Where Home Is
Under the deep blue evening sky and a creamy grey layer of pollution, the sun illuminates the valley of Anahuac, once the cradle of the ancient Aztec empire, now buried under the concrete jungle of Mexico City, which extends as far as the eye can see. Only the peaks of the dark brown mountains surrounding the valley are visible in the distance. To the south, two silhouettes stand out from the rest: the Iztaccíhuatl — better known as the sleeping woman — covered in a white cloth of ice and snow, and the imposing Popocatépetl lightly covered in fumaroles. Both volcanoes and legendary lovers have watched over past and present civilizations for millennia.
Dad drives in the traffic while the twilight shadow covers the road as we descend through Cuernavaca’s old and narrow highway. From the passenger’s window, the city looks enormous and majestic, but also strange and distant. This is home, or at least what I should be calling home.
It’s been a few days since I returned to visit my family. I am staying with my parents and my brother at our small apartment in Coyoacán. This is where I spent the first years of my life before we moved to Guadalajara in 2006. After that, we used to come every holiday to visit the rest of our family. The place is full of photos, pictures, and paintings that my parents have accumulated over several decades; familiar faces of my late grandparents, and old silhouettes and colors that have vanished over the years. The light coming through the windows, the smell of the furniture, the taste of Mom’s food; the accumulation of these sensations represents an important part of my childhood. I had been looking forward to coming back for several months, to that familiar place, to being home. Yet, I can’t escape the feeling that I am not there, at least not entirely.
It’s been almost three years since I left and even though things seem to remain the same, I have changed. I don't feel at ease here, at least not in the same way I used to. I wake up on the couch in the living room. My nose is blocked and my throat is dry from a full night of snoring bolstered by the dry winter air charged with the dust and smog of the city. I walk with Dad to Frida Kahlo Park followed by a stop at El Jarocho, the coffee shop where Mom used to take my brother and me before dropping us at school twenty years ago. I order the same hot chocolate as I did back then. The taste is different, it is too sweet now. I drink it anyway for memories’ sake.
A stranger in a known land searching for traces of a familiar warmth.
Past and present; distant memories and the now intertwine as I wander through the streets of Coyoacán. They are the same as always and I can see an 8-year-old me running around the central square, sticking my head into the fountains to later fall inside and get soaked. I am happy to be here. Coyoacán is one of the most beautiful neighborhoods in Mexico City. The cafes are always crowded with people muttering and laughing. The square is packed, organ grinders play their melodies for a few coins, and street vendors offer ornaments and handicrafts, churros, cookies, and corn boiled or roasted, served with mayo, cream, lime, and chile.
I never miss the opportunity to eat at street markets. Street markets usually appear one time per week at a specific location. Filled with colors and aromas — although not always the most pleasant ones — with fresh fruit, veggies, and meat; chicharron prensado (crispy pork skin) deep fried in huge oil containers, a pollero with his huge scissors, cutting chicken thighs and wings; Oaxaca and panela cheese, quince cheese, and more. I sit under the traditional pink canvas roofs of a tacos de carnitas stall. I order two of maciza, one of surtida, and one of moronga. Maciza is the white meat of the pork, surtida is made of several different cuts of meat, and moronga is boiled pork’s blood (similar to black pudding). I put salt and lime on all, some taste better with salsa borracha.
I fly to Guadalajara for a few days to meet my friends. The same assholes that I have hung out with since I was eleven years old. We gang up, have some beers, and play some board games, which I hate but tolerate for the sake of coexistence.
When the games are over, I go back to my parent’s empty house. I sleep in my old rigid bed. When I wake up, I can tell this is not my room anymore. Small changes here and there: books are missing, new frames, and a messy desk with my brother’s work documents. The house has also changed. The paint on the walls is old and cracked, and spider webs hang from the roof above the worn-out wooden stairs, but I guess those have always been there. The trees outside have grown past what any skilled gardener could have managed with a sharpened machete. The old house of Fioni — our old German Shepard — is still there, forgotten in a corner since she passed away four years ago. It doesn’t feel so long ago though. I can still see her lying down in front of the door, barking at the pedestrians passing in front of the house. Dad and I used to take her out to a park a few blocks away every evening, throwing a tennis ball at her until she got so tired she could barely breathe. These memories bring a feeling of at-homeness.
Over the past few weeks in Mexico, glimpses of tranquility emerged. When having dinner with my family, while playing games with my friends, or having a walk with Dad. I find home not in the places where I thought I would, but in these moments. After all, home is not a place, but a feeling, a state of calmness, the sensation of being at ease while at our most vulnerable.
