Last Days in Mexico

 

Oy vey. Now I remember why I stopped drinking tequila in my twenties.

With a righteous hangover, we moped our way out of bed and tended to our children, who, because toddlers and babies have absolutely no respect for the consequences of their parents’ decisions, were in spectacularly energetic spirits. There is something uniquely cruel about waking up after five tequila and mezcal tastings to the delighted sounds of small children who have slept for ten hours and are ready to ATTACK THE DAY.

Fortunately, we knew exactly what modern medicine recommends for this particular condition: more guava rolls.

So we made the fantastic decision to return to Café Rosetta. I’m not sure whether it was the butter, sugar, guava, coffee, or simply having something to live for again, but those pastries were every bit as heavenly the second time around. No regrets. If anything, I regret not ordering six.

With our blood sugar restored and the tequila demons temporarily subdued, we headed back toward the Zócalo, this time to visit the enormous Catedral Metropolitana de la Ciudad de México. The cathedral dominates one side of the Zócalo and is absolutely massive, the largest cathedral in Mexico and one of the largest in the Americas. Construction began in the 1500s and continued for roughly 250 years, which explains why the building is a spectacular mashup of architectural styles from different eras. Even more fascinating, it was built in the heart of what had once been the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan, right beside the ruins of the Templo Mayor. Like much of historic Mexico City, the cathedral has also spent centuries slowly sinking into the soft ground beneath it, requiring major engineering efforts to keep the enormous structure standing.

Inside, it was breathtaking. Even Joni stopped in her tracks, stared upward with her mouth open and occasionally whispered, “Wow!” We slowly meandered through the enormous church, admiring the towering ceilings, chapels, altars, artwork, and sheer scale of the place while listening to the Word of God delivered in Spanish. I understood very little of what was being said, which, given my current tequila-induced cognitive capacity, probably wouldn’t have been significantly improved had the service been in English.

From there, we took a long taxi ride to make another attempt at the library.  This time we actually got inside, and holy crap, it was incredible. Easily one of the most visually impressive libraries I have ever seen, with this enormous, almost futuristic interior that makes you stop and stare the moment you walk in. We had specifically come hoping to explore the children’s section, which naturally meant that the children’s section was closed for… reasons.

There was presumably an explanation.

It was in Spanish.

We accepted defeat.

So, after another morning of attempting to culturally enrich two children who mostly wanted snacks, naps, and the freedom to run in whichever direction was most inconvenient, we headed home for an early siesta. Amazingly, both girls crashed for three hours. Three! Apparently our strategy of dragging them all over one of the largest cities in the world has accidentally created champion sleepers.

Once everyone recovered, we headed back out for some final shopping and wandering around the city. There wasn’t much of an agenda anymore, which was actually perfect. We walked, browsed, ate, people-watched, and soaked up a little more of Mexico City before heading home.

Tomorrow was our last day in Mexico.

And then, somehow, we got another great night of sleep. I am desperately hoping this is a permanent developmental milestone and not something that immediately evaporates the second our plane touches down in Alaska.

Our final morning was wonderfully uneventful. We had breakfast together as a family and went for one last stroll, stopping by the post office and wandering around the neighborhood. We also had one final, critically important mission: locate some last-minute horchata for Joni. The child has become obsessed. At this point, I’m not sure whether we introduced her to Mexican culture or simply created a tiny horchata addict who will spend the next several months wandering around Juneau demanding a beverage nobody has.

Eventually, we returned to the apartment and attempted to get the girls down for one final nap before our flight.

Absolutely not.

Apparently they were simply too excited to return to America, because neither child slept. Nothing ominous about taking two fully awake children under two onto an international flight after learning firsthand what happens when their schedules implode.

We packed everything up, took one last look around our spectacular apartment, and said goodbye to the place that had become our home base through one hell of a trip. And because the Rosenfeld Travel Curse apparently wanted one final opportunity to remind us that it was still very much alive, the moment we set out for the airport, Mexico City began a nationwide earthquake drill.

Suddenly, speakers across the city started blaring. Then our phones started blaring. Alarms were going off everywhere. Traffic stopped. People paused what they were doing. For a brief moment, as two Americans standing there with two overtired children and a mountain of luggage trying to get to an international flight, we had absolutely no idea what the hell was happening.

