle and yes my hands were shaking. My anxiety, I’m afraid to say, was at an all time high. I want you to notice two things here. The man that was casually eating lunch while I struggled in the first picture. I’m glad I could be his lunchtime entertainment. And in the second one you can barely see the legs of another cyclist speeding past me. This guy was at least in his 60s and whistling like he had never done something as easy as biking to work before. Meanwhile I wobbled along side him, sweating and grunting, red faced, a humiliated version of myself. I included both of pictures again, but blown up this time so you can see what I mean. I eventually did get the hang of it. I don’t know if I’ll be zipping along the streets of Playa del Carmen anytime soon, but I did prove that I can in fact ride a bicycle and I learned a great deal faster then the very first time, didn’t I dad?

I’ve wanted to swim in open water for awhile now. I remember telling G, his father, my father, his mother, my mother, even his cousins, basically whoever would listen to me that I took an adult swimming class once and how it was amazing, although I'm pretty sure I only went to like four of the classes, but that's our little secret . To my credit I took the classes in the dead of winter and the pool was not heated, although it was indoors. Of course, the more wine I drank the more adamant I became about how much I learned from said classes (all four of them), even when the conversation had moved on to other better topics, like what city in Mexico has the best tacos, the consensus is Mexico City although I’m sure it’s divided in some circles, I would circle back to my swimming skills. How to be efficient in the water is less about your arms and legs, I would say, an excited flush forming on my cheeks. It’s more about the tilt of your torso. Look at the dolphins and how they swim, I would continue, ignoring the glaze that had already formed over the person who, unfortunately for them, made the mistake of speaking to me in English once, signaling their forced best friendship status. I ignored the glazed over look, the side eye that was signaling someone, anyone to please carry this chatty girl away and take her swimming knowledge with her, please. Yesterday, I once again found myself regurgitating past swimming stories. After a glass or two of wine I heard myself promise the room that I was going to swim in the ocean tomorrow. I can do it, I said. Will be so fun, I said next. And I did mean it at the time; I even brought my fitness swimsuit, matching blue cap and goggles from home, to prove how serious I was. The thing about me is I so often like the idea of something; I romanticize it in such a way that I really do want to do the thing, whatever it may be. I think at the time, this is me now; I’m that fit swimmer girl, what a cool, athletic, adventurous person I am. The morning soon came around, the wine that had been buzzing through my system with its confident promises had long since vanished and left in its wake the promise that I had made. My anxiety went into overdrive after that. What if I step on a too sharp rock, begin to bleed and get attacked by a shark? I remember being told that sting rays had been spotted in this very area; are they dangerous, worse yet lethal? What if there is someone fly fishing and I get caught in their hook? What if I get hit by a wind surfer or a kayak or worst yet a boat full of really attractive people and I’m the drowning whale that they ran into? I was, in a word, spiraling. Knowing that most of my anxious thinking has no grounds in reality, I decided to push them aside and attempted my first open water swim because I’m a woman, of course, of my word. So, with my parents-in-law watching while enjoying their morning coffee, I embarked on my hard thing for the day or maybe week, depending on how it went. I at least looked the part, right? Here was my destination. There was not a boat in sight or person for that matter, thank goodness for that much. It's all pretty shallow, even when you get past the ridge. But I couldn’t really do a lot of swimming until I made it to the rocks, instead I did a very attractive mixture of using my hands to drag my body along and walking in a crouched position but trying to look cool because…parents in law watching from the beach. I eventually did make it to the rocks. And I did start to swim and damn it if it wasn't a lot harder than I had expected it to be. I felt awkward, couldn’t breath, kept thinking that everything that I saw or touched was going to eat or sting me. I’m embarrassed to say that I may have screamed out a few times when something unfamiliar touched my arm or leg. However, I eventually did find a flow. I swam the width of the rocks four times with a goal of not stopping until I reached the other side if not for just one time and I did it. I accomplished what I set for myself on my last lap. The butterflies celebrated my success. To put it mildly I felt like I had climbed Mount Everest after I was done, but in all actuality I hadn't even swam a half mile. I was out of breath, but my endorphins told me that I did something great, if only to prove that I could do the hard thing. Here I am emerging from the ocean like the mermaid that I believe to be now (new character, dropped fit swim girl, mermaid is way cooler). Unfortunately, the pictures speak for themself. And yes, my swimming cap had somehow pulled itself off of my head. How? I will never know.

