From the Editor’s Desk: Community (Premium)

Our kids spent the past week with us here in Mexico City. Their visit came in the middle of a busy time–Stephen Rose visited right before them and two other friends arrive just a few days from now–but it provided me with a timely reminder of what’s important in life.

I’ve discussed the troubling reality of children before, that they represent the highest and highs and the lowest of lows for any parent. I wouldn’t change a thing, in some ways, but I’d also change all kinds of things if I had the chance. It’s complex. But like any parent, I love them because they’re my kids. I’m lucky to say that I also like them because they’re good people, and I like to spend time with them. And while this isn’t the right word, that makes me proud, as does their obvious and explicit love of each other. You can’t ask for anything more than that.

Each time they visit us here is an opportunity to do new things, on the one hand, but it’s also an opportunity for us to show them what our lives are like here. The more time we spend here in Mexico City, the more time we become a part of this place, and the more this place becomes a part of us. This happens to us in real-time, but the kids come here for a week once a year, typically. And so they can see the changes a bit more obviously. And their perspective on that is interesting to me.

For example, we took them to the sushi restaurant we frequent, one of those places where everyone knows our names, and we know theirs, and our lives overlap. We are close with everyone there to some degree, and so it was a bit sad to discover on that visit that one of our friends there, Barbara, is leaving next week to pursue a different job opportunity. This kind of came out of nowhere, from our perspective. And so I handled it the awkward way I handle such things, by joking that Barbara perhaps spent too little time considering how this would impact me. And Barbara handled it the way she handles things, by failing at trying not to cry. She’s going to miss us as much as we will miss here.

Less notable, perhaps, because of the way the schedule worked out, we had gone for lunch that day, while we usually visit at night and eat dinner. This was less expensive, in that there was little in the way of cocktails or sake, and less food consumed than usual. But I have also found myself eating dramatically less at each meal in recent weeks, and while this was initially concerning, I’ve come to embrace it. The trick, one that I’ve still not mastered, is remembering not to order a normal amount of food, which is now too much food.

Anyway, we ate and chatted and were sad about Barbara, and then we left. We were walking down the street towards our apartment, when Mark, our son, asked me why Juan, the sushi chef, had asked me if I’d eaten breakfast about halfway through the meal. I said that I usually eat more, I guess. But he said, why would he know that, or think that? And, yeah. It was an interesting thing for him to notice. He knows more about me than my name, of course. He’s paying attention.

One block up from our apartment, there’s a little abarrote, a tiny neighborhood store that locales treat as a sort of pantry where they can pick up any number of items–water and other drinks, bread and groceries, alcohol, toilet paper, and whatever else–as needed. I was thinking about Juan and Barbara, and how they were part of our lives, as we approached. And this reminded me of how this place, and the family that works there, had likewise become part of our lives, just as we had become part of theirs.

I told Mark how we had gone in there one time, and I had asked Stephanie whether she thought they would sell me a single banana: I was in the mood for one, for some reason, but I knew that if I bought even a small bunch that most of them would go bad and I’d have to throw them out. She thought they might, so I grabbed a bunch of three bananas, intending to ask. But when I turned to face the counter, I witnessed something I’d not seen before. An older woman had come in and she asked for a single aspirin. So the person behind the counter opened a bottle, shook one out, and handed it to her, and she gave him a small coin and walked out. “I guess I can buy one banana,” I joked to Stephanie. And then did. The abarrote really is used like a pantry by those in the neighborhood.

I’ll never know what the family that runs the abarrote thinks of us, I guess. But I do know that when we started going there, we would present whatever items we were getting, they would say the price, we would look at them blankly for a moment, and then they would type the number into a calculator and then show it to us. But now, they don’t have to do that. They say the price and we produce the right amount of money. Our Spanish has gotten that good, at least. What’s funny about this is that it’s true, no matter who in the family is there at the time. They all know that we can handle this transaction now, somehow.

I also told Mark that our assimilation into this neighborhood was complete thanks, in part, to our regular visits to this abarrote, day and night, and sometimes late at night when we’re perhaps not at our best. One time, we had walked home from a very late night up the street and had perhaps had too much to drink. And as we approached the abarrote, we made one of those bad decisions that people in that state often make.

Swaying left to right in front of the counter, I asked for “a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and two Snickers bars” (in Spanish). “And this,” my equally swaying wife added, placing a little bag of cookies covered in white confectionary sugar on the counter. Mark found this story hilarious, and I guess I do too. But the point, really, is that these people have seen us in every possible condition. And in doing so, we’ve become more a part of their lives and this neighborhood. We are normal people, like anyone else. Not outsiders, different and unusual.

