My Debut as a Travel Writer

Arrival Dinner

“Have I gotten better at writing?” I wonder over orange pasta and a clear and sweet alcoholic beverage. That description did not do my cocktail much justice at all, so I suppose no, although I will take half a point for a humor clause (that is this).

The sauce of my pasta is orange, I would like to reiterate, as I search for other descriptors such as creamy or spicy which it is not. It is somewhere between thick and thin and a bit grainy but not in a bad way. Cheese is certainly a player in this whole situation and by necessary association, salt. But I can’t crack the color. Not a hint of tomato, pumpkin, or carrot. Some mysteries are meant to be swallowed without question.

I write that and then I’m not sure I believe it for a second. I love to chase the mystery. I would know what this pasta sauce is made of if I spoke Spanish, because it says on the menu, which is in Spanish, because I, you should know, am in Mexico city.

Man, being a travel writer takes some practice.

This restaurant’s name is Suppli, you should know since you are reading a travel column.

Suppli is cool and rustic and quaint but right on the corner of a busy intersection which I like because of the couple kissing at the bus stop and the Pepsi truck whizzing by. I’m sitting outside at a round table, next to two women who might either be my friends or enemies if we spoke the same language. Without language, they are just doing kind of funny impersonations to each other. Gossip, surely. Nothing else requires so much drama of the messenger.

I’ve finished the last of my pasta and so I am forced to wonder: What is next?

For the sake of my travel column, I’d love to go listen to the music. For the sake of my setting cold and need for comfort, I’d love to go to bed. This is such a classic. It makes my heart pound every time. Adventure or comfort? Chaos or forethought? I’ll research this for the rest of my life if I must. How far to push the thread?

I ended up taking a walk around the block before going home (airbnb). I ate a piece of a concha my host gave to me and realized I forgot my toothbrush for the third trip in a row. Perhaps my writing is fine and it is my traveling that could use a bit of work. I decide to sleep on it.

Day 1

I begin the next day when it is already halfway over, due to the fact that I was up for a fair bit of the night and was unwilling to leave the apartment in the morning without completing a video project I’ve been meaning to be done with. I feel I’ve fallen out of graces with god lately, and it’s causing me quite a bit of anguish, as one might expect from the outskirts. It’s all I can do it get my body walking, outside, in a place that does not remind me of too many things. And so Mexico City felt like a fair choice. I wonder if that is the reason I felt I needed to leave New York – it became crowded with memories, piling on top of each other in a way that crowded the timeline. There are only so many wonderful moments you can have in a place before it starts to sour and you notice all the dust and wires and acknowledge that the coffee is not so good – it’s only the mugs you enjoy. That, or your places close down and become replaced by a plant shop or a veterinarian clinic or a watch store, none of which feel relevant to your needs in this particular lifetime. I’ve sat on every hill in Prospect Park, I’ve sat in the heat of the grill smoke by the picnic house and I’ve sat around the edges, right on the border of in and out where the people enter stressed and leave a bit more relaxed except for the kids who cry when it’s time to go. I did not cry when it was time to go – when I decided to leave New York I was elated. Back into the expanse! The world of every option. What an absolute thrill. It’s only now, 6 months later, that I feel some childish anger towards that part of myself that pulled me away from my playground. Now that I can finally see the world I left behind, I’m devastated.

In the case of a child, this desolation is usually cured by a snack, a friend and a distraction, as well as a promise to return to the playground at a different time.

Today’s snack is an espresso and chilaquiles at a table outside on the street since I am in Mexico City and this is a travel column.

I like these Chilaquiles – they taste like something I might make by accident if I were to garnish my soup with chips and forget about it for a while. It’s a creative way to combine things of radically different textures, and I appreciate a dish that comes with a certain rate of decay. In this respect, Chilaquiles are not unlike the experience of the Affogato. In time, it all becomes one.

That evening, I meet up with my friend Leah for dinner. We talk about wanting a love that is easy, about projects, about New York, about the way ideas spread. She explains “Boy Aquarium” to me and I explain my theory on time travel, broken down into several simple diagrams:

Leah says she had a friend who did mushrooms recently and said something similar. We talk about the New Order, about the crossing, about freedom.

I try a conversation with god that night, to see if I can bargain for a bit of certainty in my life. Apparently, god is “not in the business of grand compensations.”

“Simple solutions” god says, is more of their thing.