If you are friends of mine you know that I often say we run on Mexican time. You might find that term endearing, funny even, until you've invited me and my Mexican husband to dinner or to a party and we arrive a good fifteen to twenty minutes late. For the record this makes me uncomfortable and a bit fidgety, but after a few heart felt texts and a gift or two of champagne or salsa, ceviche, or even some amazing homemade guacamole, are tardiness will hopefully be forgiven. However, it wasn’t until I traveled through Mexico on a Mexican airline, that Mexican time became a real entity and not something that I just thought G made up. We arrived at the airport and unlike in America where everyone seems like they know where they’re going, walking with a confident purpose to their gate, here I noticed that there was a lot of standing around and sitting in a large open area. Many people were staring at the bright blue monitors hanging from the ceiling. G beelined it for the monitors himself and did his fair share of staring. I didn't say anything, just let him do his thing. At this point I just assume that he knows what he's doing, maybe it's foolish on my part, but I've always been a believer that if there's too many cooks in the kitchen someone will eventually get burned, so I am usually more than willing to let him take the lead. And besides all that, this is his country. I did find out that he was looking for the gate that we were flying out of, which hadn’t been assigned to us yet, even though we had already checked in, made it through security (fun fact, you don't have to take your shoes off when going through security in Mexico, but the three oz. liquid rule still applies), so the only thing to do was to wait it out. Finally, we decided we might as well eat something, because this particular airline does not serve any snacks or beverages once we got on the plane. Of course the most important part was the wine, for me at least, and I got to walk around with the plastic glass full of it, that was my favorite part and it really allowed the sharp edges of my anxiety to dull a bit. Finally, our gate was posted and we rushed to head that way to only get in a line, if this can even be called a line, I really couldn’t tell. It’s important to note here that if I was by myself, I would probably be extremely stressed out, mainly because I really didn’t know what was going on and the language barrier would only add to that, although there were surprisingly a large number of English speakers. G suddenly moved us to this much shorter line, why? I don’t know, but I followed his lead anyway. This new line did not appear much shorter than the first, but who am I to question and besides that, follower here. By this time it was already 4:00, the time when our plane was supposed to take off. The only people that seemed concerned was the English speaking family who had a connection in Mexico City to Chicago. They were adamant that there was no way that they would be able to make that flight and could they change their destination to Queretaro; the adult son was more concerned that there would not be a McDonalds in that particular airport and what would he do then? G assured him that there actually was a McDonalds in the Queretaro airport and then a sly grin appeared on his face. I knew something was up after that and I was right. He bent down to whisper that there was a Burger King and not a McDonalds in that airport. Ha ha. When I told him that for real McDonald connoisseurs, which this boy man seemed to be, this was not the same thing, he chuckled before saying, “You got to give the boy some hope right?” The family was eventually assured that yes, they would in fact make their connecting flight in Mexico City, so the boy didn't need to have worried to begin with. Their grumbled sighs and harried expressions let me know that they had little hope in the attendant's promise. Their concerns, however, were holding up the whole process of boarding for the 100 or so other people waiting behind me. I had a feeling the attendant just wanted them to go away and I don't really blame her for the crowd was crowding and the noise was noising. It was, in a word, chaos, but one that actually seemed to be an organized one. I looked around and all of the other terminals were much in the same shape. Large crowded non lines quickly forming as people waited, not really seeming that concerned with what was happening around them. There were a few angry voices raised in our own non line as people were told that we could board first since we were sitting towards the back of the plane. Front seaters, who paid more for their seats, were not too pleased with those instructions and I don't really blame them, they did pay more after all. We eventually made it onto the plane without an ID being checked although I held mine up like I thought they would question my identity and refuse my entrance. The plane took off 20 minutes after it should have; aka Mexican time. Unfortunately, the plane landed 40 minutes after the time that it was schedule. I have no idea if that family made their connecting flight to Chicago, but if they didn't, there is a McDonalds in the Mexico City airport so the boy man will be happy with that little bit of good news at least.