Of course.

Of course the entire country would simulate a major natural disaster at the precise moment the Rosenfeld family needed to get to the airport.

Absolutely. I’d insert this right after the earthquake-drill paragraph and keep the escalating “we’re almost there… nope” energy:

Eventually the alarms stopped, traffic started moving, and we were airport-bound once again. Luckily, we made it to the airport without any additional national emergencies, natural disasters—real or simulated—or other incidents. Now all that stood between us and America was a five-hour nonstop flight.

Five hours.

I had low expectations. Joni had steadfastly refused to nap before we left, meaning we were about to trap an increasingly exhausted toddler inside a metal tube for five hours. But we boarded and immediately received our first little gift from the travel gods: Emily and I each had an aisle seat with an empty middle seat next to us. After the journey down, this felt suspiciously close to first class.

I took Joni for the first stretch. Naturally, both my entertainment screen AND hers didn’t work, because apparently the Rosenfeld Travel Curse has a very specific sense of humor. Fortunately, we had enough activities, snacks, toys, and assorted toddler distractions to keep her reasonably occupied. She actually did pretty well, and for a while I began to think we might pull this off without incident.

Emily and I had wisely negotiated a prearranged prisoner exchange at the halfway point, and right on schedule we swapped children. I received Evie, who was an absolutely perfect little traveler. Quiet, content, snuggly—the kind of baby who makes you look around an airplane smugly thinking, See? Traveling with babies really isn’t that hard.

Meanwhile, Emily inherited the ticking time bomb.

Joni finally reached the end of her rope during the last hour of the flight. And when I say the end, I mean there was no more rope. She was DONE. Nothing could soothe her. No snack, toy, activity, parental plea, distraction, or act of God could overcome the fact that this poor kid had been awake far too long and was now being held against her will at 35,000 feet.

Luckily, the plane was absolutely packed with other children, so at least we weren’t the lone family destroying everyone’s peaceful flight. There were babies crying, toddlers toddlering, and parents throughout the cabin wearing the same thousand-yard stare. We were among our people.

But then, finally, the wheels touched down.

WE LANDED.

America! We had made it! All we had to do was get off the plane, grab our stroller and car seats, collect our luggage, and leave.

Easy.

We exited the plane and waited at the jet bridge for our gate-checked stroller.

And waited.

And waited.

Nothing.

Eventually, a very well-intentioned young man disappeared downstairs and triumphantly began bringing up strollers and checked car seats. There was just one minor problem: none of them belonged to any of the parents standing there waiting for them.

So there we all stood, a small herd of exhausted parents holding increasingly heavy children, staring at a collection of completely useless baby equipment belonging to people who apparently were not there.

Eventually, we gave up.

With no stroller, we picked up both children, gathered all of our carry-ons, and began what felt like a mile-long pilgrimage to baggage claim. At this point my arms had ceased being anatomical structures and had become two numb straps connecting my shoulders to a child.

Surely our gear would be waiting for us there.

Narrator: It was not.

Our previously gate-checked car seats had also temporarily vanished into the great airline abyss. So we stood around for another 30–45 minutes while various people attempted to determine where exactly our extremely necessary child-safety equipment had gone.

But then…

They found it.

The stroller appeared. The car seats appeared. The luggage appeared. The children were still alive. The parents were still married.

And, at long last, WE MADE IT.

We had survived Mexico City with two under two.

Now we just had to get home to Alaska.

I especially like ending with “Now we just had to get home to Alaska” because after everything that happened on this trip, it sounds less like a conclusion and more like a threat.

From Guava Rolls to Tequila Shots

 

Wow. Another night where both girls slept through the entire night! I don’t know what Mexico City has done to our children, but I’m seriously considering whether we can import it back to Alaska.

We had a wonderfully lazy morning and eventually brought both girls into bed with us. Evie lay there cooing happily while Joni leaned over, tapped her little sister on the nose, and said, “Boop.” Evie would smile, we would melt, and then Joni would do it again. “Boop.” Heart melting!

