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.

After our outbound journey involved maintenance problems, hours trapped on airplanes, two missed connections, an unexpected night in Texas, no luggage, no diapers, and a hotel-room bathtub serving as an infant bassinet, I probably should have expected nothing less than a nationwide emergency drill for the return trip.

Eventually the alarms stopped, traffic started moving again, and we were once again airport-bound. We had arrived in Mexico City exhausted and slightly traumatized from our American Airlines odyssey. We were leaving with two happy kiddos, full bellies, incredible memories, a new appreciation for tequila that had already been followed by a renewed hatred of tequila, and a toddler whose primary contribution to international diplomacy was repeatedly demanding, “More horchata.”

Our amazing digs were behind us. The airport was ahead. Neither child had napped. The entire country had just practiced for an earthquake.

America, here we come… back.

I really, really hope we have better luck returning.