We run into people we know on the street here all the time. We ran into the owner of the sushi restaurant a few days after we had learned of Barbara’s leaving, and the two of us plotted some kind of small farewell party. When a friend who works at our favorite bar asked us about bagels, which he’d never experienced, we bought him a bag of various types with some cream cheese from a bagel shop that inexplicably opened across the street from us. (Bagels are beyond unusual in Mexico, and the owner of this place is Scottish because of course she is.) We just today ran into the owner of a Michelin-recognized restaurant that’s right across the street from that aborrote–the type of thing that could only happen in a place like this–and when he asked about our next visit, we told him we’d be bringing those friends who arrive in a few days. He smiled and promised something special for that night. The people here are incredible.

Yesterday, we dropped our kids off at the airport, finding ourselves once again in that all-too-familiar funk that descends on us every time they leave. I couldn’t get much done, and neither could Stephanie. And by the time night fell and it was time for dinner, she suggested a place close by that has surprisingly good food and cocktails–this city is a never-ending miracle of restaurants and bars that are better than they need to be–because we were both so listless. We could get in and out quickly and then fall asleep on the couch watching a movie or whatever.

In a rare example of me aiming higher than my wife for a change, I suggested something else. Why don’t we go to Rubi, instead, I suggested? This is a new bar over in Condesa, a 20 to 25-minute walk away, but the food and drink are just as good as the place she had mentioned, and we know people there. It felt more like … home. She perked up at this, and agreed. And so we went to Rubi.

These things are difficult to explain. Rubi has only been open since December, between our previous trip here and this one. But in just a few months, we have met people we know there, randomly. We have had dinner there with people we’d just met. And we’ve gotten to know two of the bartenders there, both of whom are funny, nice, and helpful with finding other places we may want to visit, which I mark in Google Maps. One of them once repeated a version of a welcome I’ve heard a few other times here in Mexico City (“you are always welcome here, this is your home”). And the best times I’ve had there are when it’s a bit slow and we can just talk to the people there. As is the case at so many places.

On this particular trip, the bar was full so we sat at a table, and one of those bartenders was kind of mugging at us and then finally motioned for us to move to the bar when someone paid their check and was ready to leave. We chatted with him and a group of women to our left for a while, and he spent some time showing us some new wine they had gotten, and then gave us a glass. We also had an experience that I’ve seen several times in Mexico, but almost never back home, where we shared shots with the bartenders and toasted each other. It was nice. It’s always nice.

But it was the man sitting to my right that really upended this night. We went on to talk to him for a couple of hours, learning over time that he was somehow associated with Rubi and the restaurant to which it’s tied. And then that he was in fact the son of the owner. And was the person who had created the secret speakeasy upstairs that we’d learned about previously but had not yet visited. He was quite interesting and nice. We talked about travel, eating out, and about AI. Our kids were texting us as they arrived home and he enjoyed seeing the funny and loving messages we were all sending to each other, as their respective pets exploded with excitement because they were back. And it was all pretty great, and unexpected, and we spent much more time there than we’d expected.

When he got up to check on something out back, Steph and I agreed it was probably time to think about heading home. So I motioned to our bartender friend and asked for the check, and he brought it over with the little portable payment machine. Stephanie noticed that he hadn’t charged us for half of what we had consumed, but I told her I was already going to over-tip him, so no worries. But as I held my credit car out to tap the payment machine, a hand slipped in from the side, blocking me. It was the man we had spent most of the night with, telling me it was all set.

I was not looking for this. We had had a great night and we were happy to pay, and to support this new place, now one of many that we love here in Mexico City. But no. It was on the house. He had enjoyed speaking with us too. It was nice, unnecessarily nice. Which, in a way, is what this city and its people are all about.

We ended sneaking some cash to our bartender friend regardless, though he told us that he’d be tipped on the bill anyway. And then we said our goodbyes, and still overwhelmed by the friendliness and community, we walked out into the delightfully perfect coolness of the night. And we walked home, discussing yet again how incredible and welcoming the people here are. We are consistently blown away by this.

I wish my son and daughter could have experienced that night. But I also know that they’ll be back, that they’ve seen this kind of thing for themselves many times, and they will see it again. From what we can tell, the people of Mexico City can’t help but be this way. All we can do is try to repay them in kind.