Living in Mexico City

I have been planning this post for years. The first time Nydia and I visited Mexico City was in April 2011. It was not really the first time, because we had already visited the city as children, and Reino Aventura had made the greatest impression on both of us; however, those childhood visits with our respective families were distant and blurry. That visit in 2011 was our first to the city as adults and together. It should be noted here, solely for documentary accuracy, that I had visited the city several times previously for work; however, I had only visited the Santa Fe area—which technically belongs to the State of Mexico although it is part of the city’s metropolitan area—and had not had the opportunity truly to know this metropolis. The summary of that first visit was that we fell in love with the city. I remember our first night of the trip perfectly, in a room at the Fiesta Americana Grand in Anzures, one block from Reforma, with an impressive view of Chapultepec Castle; that was the first time we thought we might live here. It was only an idea, thrown out casually and without seriousness, but it was also the first time I remember feeling the desire to live in a city other than my native Guadalajara. That shapeless idea took seven years to become reality. There were more trips to the city, and each time we fell more deeply in love with it. On every visit we discovered new things and moved further away from the tourist experience, closer to the real Mexico City: a passing glimpse of everyday life, whether walking aimlessly through its streets or researching places frequented by chilangos and unknown to tourists.

With every visit, the idea of living there took more shape, like a “dream” rather than a project, in the way a couple might say, “When we retire, we want to live in such-and-such a place,” or “Someday we want to travel to such-and-such a place.” An illusion and a dream, but without a concrete plan. The story of how we came to live here has a little drama. In 2015 I experienced a terrible professional disappointment. I partnered with other people to found a company and, for roughly six months, poured all my energy, creativity, and intellect into one purpose: creating and launching that new company. I was very naïve. Despite early signs, I ignored the fact that my partners’ sole purpose was to make money rather than pursue interesting, consequential projects. In many respects, my vision and theirs diverged, from financial decisions to the work environment and the way they treated those whom I considered our collaborators but they considered our “employees.” What I had dreamed would be a company of highly valuable people, with an excellent working environment and opportunities for everyone to develop, dedicated to carrying out the country’s best projects of its kind, was gradually becoming a little maquiladora factory, a useful means only for making money—which bores me to death. Then the drama began. Without going into too much detail, what happened was that I sold my shares to my partners and left the company. As I am very proud, I find it difficult to admit that this outcome was a great disappointment to me. Not even the money I received for my shares—which most people might regard as enough to leave happy—made me feel good. I was left with the feeling that I had managed to create an interesting brand and gather a first-rate team, only to see others throw it all away. In short, the money I left with lasted me some months while I revived the creative studio Nydia and I have, which I had left almost abandoned, thinking about how to achieve through our studio some of what I had wanted to achieve with the new company. Months went by, and my lack of enthusiasm joined a spell in which I could not get projects. Thus began a year in which work was very scarce and I could not get projects I truly liked; I was working only for money, not for the pleasure of doing things. One afternoon in 2016, Nydia and I were sitting on a bench in a park, talking and wondering what to do. Our studio was in poor shape, work was scarce, and the projects were the opposite of what we wanted to do. We felt unmotivated and desperate for a change. Part of what we had concluded was affecting us was the local market: Guadalajara is a town that has not realised it can be a city. Analysing the many problems of Guadalajara’s market would be the subject of another post, but in short, we were not finding there the clients and projects we wanted. Nydia suggested moving somewhere else; she suggested that even by moving to a town we might find better clients than in Guadalajara, to which I replied something like, “Why would we move to a town? We might as well move to Mexico City.” That was the official beginning of a two-year period in which we planned our change of city.

I know two years seems like a long time to move cities, but there are many things to consider. Where will we live? How will we find an apartment and rent it? How will we get clients there? What will we take? How will we move it? How much money do we need? What if we regret it? In short, the first year of that period was only for getting used to the idea, and the second was for planning concretely. In the end, we began advertising in Mexico City in order to start attracting clients, even from a distance. In that way, we gradually stopped looking for clients in Guadalajara and focused on clients in the new city. We decided which furniture and other possessions we wanted to take and what to sell. We sold a great deal of furniture, donated a huge amount of clothing, and gave away a few other things. We decided to live in Airbnb apartments for a maximum of three months while we found an apartment. We chose what we would take to live for those three months, and left the rest of our things and furniture stored in relatives’ homes. Thus, with the car full of our belongings, we went to live for those three months in previously rented apartments in Roma Norte and Juárez, with two clear objectives: (1) find local clients and (2) find and rent an apartment. Today, exactly three months after arriving in the city, I have just woken up in the apartment we rented in Condesa. Things could not have gone better. During these three months we found clients, found an apartment in our favourite part of the city that meets every one of our requirements, brought our furniture and things from Guadalajara—about sixty items, counting boxes and furniture—and are already buying new furniture to replace what we sold before arriving. In these three months I have felt more motivated than in the previous three years. I love this city, I love living here, this market is generous, and our studio is finally taking the direction we want.