Mexico City is daunting, intimidating, terrifying. It was the largest city in the Western Hemisphere in the early 16th century and currently the largest metropolitan area in North America with the population in the city proper at over 9.2 million people. Where there’s a lot of people, there’s a lot of crime, but I haven’t seen it and that has always caused me to wonder if it has more bark then any actual bite, but then again I’ve only traveled with people who are familiar with the city. G’s told me stories about walking to and from school without being afraid, but kids so rarely were in the early 90s, times have most definitely changed or are we just more aware? I always struggle with the answer to that question. However, his mother has shared other stories with me as well. Like the time she took the bus with little G and his sister and someone almost pulled a gun from the waist of his jeans when an altercation, that had nothing to do with the gun carrier, was occurring between another patron and the bus driver. She started driving herself places after that, better to brave the traffic on your own terms, she told me. Every time I have gone with his family they have protected me in their cocoon. Don’t put your cell phone in your back pocket, his mother would say; G would always make sure he walked on the street closest to the traffic and made sure my purse was body strapped and stuck between the both of us, my hand resting on it protectively. So, you can imagine my anxiety as I embarked on yet another adventure, taking an Uber, by myself, in Mexico City. G prepared me of course. I carried in my backpack my iPad, lip gloss, eye lash glue and a tampon; that was really it. Everything else: cell phone, one credit card, ID, and some bills were nestled neatly in my pockets. The thinking being if my bag was grabbed, I would still have on me what was essential, unless I was stolen, and let’s not even consider that a possibility. I began the day by googling, is it safe to take an Uber in Mexico City, the answer was it is “generally considered safe” the word generally was not exactly reassuring. I wanted something more on the lines of “definitely, It’s always a safe bet.” But alas, I got generally. Google then proceeded to give me several tips for my safety, tips that I followed down to the letter. I shared my location with my husband, both on my phone and using the Uber app (I didn’t even know you could do that). I immediately checked my Uber driver’s rating once confirmed (4.999, and he had over 1,000 rides, that seemed really good). During the trip I followed my ride’s route, my phone tightly clasped in my hand the whole trip. If my driver had varied the route in any way I was fully prepared to leap from the car, dive to the sidewalk. My organs would not be sold on the black market today sir. But everything was going splendidly. I saw the name of the library, my destination, in large black letters plastered on a parking garage, so I knew that I was in the right place. I wasn’t being kidnapped and human trafficked, thank God for that. The driver soon stopped, turned to me and said something in Spanish. It was a something that I didn’t quite understand, but it was a something that I assumed was, can I drop you off here or do you want me to deliver you closer like I was some sort of delicate flower that would wilt if left outside for too long, but I wanted to prove that I knew what I was doing so I quickly said si followed by a muchas gracias with one hand already on the door handle and then I leapt from the car to my freedom with a sigh of relief. I had made it, or so I thought. I began to walk with purpose as I turned the corner of the parking garage, expecting to find the front of the library right there, but it wasn’t. I immediately pulled my phone from my pocket and typed in the name of my destination without much hesitation and kept moving. G has always said to never stand still because that’s when you attract unwanted attention, something that I most assuredly did not want to do, not today at least. I pretended that I was a Mexico City citizen, my new character for the day. However, the more I walked, the more I had my doubts that I was heading in the right direction. You can see why I was concerned. Notice the trash, the man lying on the ground, the lack of people to hear me scream and in Mexico City, where people are everywhere, that is a big cause for concern. But Google maps was telling me to go in this particular direction, so like Michael Scott I followed Google’s instructions, even when my spidery sense was telling me something was very wrong. I felt like Michael when he drove his car straight into the lake because Google said it was the right way to go. I also followed Google’s instructions because I’m a sheep too and apparently common sense is not a thing for sheep. I eventually FaceTimed G, embarrassed, so wanting to have proved my new character of trendy Mexico City native, yes citizen is no longer good enough for me now, I prefer native. I hung up on him once as I fumbled for the right button on a phone that suddenly felt too big for my hands. We figured out that yes I was in fact