Mexico

Mexico and I go way back — I have been there seven or eight times. Mexico feels familiar to me because it so closely resembles China of the 1980s and 90s, especially the small county towns: old and new intertwined, development and backwardness coexisting side by side, trash-strewn alleyways right next to spotless five-star hotels facing the main street. Locals and foreign tourists live in two entirely different worlds, just like the ordinary hutong residents and the foreign guests at the Great Wall Hotel, Shangri-La, and the Friendship Store in those days. In Mexico, you find roadside stalls everywhere, courtyards wrapped in barbed wire, and shops lining every street.

My first trip to Mexico was a self-drive tour of the Yucatán Peninsula with friends, from Tulum into the interior. Besides the velvet-blue Caribbean Sea and the magnificent Chichen Itza Mayan ruins, I also discovered the mysterious underground cenotes and villages inhabited by the Maya. What left the deepest impression was passing through a Mayan village where people never intermarried with outsiders — everyone in the village looked almost identical.

The second time, my boss "banished" me to Mexico City for two weeks. Kidnappings and robberies were rampant there, and company policy forbade US employees from going out alone without a local escort. I was essentially confined to the hotel for two weeks, commuting only in the company driver's car. Over those two weeks, I worked through the hotel menu from top to bottom, then bottom to top, several times over. The waiter was a Mexican of Japanese descent who was particularly kind to me — in the last few days, he had the chef prepare dishes not even on the menu. My love of tortilla soup began during that time. Ever since, I always order it at Mexican restaurants — though I have never found one as authentic as that one again. That hotel's tortilla soup was thick and rich, topped with bright red deep-fried chilies glistening with oil, snow-white chunks of cheese, and vivid green avocado. I ate it for two weeks straight and grew more addicted with every bowl.

The third time was a solo trip to Oaxaca, a small town in southern Mexico. It was a last-minute decision that fell right at Christmas, so flights were hard to book — I ended up connecting through three airports before finally arriving. I woke before dawn and made the long journey; the plane landed past midnight. Staring at the flickering orange letters spelling "Oaxaca" on the terminal building, I could hardly believe I had actually arrived at this place I had read about so many times — it felt both real and dreamlike.

Later, through work, I visited San Luis Potosí in the Mexican heartland several times. An FBI friend was alarmed when he heard I was going there and kept urging me to stay safe. A colleague mentioned that once they had seen the bodies of cartel members hung from a bridge after a gang shootout.

I also visited Puerto Vallarta and Cozumel at various points. I had long heard that Cabo was beautiful — this time, I finally made it.

Getting off the plane, just as in every Mexican tourist city, we were immediately surrounded by touts. The pandemic made me feel genuine sympathy for those struggling to survive — if these people had other choices, I believe they would not want to be doing this. I handed my bags to them, let them call me a car, and let them earn their tip.

Developing countries share a certain trait: the roads from the airport into the city are always beautifully built, making a fine first impression on visitors. Cabo was no exception — fresh tarmac out of the airport, lined with coconut palms swaying in the sea breeze and cacti dotting the landscape here and there. Within five minutes, an endless ocean appeared before us. The Cabo peninsula has the Gulf of California to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west.

The forty-minute drive took an hour and a half as the driver dropped passengers at different hotels along the way. Since we were the last stop, it felt like a complimentary half-day resort tour.

A friend had booked a private home on Airbnb. I had originally planned to stay at a beachside resort but compromised. Though not as convenient and comfortable as a beach resort, staying in a private home offered a truer taste of local life. A newly built two-story villa — kitchen and living room on the ground floor, two bedrooms upstairs — for just seventy dollars a night.

Once we settled in, we realized we had been on the road since five in the morning and were absolutely famished. The Airbnb host recommended a nearby restaurant. We walked in to find it full of locals. As we sat down, a man from the next table came over and asked if we needed help. We looked at him strangely and shook our heads. He came back later to explain: "I'm the restaurant owner — I hope I didn't startle you just now."

My companion, armed with rudimentary Spanish, ordered a fish dish for me. The food arrived — authentic home cooking, the fish incredibly fresh. Following the locals' lead, I wrapped the fish, rice, bean paste, and vegetables in a flatbread, squeezed on a few drops of lemon, and popped it in my mouth. Fragrant and deeply satisfying.

After eating our fill, drowsiness hit. We went back for a nap and woke to find it already past three in the afternoon. We strolled down to the beach. Cabo truly lives up to its reputation as a party town — the beachfront was lined with restaurants and bars, the thumping music loud enough to give you a headache. We walked along the shore, and in the setting sun we could make out the famous rock formations that appear on nearly every Cabo postcard.

The first night, exhausted, I slept soundly.

On the second morning, we visited a local handicraft market. A courtyard of seven or eight rooms packed with handmade goods of every kind, drenched in the bold, vivid colors of Mexico — utterly dazzling.

Toward evening, I decided to take a water taxi to Lover's Beach. A woman sitting roadside collected the fare and led us to the boat. Our guide took us on a loop around the famous large rock formations, and from the water we finally laid eyes on the Arch from the postcard. The waves were ferocious, crashing hard against the rocks and sending white spray several meters into the air — breathtaking to behold. The boat dropped us at Lover's Beach, promising to return in an hour. One side of the rock island faces a calm bay — its tranquil waters give it the name Lover's Beach. The other side faces the Pacific, with fierce waves and strong undercurrents — that side is called Divorce Beach. With the whole little island to just the two of us, it was wonderfully peaceful. I had hoped to watch the sunset from the island, but with only about ten minutes left before the sun dipped below the horizon, our boat arrived. I had no choice but to board in a hurry.

I later learned that local regulations prohibit landing on the island after four o'clock — our guide had broken the rules. No wonder he charged us an extra six dollars. That is the charming thing about Mexico: there are always exceptions to every rule. On the way back, the guide, the helpers — six locals in all on the boat, mostly young people in their twenties and thirties apart from one father-daughter pair — finally clocked off after a long day's work. The young men sang and laughed out loud, the Latin spirit fully embodied, their young faces glowing in the setting sun.

Off the boat, we found a taco shop on Yelp. Cash only, and all we had left was 150 pesos — less than eight dollars. Looking at the menu on the wall, we had just enough for three tacos. We sat down; I ordered a fish taco and my companion a shrimp taco. The server brought out a large plate of vegetables, still wrapped in plastic wrap. My friend and I looked at each other with suspicious eyes: "Will they charge extra for this?" I got up to ask — the vegetables were included with the tacos. We felt too guilty eating so much food for five dollars, so we did the math and ordered one more taco. My companion is a semi-vegetarian who only eats seafood for meat and absolutely loves vegetables. The whole large plate of vegetables was devoured bite by bite, dipped in sauce until every last piece was gone.

While we sat eating inside, a few local children appeared at the window, unfurling several hand-embroidered rugs and shaking them to show them off. When their little performance was over, they asked if we wanted to buy one. I shook my head. The children walked away disappointed — hopefully the next customer would buy.

On Saturday, with no work, we booked a snorkeling tour. During Covid, socializing was rare, and we were a boatful of mismatched strangers anyway — so we simply sat at the stern, out of sight, out of mind. We were lucky on the way out and spotted a whale.

For the last dinner, we chose a lovely restaurant. The oysters here were incredibly fresh.

Waking that final morning, outside the window were palm trees, the deepest blue sky, a gentle breeze. Roosters crowing, the smell of a neighbor's cooking drifting through my window. A stolen escape from a busy life — this trip was a joy.