i traveled to mexico city
in July, don’t remember the year, but it was eons ago, and I had no idea it would not be as hot and steamy as New York City. So I boarded a plane dressed very casually (too casual, as I remember) and froze until I got to my room and piled on clothes. The highs were in the low 70’s, while NYC was nearing 100° degrees when I left. But that was not my only surprise in the city, nor in Puebla, where I was headed to work. Ciudad de Méjico was quite cosmopolitan and reminded me of Barcelona. Must have been the plazas and buildings, its architecture.
Work is work, no matter where it is, but fortunately I have always enjoyed my job. What sets work experiences apart is people. When I worked with people in other countries, I learned so much, besides culture, about myself and other people — whether they were colleagues or clients.
Mexico was different in that I did not spend a lot of time with the same crew but flitted from one place to another. The infamous July trip remains a highlight, sort of, in my life
because of tequila
Um-hum. See, I am not a drinker, could not drink alcohol for the rest of my life and miss it not. I’ve mentioned this before, but in case you haven’t read it: I like it, yet go without it for weeks (unlike certain foods, I love food). After nights of dinners drinking lemonade (BTW: the lemonade I had there was the best ever), towards the end of the trip, probably two nights before we had to leave, I was asked to have a drink, just one, so we could toast. Come on! they said.
so i had a margarita
— like no other I had ever (or since) tasted. Then I had another. Fine. Dinner over. 🤗
mar·ga·ri·ta | mär-gə-ˈrē-tə: a cocktail consisting of tequila, lime or lemon juice, and an orange-flavored liqueur
I will cut to the chase; otherwise, I’ll write about that night for a half-hour or more, and I still have to do yoga and eat dinner. Four of us (German rep in Mexico, his Mexican girlfriend, the owner of the company I worked for, and yours truly) ended up … Hmm. I want to write and convey it properly, and don’t think I can tell the end of the story without the backbone.
. . . to be continued . . .
(came upon a stack of photographs of colorful doors in Mexico, therefore the memory)