heading in the wrong direction, no shock there, and in my excitement to get out of the Uber, I had completely missed the side gate which led to the entrance. But I made it in the end, red faced, sweating, I entered the Biblioteca Vasconcelos. Once inside, I could finally breath again. I was home. The Biblioteca Vasconcelos, a public library, covers 38,000 square meters and houses over 600,000 books. I felt like I kept walking and walking, never reaching the end of this building . Hanging in the center was the bones of a dinosaur and I, of course, had to take a picture standing beneath it. Being a bibliophile, I was struck by the magnitude of the place . So many stories, so many dedications of lives told through words all in one place that I began to tear up as I’m so prone to do when traveling and faced with a true love of mine. The realization of how lucky I am to be on this earth, to love what I love, and to be surrounded by it all in this moment in time is simply the best thing in the world to me. This particular biblioteca also had a garden that stretched on one of its sides and I began to wonder why more libraries don’t have such a thing and maybe they do in other places; I am just unfamiliar. I decided, now that since I’m a pro at Uber riding in Mexico City, that I would visit another public library. This one was called Biblioteca de Mexico “Jose Vasconcelos”. The layout was different than the other biblioteca. It reminded me more of a palace than a public library. There were several entry ways before I even spotted the first book. Everything was so open, airy and I wished I could have relaxed in all of that splendid openness, but it was raining. A down pour that was a small one at first, but then turned into a thunderstorm. The Biblioteca de Mexico has more than 155,000 works and is organized over five large rooms, each one more unique than the last. I found myself hanging on the outskirts of one of the rooms when I spotted this statue staring at me. I wanted to immediately steal the thing, smuggle it back into the states for my own home library. Once you have a pinkish red yarn man, do you really need anything else? I then noticed a group of librarians trying to get my attention through several large hand waves and a pleasant smile or two. I walked over and they excitedly began to explain more about how the library was set up, they even dug a pamphlet written in English out of a dusty pile underneath one of their desks and gave it to me. They acted like they hadn’t gotten a visitor in quite some time and their excitement really warmed my heart. Yes, I began to tear up, again. This library was so beautiful, with each room being it's own special kind of peace, each book promising to take the reader through a journey of discovery and awakening if someone would dare to just open the covers. Sometimes I feel that the people who don't read are just afraid of what real knowledge might mean for them. The entire day was one that I will always remember for it featured my very first love, los libros. I’m so thankful I didn’t let my anxiety deter me from experiencing the day although there were times I did have my doubts. The hotel bed always looks so much cozier, the sheets more comfortable to hide beneath, the hotel bar so much friendlier than having to brave the outside with all of its scary unknowns, but I sucked up my anxiety once again and I'm so happy, like I always am, that I did. Thank you G for suggesting I spend the day completely surrounded by books, which you know always make me endlessly happy.

CONTENT WARNING: This article has nothing to do with being anxious. This particular day was free from all of that. It probably had to do with the fact that I was surrounded by a small number of familiar faces, in a mostly familiar place, or it could have been that my new antidepressant was finally kicking in, although I really prefer it to be the former. I've already written why I chose to get married in Mexico, but I haven't written about the actual wedding ceremony itself, one in which I was told would only last for five minutes and wouldn’t be a big deal at all. That is what G assured me after I asked him about it for like the thousandth time. He was wrong. But I'm actually glad that he was this time, for it was a surprisingly quaint homage to the sweetness of looking your chosen partner in the eyes and vowing to be together forever. Ok, I may have just rolled my own eyes for daring to even write such a thing. It's very uncharacteristically not me, preferring true crime thrillers over romance novels, unless one of the romantic leads dies in a terribly tragic way, then maybe I can stomach it. I love surreally strange movies, hopefully featuring Nicolas Cage, over a rom com any day of the week. All the paperwork had previously been filled out, or I should say G filled it out and I offered mild murmurs of, "Let me know if I can do anything," all the while knowing that he would take care of it for me. Call me lucky if you want, I prefer blessed. I know, I know, this article is getting ickier and ickier by the word, the sentence even, but I can't help it, this was a great day. Our appointment