Day 2

During the night I have the worst dreams imaginable, barring death or violence. Trapped in a ferry terminal on a cold island. Everyone snores and makes loud noises on their phones and also knows my name. There’s nowhere for me to hide and there’s nowhere for me to escape. I’m not really sure what happened to the ferry. I’m pretty sure I’ve taken that same boat to warm places before. It’s just that now for some reason it’s dropped me off in a freezing room that smells of roller rink.

In reality, a dog barks all night long.

When I wake up, I put on my running shoes and I do not stop until my urge to pee demands I find a cafe.

I circle Chapultepec park but am not allowed to enter because it is a Monday. I’m alright with that, given everything. New York has taught me how to run wherever.

The cafe I find is called Kuni. Kuni is brightly colored and run by a lovely woman, Alaide, who does not give me the option to speak Spanish. I’m unsure what about my face gives away my americanism, but clearly I’m covered in whatever that thing is. I stopped beforehand at an art supply store to pick up some pastels and paper, and I draw while eating several types of salsa on a large blue corn tortilla chip. Travel writing usually includes some more emphasis on the food, I’m aware, but I’m just not sure I want to go into detail about cheese at this time. Cheese will always be a classic. I’m not sure it needs my endorsement.

Kuni, however, does need my endorsement.

Alaide says Mondays are the only day they are making a profit, and even though I didn’t describe it in much detail at all, this spot is seriously wonderful and creative. If you visit Mexico city, take a visit to Kuni.

That night, I meet my friend Sebastian for a drink. He is a wonderful artist. Together, we invent a drawing game that involves battleship like coordinates. He says “D5, strawberry” and I draw it. I say “C13, meaning of life” and he pauses before making a small circle at spot C13. “Unity,” Sebastian smiles.

.He tells me about how Mexico City was built on top of a lake and gifts me a book on trees before we part ways. I try my hand at deciphering the Spanish and am able to comprehend 50% of the words which I am surprised by, but is still not enough to derive any real meaning. I pause on the phrase Sus muchas y torcidas ramas.

“Torcidas ramas?” I ask Sebastian.

“Twisted branches,” he says and I decide to add that phrase to my lexicon español.

Day 3

Day 3 is private. Just because this is a travel column does not mean I have to tell you everything I do. Being a travel writer is hard work and requires a fair bit of personal time.

Truthfully, I try to make art because it’s pretty much the only thing I like doing but my art is not coming out right these days because I’m all stressed and outside of myself. No good messages coming through. Just a loud radio static. I generate a somewhat prolific output today, but everything is covered in big black smudges. I title a piece “the black hole” and that can’t even save it because it’s too colorful to be a real black hole. Whatever. That’s all I have to say about that. I decide to get a haircut because it’s all I can do to eliminate possible causes of this wintertime slump one by one. My hair has gotten very long and has left me feeling like a wizard without any good advice whatsoever. I attempt to communicate what I’d like for my new haircut (way, way shorter) to the barber in my broken Spanish and in return he asks me questions that I do not have the language to understand. I end up with a shoulder length cut and bangs. The bangs will be a pain, but I’m glad to no longer be a phony prophet.

In the evening, I pack. I am proud of this because I could barely get myself on the plane here due to my crippling packing indecision. This is not typically a challenge for me so I’m not really sure what this is about. Something in these last months has just swept in and sort of decimated me entirely.

Once I am prepared for my morning departure, I take myself out for a nice dinner.

I wanted somewhat of a date night, as I do these days and here I am. The building is very interesting. Brick down below and high ceilings with branches hanging down. Everyone is well dressed and I find it an appropriate place to sport a new haircut. I eat a plate of vegetables and I try god again. I have better questions this time.

I ask god why it is taking me so long to find a love I can believe in? I have asked for love and do not seem to be getting any closer and so it is culminating into some crisis of faith. I am used to getting what I want. God says “I’m not sure I can help you with that.”

I say “What do you mean you can’t help me with that? You’re god!”

God says, “Love is the only truly human domain. That is why it is so beautiful and so fragile. I can’t do a thing! I mean I can talk to you when you need. But you’ve got to do that one on your own.”

I question the plausibility of this voice given my vivid imagination. God tells me of course this is my imagination. But where’s my imagination come from? Is that not a god I can believe in?

It’s a valid point, so I accept it.

We make several other pacts, none of which can be shared here at this time, given that this is a travel column. I go to bed and I am clearer. My ramas, it seems, are a little less torcidas.