To love Mexico City, you have to understand it, and to understand it the only way is to live here. I thought I loved and understood it because of the many trips we had made, but now that it is where I live I am truly beginning to understand and love it more. This city is a monster that devours you; you decide whether to resist it or enjoy it. Having travelled as much of Mexico as I have, I have found nowhere with contrasts so stark—socially, culturally, climatically, economically, and architecturally. You can turn a corner and end up in a world entirely different from the one you were in seconds earlier. Walking down the same block, you may encounter a homeless person lost in solvent fumes, a rich man walking his dog, hear someone speak English, another person speak Náhuatl, others speak Korean, and others speak French, while trying to avoid the stinking puddles left by scavengers and admiring modern skyscrapers that cover the horizon. In the morning it can be cloudy and cold, then sunny and intensely hot, and end in a hailstorm, all before midday. You can wake to volcanoes on the horizon that an hour later will be covered by a thick brown cloud of smog. Everyone is in a hurry; everyone has something to do or somewhere to be. The streets flood with people of every size, colour, and shape that exists, almost all walking with purpose—the ones who are not are people taking a moment to contemplate the city, or homeless people conversing with their imaginary friends. The streets are full of bicycles, men in suits, foreign hippie women, delivery workers, bricklayers, women—everyone hurrying along on bicycles, dodging potholes and puddles, watching out for drivers who frantically take advantage of every metre of free space to advance. A sea of noises, with waves that strike you: car horns never cease, ambulances and police cars never stop, insults between drivers, cyclists, and pedestrians give no respite. Something is always happening. There is always violence, culture, music, art, accidents, romance, disaster, joy, and fear. The seismic alert speakers make the streets fill with people in seconds; there is the adrenaline of imminent danger, the joy that nothing happened, the jokes. There is the contrast between enormous buildings, enormous avenues, and enormous public spaces, and tiny shops, tiny restaurants, bars, and cafés, and tiny apartments because there is no more space. There is the parade of people travelling on the metro: faces tired from work, sweethearts kissing, street vendors offering every kind of trinket for only ten pesos. Streets flooded with food, stalls everywhere, carts selling in bulk, sweets and snacks as far as the eye can see. The incessant loudspeaker announcements in the streets, carts selling Oaxacan tamales, vans selling fruit, others buying old things…

Se compran,
colchones,
tambores,
refrigeradores,
estufas,
lavadoras,
microondas,
o algo de fierro viejo que venda

In the rest of the country, the provinces, as I can now say with a little laugh, people have an idea of Mexico City, a generalised fear of the conflicts and problems that accompany every great city: overpopulation, violence, traffic, pollution, and a high cost of living. Sadly, they do not know the city’s incredible cultural diversity, its peculiar gastronomy, which can be enjoyed from markets and street stalls to internationally recognised restaurants that appear on lists of the world’s best; its abundant cultural and artistic offerings, available in more than two hundred museums and galleries as well as festivals, theatres, cinemas, and concerts. They do not know its diverse architecture, which runs from colonial palaces through the French-influenced houses and buildings of the Porfiriato, to modernism and on to contemporary proposals that stand out internationally. They do not know all the cultural and historical baggage behind every building, monument, park, sculpture, and fountain. The city’s scars, marked by so many tragedies which, rather than disfigure it, give it more character: a city of people who struggle, move forward, and rise after falling.

Some people warned me that, however much I liked this city, the quality of life was very poor. I know only three months have passed, but I feel my quality of life has increased exponentially, and I am excited by the prospect of spending at least the next decade continually discovering new corners, new curiosities, uses and customs, languages, and labyrinths that can be found only in this city.