time was set for 11:50 AM. I brought a white dress from home for the occasion; it was actually the same dress I wore to the dinner that we had the night before the wedding back in 2019. I wished I had bought a cheap vail and was kicking myself for not having thought of it sooner. Although this “wasn’t going to be a big deal” I still wanted to look in character; today being Vegas bride; I don't know why Vegas came to mind, but that's what it felt like to me, or at least it did, at first. Of course I should have known that G, who prides himself in always having the most random of things for any type of possible occasion that may or may never occur, is the product of his mother, which must be where he gets it from. When I moved in with him, I immediately tossed loads of random stuff away? Who needs three ninja blenders anyway? Of course I was not aware that each ninja served a specific purpose and the moment we had people over and watermelon margaritas were suggested, he immediately began looking for that particular ninja, the one that was used for cocktails. I hid my embarrassed blush as I helped him look, knowing full well that I had thrown it away months ago. Anyway, I digress. Ana disappeared into her room for a bit to only emerge with a huge triumphant smile as she waved three objects in front of me. One, a lengthy piece of white tulle, two, one of the handmaid bridesmaid’s bouquets that we had put together for my original wedding, and three, the gold and pearl crown that Sophia, my flower girl and G's niece, had worn in her hair the first time around. I clapped my hands with glee as I grabbed my new borrowed belongings and rushed upstairs to get to work. I definitely looked in character. Or, should I say, we both did. I literally thought we would be getting married outside, in front of this sliding glass window, where we had to hand deliver our materials and G had to pay for the marriage license; it costing him more because it was a "mixed" marriage; their words, not mine. But I, of course, was wrong, which seems to happen to me a lot when I visit Mexico. Me, realizing how wrong I was. Could be the language barrier, could be the different cultural dynamics, who can really tell, but I'm a pro at going with the flow at this point and who doesn't love a bit of the unexpected anyway. We soon were ushered into the building around the corner and then into this lovely room. They had made it look so perfect. We naturally waited for a bit. As I was waiting I looked down at my dress and discovered this monstrosity of a stain. Cue the viral Tik Tok trend that everyone was doing a while back with the "uh ohs,” I have no idea how I didn't notice this before this very moment. I even tried the dress on before I packed it. But then I vaguely remembered the last time I wore the dress. Remember I said it was the night before the wedding back in 2019; a night that may or may not have ended with an unfortunate encounter with some queso. By the looks of it the queso had won the war and I had forgotten to clean up the remnants of the battle field. Our officiate, an attorney, recovering from a noise job by the looks of it, somehow I love this small detail, soon joined us. Let me note here how much I love that I was married by a woman the first time as well. Moments like this make me feel like the universe is aligning in my favor. We had to sign a lot of paperwork. Our four witnesses: G's parents, cousin, and their little house maid, had to present their INE or Mexican voting card before the ceremony could commence. Here is Rafael and Ciara. Yes, Ciara is as short as she appears. The ceremony was sweet and quite lengthy; the officiate spoke a portion in Spanish and in English. Vegas really has nothing on Mexico when it comes to courthouse weddings. I don't know why I'm surprised that it was taken so seriously. (A professional photographer was even present.) Mexico has always had traditionally lower divorce rates than the United States. While the US has a divorce rate that fluctuates between 40-50%, in Mexico there is only 1.7 divorces per 1,000 people, although I don't know where the .7 comes from. Did someone start the divorce process and then back out or maybe that is just how math works when you are computing averages. Comment below if you know the answer. Unless your comment is your stupid, how do you not get averages, then I would say keep your opinion to yourself; I will continue to be happy in my ignorance. It really was so much fun and I wasn’t at all, unlike the first time around when my heart felt like it was beating a million times a minute and I couldn’t quite shaking, nervous. After the ceremony was over we of course celebrated with some ceviche and champagne on the beach with the sea as our audience, my favorite one to be quite honest. And then this perfect day was over and I felt much like how I did the first time around, content. My Mexican wedding date is officially June 12th, my American one being June14th. You of course know what that means now...two anniversaries, two yearly celebrations, and two anniversary gifts, I don’t think G thought that last part through, but I'm not complaining.

