Why They Wouldn’t Let Me Board My Flight in Mexico City
There’s a first time for everything.
When you’re planning to travel for a whole year, you might want to take things slowly. I did. Which is why I spent six weeks in Mexico, the first country in what was supposed to be a year-long trip across Latin America (it was my third trip to the region, so I felt justified in trying to cram all gems of this part of the world into ten or eleven months).
But taking things slowly wasn’t the only reason.
I had originally planned for a month in Mexico, starting in the Yucatan Peninsula and gradually making my way north to Mexico City by bus. Yes, yes, I know. Real Northern Mexicans would probably scoff at my calling Mexico City the North of Mexico, which I technically haven’t done, but I suppose I might have implied it. Sorry for not making it up to Guadalajara. What can I say? It’s a big country.
So, there I was, at the airport in Mexico City, having taken the first Uber of my life (fun fact, right?), having experienced everything from the Mayan wonders of the Yucatan and Chiapas to the Olmec ruins of Oaxaca (I admit the mezcal on another day made the overall stay in that lovely city more flavorful), I was ready to fly my way to Colombia, bypassing all of Central America, which I had visited on two prior occasions.
