I was born in a small pueblo in the state of Jalisco named
Tecalitlan, or Teca as the locals
call it. Jalisco is a green, mountainous state famous for its mariachi music,
tequila, and charro culture. Teca
is no exception. The birthplace of El Mariachi Vargas, this pueblo mágico (magical town) is
surrounded by green: vegetated hills, maíz fields, and endless trees. In the
heart of the green is my sleepy town. Though Teca itself lacks trees—filled
with colored houses and rocky streets—the smell of nature still fills the air:
a smell so distinct it can only be described as a folksy kind of fragrance.
When it rains in Teca, the air rises with the distinctive smell of mud mixed
with sweet-fruits and rose petals.
The first thing I noticed when I stepped into Mexico City’s airport was the strange stench—a mixture of waste and cigar smoke that stuck to Mexico City’s thin air. And as I waited for my luggage, I covered my nostrils with my sweater as the stench became more and more unbearable. Why did I come here? Everyone else seemed unaffected by the smell; it was obvious I wasn’t from here.
It wasn’t long before my host mother arrived to pick me up. As I struggled to carry my two suitcases, she seemed uneasy about helping me out. Tall, blond, and not used to manual labor, it was evident she hailed from a small pocket of privilege. After struggling to push my luggage into the car, we were off. Mexico City’s pollution seemed more evident from the backseat of the car; the air was grayish brown underneath the hot cars and cramped in traffic. I talked to my host mother about my humble upbringings as the city unraveled: huge apartment buildings, dirty freeways, and looming skyscrapers. My host mother, eager to talk, complained about her divorce and crazy ex-husband as we fought through traffic. The dizziness of the cars, my host mother’s complaining, and the passing food stands on the street made me fall back into longing dreams for Jalisco.
The food in Teca is unlike any I’ve had. There, I spend my days eating fresh fruit: guavas, guanabanas, mangos, strawberries, coconut, limas, bananas, and so much more. My mother makes agua fresca (juice) with the fruits, which needs no sugar. Later, I buy paletas de arroz (rice ice cream) and spicy candy from the “pharmacy” by my grandparent’s house, while my grandmother cooks chicken soup and enchiladas. On my way home, I pass by houses and whiff the mouth-watering smell of tortillas and carne asada. In the evenings, I go out for tacos and horchata. My pueblo is blessed with a rustic culinary tradition that I haven’t been able to find in the capital.
The first week in Mexico City I had already lost 5 pounds. “Don’t eat the food from the streets,” everyone warns me. I see ladies stuffing tamales filled with masa into bread made of masa on the dirty sidewalk; “It’s not like the food looks appetizing anyway,” I think to myself. The local market has a limited variety of options. The fruit is tasteless, and I can’t seem to find any delicious chorizo. Back at the university, the food is even worse. I spend my time eating salads and tepid croissants with ham.
Mexico City was not what I expected. I thought I would find mi México, mi Teca, but instead I found something completely different: a city I only began to appreciate and love after I stopped comparing it to home. And after three weeks in Mexico, I can finally say: I am in love with the city.
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