Eventually we dragged ourselves out of bed because we had a very important mission: guava rolls at Café Rosetta. Once again, this particular pilgrimage was inspired by our extensive pre-trip research, which mostly consisted of watching television shows about food and immediately adding things to a list.  Café Rosetta was the cutest little café tucked along the sidewalk, and naturally the hostess immediately fell in love with our kiddos and was incredibly sweet and helpful getting us situated. 

Emily and I each took a child, ordered coffees, and finally got our hands on the famous guava rolls. There are simply no words to adequately describe how delightful this pastry was. Flaky, buttery, sweet, filled with guava and somehow worth every bit of hype. We tried not to moan too loudly as we ate them in public. Even Joni started whining for more, which is perhaps the highest culinary honor a restaurant can receive from our family. The walk there and back was equally lovely. It was sunny and pleasant as Mexico City slowly woke up around us, and Joni stared wide-eyed at absolutely everything, particularly the seemingly endless parade of dogs being taken for their morning walks.

Our next stop was the children’s museum, and Joni was in heaven. The very first exhibit was health and medicine, which, given that both of her parents are doctors, meant we behaved completely normally and took approximately one million photographs of her dressed in doctor and EMS outfits surrounded by all the little medical accoutrements. She ran around giggling, examining everything and looking alarmingly comfortable in uniform. No pressure, kid. You can absolutely be whatever you want when you grow up. But also, here are 847 photographs of you dressed as a physician before your second birthday.       

Then we found the bubble station. Joni. Went. Bananas. There were enormous bubbles, tiny bubbles, bubbles floating everywhere, and for reasons known only to toddlers, Joni decided the optimal method for popping them was with her face. She charged through the bubbles face-first, giggling hysterically and repeatedly coming back for more. By the time we left, she had thoroughly exhausted herself, which, as any parent knows, is the true measure of success at a children’s museum. 

After a long morning, the girls went down for their naps while Emily and I rewarded ourselves with some delicious street tacos. Once everyone had recovered, we headed back out for a little antique shopping, during which Joni was introduced to another important piece of Mexican culture: horchata. It was love at first sip. Within minutes, our child had apparently expanded her vocabulary specifically to accommodate her newest addiction. “More horchata.” Over and over. “More horchata.” We may have created a monster. 

Eventually we made our way home for showers and baths, and then our two babysitters returned for our final date night in Mexico City. The girls were happy, the babysitters knew the drill, and Mom and Dad escaped into the night.

Tonight’s reservation was Pujol, one of Mexico City’s most famous restaurants. Maybe Quintonil had simply set an impossibly high bar, but Pujol didn’t come close for us. The food was good, the ambience was amazing, and the staff were lovely, but after the spectacular experience we’d had at Quintonil, this felt surprisingly ordinary by comparison. Still, we had a nice dinner, drank some decent wine, enjoyed some excellent people-watching, and generally appreciated several uninterrupted hours of eating without anyone screaming, vomiting, demanding horchata, or attempting to pop something with their face. 

But when dinner ended, the night was still young, and, more importantly, we still had babysitters for another two hours. It would have been financially irresponsible not to use them.

So I decided we should head to Limantour for a drink, where we met an enthusiastic bartender named Andrea. Somewhere along the way, what began as “let’s grab a cocktail” evolved into me commissioning Andrea to take us on a tasting tour of the best tequilas they had. He seemed delighted by this assignment. The bar wasn’t particularly busy, and we could see that our request gradually became a team project. Andrea enlisted other staff members, discussions were held, bottles were examined, and eventually four top-shelf tequilas materialized in front of us. 

Now, it is worth mentioning that Emily and I were already approximately half in the bag. 

The staff subtly wall-flowered around us while we sampled their carefully selected tequilas and offered what I’m sure were extraordinarily insightful tasting notes. Andrea enthusiastically explained the production methods, agaves, regions, aging, and subtle differences between them in exquisite detail.

I did not understand a word. Freaking Spanish…

But I nodded thoughtfully.

We eventually discovered something neither Emily nor I thought possible: a tequila we actually found not only tolerable, but genuinely enjoyable. This apparently warranted celebration. Andrea and the staff then decided that before we left, we absolutely needed to try a mezcal as well.