I have this thing, where G will treat me to something amazing, something that my awkward little self is unused too and I will inevitably prove that as much as I want to appear like someone that is accustomed to such treatment, I'm not. In fact, it's so outside the whelm of my own possibilities, it's like I manifest the situation to turn into another embarrassing episode. You would think I would be quite accustomed to such things at this point, but I'm always surprised when they happen to me, each and every time. Case in point: Madrid, last summer. It was my birthday week and G, who had been checking on hotels for months, saving up all of his Marriott points, for months, got a hotel room where dreams are quite literally made. It had two bathrooms. TWO. One bathroom is not enough now that I know two can be a thing. Once you have two, you can never go back; in fact it would be cruel to even ask that of a person. After checking in, G went to the gym and I decided to treat myself to a luxurious shower in the master bathroom. Long story short, I flooded that bathroom. Now when I say flooded, I mean at least an inch of water that no amount of towels used could mop up. And believe me, I used all of them. And to make matters worse, as I was trying to frantically clean up the massive lake that was now in the bathroom, I heard a faint knock on the door, but I disregarded it, as you would, when you're in a new country, don't speak the language, and have Noah's flood to clean up. I ignore people when they come to the front door at home, surely that would work in this situation. Wrong! I heard a nose and a male voice. I panicked of course, grabbed the nearest towel, even though there were perfectly good, amazingly soft robes, if I would have just opened one of the closet doors. But I hurriedly wrapped the towel instead around myself, peaked around the corner. A small Spanish man had entered the room. His eyes widened when he saw my half naked self and then he began to explain why he was there amidst, I believe, a heartfelt apology or two. I quickly stated, "No habla espanol" and then proceeded to brokenly communicate that my husband was not there. I have no idea if he understood me. "I think it's my terrible accent," I told G once. "That's why no one can understand my Spanish." "No," he said. "You're not saying the words correctly." And that would make sense, since half the time I speak Spanish to a native speaker and I'm met with questioning eyes, confused looks. The Spanish man soon scuttled away, with an embarrassed nod or two thrown in my direction. G can go into the whys and hows of what I did to flood that bathroom. Lots of science and math would be involved, but it still did not change the fact that it happened, to me. Again, in Venice, same summer, through his investigative skills and perseverance, we got to stay at the St. Regis. Upon entering our room, a bottle of a peach cocktail was sitting on the table with a note explaining how happy the hotel staff was that we were staying with them and to enjoy this free bottle, on them. Hells to the yeah, I thought. I was fully prepared to finish the bottle but I needed some ice for my glass. I searched the hotel room and then searched some more, but as much as I looked I couldn’t find the ice bucket. “G,” I said. “I will get us some ice, but where's the bucket.” He sadly shook his head as he tilted it to one side with a sigh. “ Babe, there’s not an ice machine in a hotel like this; you call the concierge and they will bring you whatever you want.” I didn’t of course call the concierge because you know, anxiety, but I did drink that bottle, every last warm drop of it. And don't get me started on the time I caught my sleeve on fire at a nice sushi restaurant in front of my in laws, or the time I was trying to get meat off of a skewer and it shot across the room. Or the aqua mineral/melon debacle of 2021. The list can go on and on. So, when it was suggested that we go to Pujol, one of the top restaurants in the world, imagine how I felt. I could foresee mistakes being made, wine being spilt, mouth unknowingly being stained as my teeth became embedded with some sort of greenery that would stay wedged between a front tooth until I was back in the hotel room and looked in the mirror. A little background information about the restaurant first. Pujol, between 2011 to 2022, was consistently ranked one of the top restaurants in the world, receiving two Michelin stars in 2020. It's highest ranking was 5th in 2022 by the The World's 50 Best Restaurant List, as well as being recognized as the top restaurant in North America that same year . It opened in 2000 by Chief Enrique Olvera with the vision to showcase traditional Mexican cuisine. Jesus Duron is now the chef de cuisine, but maintains the original vision of the restaurant. Needless to say, I was excited for this experience, and was more than willing to forgo another embarrassing mishap or two to have it. Pujol is located in one of the nicer parts of Mexico City, but if you didn’t know it was there you might walk right past it, we actually did and we were looking for it. G walked confidently to the front desk looking like he owned the place, I naturally lagged behind unsure and a bit nervous, what if our reservation hadn’t gone through? Sometimes I stand a few steps back when in an unfamiliar situation, my fight or flight instinct always being more flight than fight. We were 15 minutes early by the way. Miracles do happen. The restaurant