Eight Days in CDMX; or, I Wasn’t the Oldest Person at the Rave

A series.

Day five.

I wake up and do my usual travel logging that all dozen of you have been enjoying so well in the last few days. After that, I look up tickets for the Frida Kahlo museum, which was my original plan, but it turns out they’re sold out the entire rest of the time I’m here.

So instead, I walk around the neighborhood, grab a torta from a street food joint, and head to the park where I eat lunch and just chill.

It takes me all of 5 minutes to house the torta Cubana I bought, so I’m walking through the park now, and I see a couple of teens/young adults selling lychee from a bucket. Awesome. I try to just buy a snack sized amount, five of them, but they don’t have change for my 50 peso note, so I get an entire bag, which I guess is about 50 pesos worth. #economics

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I’m walking around with my bag of lychee now and just taking in the sights. I’m in two parks, right next to each other. Parque Mexico and Parque Espana.

It’s peaceful. Midday Friday. I resolve I’m going to get a haircut because in my rush to get my house sorted before leaving, I didn’t have a chance to give myself one.

I go to Barberia Viejos Amigos and stumble over the words I barely know that relate to “hair” and “cut” and “can I buy it?”

“You speak English, bro?”

Si. Si.

“I got two appointments right now but come back at 4:30 and I’ll take care of you.”

Sweet. I go to McCarthy’s Irish Pub again, because I haven’t lived in or visited a place until I’ve become a regular at at least one bar and one cafe. I have a beer and then go back to get my cut.

One nice thing about my haircut situation is a) even if I had to describe it in Spanish, it’s just so easy to look at my head and see what I’m trying to do, and b) I said there was ONE nice thing and my goldfish brain tried to make a list.

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I get my cut, take a shower, and I get a message from my salsa friend from last night that they are turning up at a Bachata night across town. Night plans: check!

I go out to have some Mexican sushi, which Thomas, a friend of mine who grew up in CDMX, recommended I try. I get a California roll that is breaded and deep fried, and a spicy tuna roll that is served in the non-fried way that I’m used to. Oh, and a delightful salad with FIBER that I’ve been sorely needing! I swear if it weren’t for beans I’d be all clogged up down here.

They don’t do wasabi here, but Thomas had told me to get the lemon soy sauce with jalapenos. I do, and you know what? They’re onto something.

It’s kind of the opposite of simplistic, subtle flavors that sushi is supposed to go for, but I love flavor and I didn’t come to CDMX for “subtle,” we all know how loud and obnoxious I am.

I house my sushi while listening to a young American expat lady talk to her Mexican boyfriend(?) about the trials and tribulations of nebulous entrepreneurial nomad life. It sounds like I’m listening to an episode of Sex and the City which is weird because I have never seen an episode of that show. but I got a heavy “lifestyle and travel blogger” vibe from her.

In forty-five minutes of eavesdropping, I have no idea what her business model is. The word “crypto” was thrown around a lot, but with a dose of skepticism and desperation, which makes me nod in agreement, don’t go down the cryto road, sis.

Regardless, it’s entertaining background noise for my dinner.

I get back to my Airbnb to prepare to head over to the Bachata night. Get in my Uber, and in 20 minutes I’m there. I walk into the lesson late. I have no idea what most of the instructions are, but luckily, I can count to eight (and even past that!) in Spanish, and previous dance experience and learning by watching cover the holes. I really gotta go Bachata more often, it’s straight shameful how bad I am at it for someone who’s been social dancing for 17+ years.

Soon my salsa buddy Alyssa and her friend Louise, who I haven’t met yet, arrive. We dance for a few hours. Louise is a beginner but she has some dance experience and a general sense of rhythm so she does great all night.

After the room is sweaty and humid enough and we’re about ready to move on, I split a ride back to Roma Norte with them because, as it turns out, their second destination for the night is one of the market/food halls that is like two blocks from my Airbnb.

We get to the spot, looks pretty quiet for the night but we go in anyway. Some of Alyssa and Louise’s friends are already there, so I kind of just stumble into introducing myself. I get a ton more food suggestions, recreate a city-wide with Cerveza Victoria and Johnny Walker Red (honestly I prefer Jim Beam to JWR… and even JW Black… and really any Johnny Walker but it’s all they had).

The group is super fun. After a few more dances, Alyssa and Louise each call it a night, but their friends invite me to go to another spot. A party — which I assume is a house party but I think I missed some details in their description.

We hop in one of their cars and head to Centro, where we get to the spot and they negotiate the cover charge. It hits me now that the party is a WAREhouse party. But, the cover is too high for their liking, so they suggest another place somewhere nearby and we go there.

Above the Barbie Cafe, we end up in what looks like a small, independent art gallery with lotsa kitschy stuff in it. Mannequins dressed up in Mad Max/BDSM club style outfits hanging from the ceiling. Little figurines on a desk that are clearly curated and displayed by some logic that I don’t have the cultural context to divine. And the bathroom right in the back, separated from the rest of the space, which is maybe the size of a large living room in a Philly rowhome, by the plastic curtains you’d see in a butcher’s walk in freezer.

They’re bumping some techno. Mai, who apparently has been up for 24 hours, gets us a round of mezcals and we kind bump and grind together. I’m looking around — in our group I’m the oldest by about 4–5 years, but for real a bunch people in the place at least look 5–6 years my senior.

I go to the bathroom and there’s a lady my age or a little older doing some coke, usual rave stuff. I come back out of the bathroom and she’s STILL taking bumps! Less usual rave stuff, at least in terms of quantities I’m used to seeing. The shit works though, after about 10 more minutes (and maybe a few more bumps) she’s tearing it up on the dance floor.

We stay for a little while longer and Mai is tapping out. I’m also pretty tired myself, so I split a ride with her back to Condesa, which is a good bit closer to Roma Norte than Centro. We get to her stoop and she waits with me for my Uber. She’s from Costa Rica and we talk about how welcome we’ve felt here.

For real. How many times in my life have I felt welcome?

I tell her that I want to cook dinner for all of us before I leave — she’s all in, so that’s that.

I get in my Uber, get home, brush my teeth and take out my contacts (something I remember no matter how inebriated I am.

Another great day.