Sure. Why not.

Surprisingly, that was delicious too.

And so, five shots of tequila and mezcal deep, we headed back home. 

We arrived back at the apartment to find two peacefully sleeping kiddos and two very exhausted babysitters. Everyone had survived. The girls were asleep. We had eaten incredible food, consumed an irresponsible but educational quantity of tequila, and somehow managed to turn an international trip with two children under two into an actual vacation.

What a life.

Boats and Tacos

 

After last night’s dinner, we slept HARD. And, miraculously, so did the girls. Their babysitters, yes, babysitters, plural, because the company required two people to manage our two tiny humans, apparently had a blast with them. Both girls went down easily, nobody traumatized the babysitters enough to make them flee the profession, and then something truly remarkable happened: both girls slept through the entire night. At least ten glorious, uninterrupted hours. Apparently all it took to fix our children’s sleep was dragging them through three states, multiple missed flights, a night in Texas, and several days in Mexico City.

We woke up feeling suspiciously refreshed and had a relaxing morning with breakfast before setting out for a tour of Xochimilco. Xochimilco is one of those places that feels completely different from the rest of Mexico City. Its famous canals are remnants of the enormous system of lakes and waterways that once covered the Valley of Mexico, dating back to the world of the Aztecs and Tenochtitlan. It is now part history lesson, part floating picnic, and part party, basically exactly the kind of cultural experience the Rosenfeld family can get behind. 

It was an absolutely spectacular sunny day, and we had an entire trajinera to ourselves. We slowly floated through the canals while other colorful boats drifted past us selling everything imaginable. Food, drinks, flowers, trinkets and souvenirs all came floating by, along with entire boats of mariachi musicians ready to pull alongside and serenade you for a few pesos. It was wonderfully chaotic. The girls LOVED it. After several days of carrying children through museums, airports, airplanes, and castles, sitting on a boat while Mexico floated past us felt downright luxurious.

We finished at exactly the right time to race back to the apartment for the sacred nap time. 

Today also happened to be Mexican Independence Day, which is an incredible time to be in Mexico City with one minor logistical complication: EVERYTHING WAS CLOSED. We had ideas. We had plans. Mexico had a national holiday. Mexico won. We tried the National Library, closed. So instead we headed back toward Bosque de Chapultepec, wandered around, and let Joni take in the crowds, music, sounds, and general energy of the city. Honestly, with a toddler, sometimes abandoning the itinerary and just letting her wander around looking at people is probably the better activity anyway.

Eventually, however, we had a mission. We hiked our way across the city toward Maizajo, a taco spot we had seen featured with Antoni Porowski and had subsequently decided we needed to experience for ourselves. When we arrived, there was a long, long line. Under normal circumstances, seeing a massive line while carrying two increasingly tired children would be a clear signal from the universe to go somewhere else. But we had come too far. We were committed.

The girls initially held it together admirably. Then they started fraying around the edges. Then the wheels began visibly loosening. By the time we were waiting for our names to be called, we were down to seconds before a complete dual-child systems failure.

And then they called us.

We sidled up to the counter with two exhausted children in tow and ordered tacos with reckless abandon. At that point I didn’t care what anything cost or how much food we ordered. Just start handing us tacos. 

And let me tell you: they were the best damn tacos I have ever had.

Not “really good tacos.” Not “great vacation tacos.” The best tacos I have ever put into my mouth. After days of eating our way through Mexico City, Maizajo somehow managed to raise the bar again. The tortillas, the fillings, the flavors, everything was incredible.

Apparently Joni agreed. I was feeding her bites when she began attacking each taco with such enthusiasm that I genuinely became concerned for the safety of my fingers. 

And somehow, after the chaos of airports, missed flights, bathtub sleeping, vomiting, bed-diving, toddler meltdowns and the general insanity of hauling two children under two around one of the largest cities in the world, it was a perfect night. We sat at a counter in Mexico City with our girls, absolutely demolishing some of the best tacos of our lives, and everyone was happy.

We made it home just in time for bedtime. Both girls were completely exhausted and went down quickly. Another day in Mexico City successfully completed. We’re getting dangerously good at this.