itself is not very large. There is inside and outside options that seamlessly merge from one to the other. We were seated quite close to two other couples on the inside portion. I wish we would have had a bit more privacy. I kept getting distracted by their conversations and then began to make up stories about each of their relationships, but I couldn't share my thoughts with G because we were sitting so close to them. No fun! There were seven course to be had and I chose to also purchase the drink pairing where they paired traditional Mexican beverages with five of the courses. It’s important to note here that this seven course tasting menu is set, with a few exceptions. I noticed the other couples shared a few of our choices, but others were quite different and not even listed on our menu, so there may be more than one tasting menu to choose from, I’m not really sure, but if you know drop a comment explaining. The menu or menus do change seasonally, except for the mole, and I will get to that little piece of heaven a bit later. Upon being seated, the waiter, as all waiters and restaurants that cater to English speakers usually do, asked which language I would like to have the menu and instructions. G looked at me. "It's up to you," he said and me having a rare bold moment of confidence said, "Let's do Spanish, I'm practicing." The waiter nodded his head with a half grin and then proceeded the instructions in Spanish. I was lost in 2.5 seconds. Needless to say it was around the third or fourth course, my confusion etched into the lines of my face, that our waiters switched over to English. So, my apologies that my descriptions of each course are not as accurate as they would have been if I had just said that I preferred being told them in English. Course #1: Botanas or Snacks: Two baby elotes, potato stuffed gorditas with chili mayonnaise, and lychees All of this you can find as street food in Mexico. The elotes being my absolute favorite. You can pick up a huge corn on the cub smeared with mayonnaise and a white crumbled cheese, or have it rubbed in lime juice and chili, almost anywhere you walk in Mexico City. Of course, this was an elevated version of the traditional elote and was covered with some sort of orange spicy sauce. Gorditas you can as well find on the streets. Little old lady's dropping them into vats of hot oil, fried to perfection, but they usually are stuffed with different kinds of meat and a white cheese and cream. The presentation, as you can see was impeccable, however I almost prefer the street corn over this high end version. I like the larger kernels of corn and mayo unceremoniously dripping down my chin with each bite and chili powder that burns your mouth, your tongue upon contact. The gorditas, however, melted in your mouth and the lychee was the perfect sweetness to round out the first course. Course #2: We got to pick between a ceviche or a parota salad G choice the ceviche. The ceviche had big chunks of shrimp, octopus, and fish. However, what made this dish different from the traditional ceviche was the sauce; it was thick, almost like a soup. All in all it was very refreshing. The lime flavor came through, but was not quite as citrusy as I prefer. I opted for the salad. The salad was a reconstruction of tomatoes, kidney beans, guamuchil, which is a tree that produces these fleshy sweet edible seeds, and parota which is also a tree that makes edible seeds as well. The whole thing, put together, was fresher and lighter than the ceviche. I could definitely taste the sweetness of the seeds and mixed with the lime in the vinaigrette it was very refreshing. The pairing drink was a nonalcoholic kabocha, which was very sweet and refreshing. I was glad it was not sour like some kabochas I have had before. I tasted primarily pineapple in the drink. Course #3: We got to pick again between two dishes. G chose the wild muscle birria. A traditional Mexican birria is usually a slow cooked stew made with very tender goat, lamb, or beef. But in this birria they used mussels and the sauce was not as thick, which made it a lighter version of the traditional. It of course came with tortillas, to be used as the foundation to put some of the meat and sauce upon. G really enjoyed this nontraditional birria, but if you don't like fresh mussels than it probably would not be for you. I chose the Aztec cake. It was a lot lighter than G's dish and another reconstruction. The way it was layered reminded me of vegetarian lasagna. It had layers of of choyota, which is a tropical American vine that yields an edible root. Choyota has the texture of a pear, but the flavors of cucumber and it was all put together in a light tomato sauce, hence why it looked and felt like a lasagna. Overall, this dish was extremely light and fresh. They paired this dish with a Mexican beer called Cielito Lindo, a Vienna Lager that originates in Jalisco, Mexico. This was actually the highlight of this dish for me. It had a woodsy vanilla flavor and was absolutely delicious. The heartiness of the beer was the perfect compliment to the lightness of the cake. Course #4: Our choices tlincluded a full blood wagyu, zarandeado fish and quelites salad, or (what we didn't choose) a wild sweet potato in the embers, male peanut, and the children of amaranth. I don't know really what any of that meant, besides the sweet potato, but it was a vegetarian dish and G does not do "that shit," he told me later. G chose the wagyu. It was short ribs that