One month has passed since I moved to Mexico with a bag full of sun cream and taco free arteries, and I pledged to turn my cynical little blog into a joyful exploration of everything Mexican. So where the fuck have you been Lauren? The answer to that would be: having too much fucking fun. Because Guadalajara has stolen my heart so completely that the thought of returning to the UK (i.e. reality) already makes me feel a bit ill.
(But not as ill as some dodgy roadside watermelon did in my first week, proving once and for all that nothing good comes from healthy eating and that you should carry toilet roll at all times. I literally cannot stress this enough, most probably because, one, there’s a gym in downtown to which I can now never return and, two, I’ll never be able to look at socks in the same way again.)
But what about all this FUN you’ve been having?! Well a quick browse of my overly self-indulgent Instagram feed might give you some idea. But if you’ve not already been subjected to that, I’ll break it down for you.
Mexico has tacos. Mexico IS tacos. If I could describe Mexico in one word it would be ‘tacos’ and after describing Mexico with this one word, I’d wrap myself up in a soft tortilla and fall asleep dreaming about carne asada and a cold Victoria. Because Mexico also has beer. And avocados. The most delightfully squishy avocados you’ve ever seen, bought for £1 a kilo. In short, Mexico has food. Affordable, abundant, delicious food, sold at all hours of the day and night.
If you thought nothing could surpass cheesy chips on the scale of one to drunk food, you have yet to try a greasy, 9peso taco adobado. BECAUSE THEY ARE THE NEW HOLY GRAIL OF DRUNK FOOD TO WHICH NOTHING WILL EVER LIVE UP. Oh yeah and there’s tequila. That’s cool too, until you pass out in a bedroom at a family gathering after drinking it through a straw.
Mexico has beaches. Okay, if you go to said beaches the weekend of an imminent hurricane you will probably get a mixture of weirdly still, calm before the storm sea, or a current so strong it will drag you underwater two metres from the shore and un chingo of bastarding shells will cut your feet up good and proper, son. But they’re fucking beautiful nonetheless. Conjure up the image of a veritable paradise beach in your head and I’ve probably got a photo fairly similar on my Instagram (maybe minus the pasty ginger girl in the foreground.) Also, beach hair. Beautiful, salty, sun bleached beach hair.
Mexico (shockingly) has Mexicans, be they chicanos, tapatíos or chilangos. Mexicans who are invariably willing to help you, no matter how terribly you ask for directions towards whatever bar/ shop/ cultural hotspot/ bus route you need, even if they do have to ring their daughter’s boyfriend’s aunty’s brother-in-law to find out. I mean, yeah, the directions they’ll give you will probably be delivered in a rapid fire Spanish so incomprehensible that you just respond por acá and point in the general direction of wherever they told you to go, before nodding and going to ask someone else round the corner, but still…it’s the thought that counts, right?
But in all seriousness, Guadalajara even makes the North look like the place where friendliness goes to die. Maybe minus the men hanging out of cars to stare at you as you walk down the street, or call you güerita, preciosa, bonita. You name it, I’ve probably been called it on the walk to work. Not cool, wey.
Obviously, Mexico has SO much more, but I think I’ll call it a day for now. After all, I most likely need to ease you into to that huge pit of ENVY you’re going to be residing in for the next year.