were in a roasted adobe sauce and Monte Verdolagas cactus with a slice of avocado. Tortillas were also included and as our waiter said, everything in Mexico you eat with a tortilla. I thought the meat was delicious, however, G thought that even though the meat was a great quality cut, the way that it was cooked was not rare enough, so flavors that could have been great were just mediocre. I chose the zarandeado fish. This dish traditionally features a whole fish, typically a snapper that is butterflied, marinated, and grilled over hot coals. I loved the fish. They kept the skin on and it was crispy, lemony, with some sweetness mixed in. A small quelites salad was on the side. It resembled more of a spinach salad with an almost nonexistent vinaigrette. This dish was paired with a Mexican brute. I should have taken a picture of it, but the waiter whisked the bottle away before I had the opportunity and I didn't want to ask him to bring it back; that's incredibly silly because these waiters were superb, catering to my every need. If I dropped my napkin or purse they appeared out of no where to pick it up for me. I really liked the brut, however, it was a bit sweeter than brutes I've had in the past. Feeling at this point - Course #5: And now the highlight and what this restaurant is in fact known for, the mole madre, or mother mole. This mole is a fresh mole, which is the light brown center, paired with a 1500 day aged mole, which is the outer darker ring. Our waiter said to start in the center and work your way out and of course, tortillas were provided to scoop up all of that deliciousness. G had to show me how to pinch the edges of the tortilla so it makes a spoon. I struggled with doing this of course and just smushed the tortilla flat side down, as a true white girl would, to absorb any and all of the extra deliciousness. I have had mole before and it tasted more like the center section, a bit sour with hints of coffee, however, the outer edge, the part that had been aged for all of those days was savory, woodsy, and had hints of dark chocolate. It was heavenly, no matter how full I was, I wanted another plate of it. I read that at one point, when the chef changed the menu as is done seasonally, he got rid of the mole, and there was a slight uproar. So now if you ever go to Pujol, rest assured, the mole will be there to greet you and you will fall in love with it as I did. I resisted the urge to pick up the plate and lick the excess or use my fingers, since we ran out of tortillas. The mole dish was paired with a tequila, one of G's favorites actually, The Family Reserve Extra Anejo. I, of course, love this tequila as well. We actually have several bottles of it at home. When I moved in with G I had no idea that this was a sipping tequila, with special tequila flutes, which I filled to the brim, such a big no no for the tequila aficionado, especially when it is also quite expensive. Course #6: Dessert. Our choices: A coconut custard, a rice lychee pudding with a toasted vanilla fritter on top, or a Chocolate tamale with ice cream. G chose the rice lychee pudding. G, for the record loves loves rice pudding and it did taste how it traditionally should. It wasn't overly sweet or heavy. I chose the chocolate tamale of course. I love anything chocolate. I had a bit of trouble getting the cake out of the tamale. G had to to undo the strings on each side for me, but once the chocolate was unveiled, it was very dark, but again not overly sweet. The cake was spongy and had a dark coffee flavor although the texture was a bit gritty, but not in a bad way; I could taste the individual chocolate pieces. The chocolate was from Soconusco and the cajeta ice cream was from Sayula. The ice cream tasted like a typical vanilla ice cream and paired well with the darkness of the cake. The drink pairing was one of the best drinks I've ever had. It was a tequilla blanco and steamed milk. I would never have thought to pair these two things together, but the flavors complimented each other so well. The tequilla was strong, but the sweetness of the milk combatted that. Since it was our anniversary celebration, they included this cake as well. It was a mango cake wrapped in a banana leaf. The cake itself was incredibly spongy and very light and fresh. The perfect ending to this meal, I thought. But we weren't done quite yet. They then brought out three small pieces of Mexican chocolate and this almost put me over the edge, but we shared them anyway. They were very rich and dark and just small little bites. It would have been perfectly paired with a red wine, but I couldn't have fit another thing into my stomach and that's saying a lot for me especially since I do have a love affair with most wines. My final take away is that I would definitely go back, just for the mole if nothing else. The drink pairing menu was not worth the money in my opinion. Next time I would just get a couple glasses of wine. I was treated like a queen or princess, at the very least. The staff was so generous, nice, and catered to our every want and need. They even escorted us out of the restaurant and into our uber. I was proud that I didn't catch my dress on fire or flood the restaurant. I did have a cold, so was trying to discreetly blow my nose amidst many a tissue that I hid in my purse after each quiet blow, so as not to disgust the people sitting around me. We left Pujol with full stomachs and an amazing experience that I will remember for a long time to come.