I’ve been to Mexico City twice now and I love it.
I wish I could say the feeling was mutual.
Back in 2011 when I visited the city for a week to experience Day of the Dead, I got sick. Like, really sick. It started on the second day and, convinced that it was just my stomach adjusting to all of the michelada beers and some less-than-sanitary street food, I swallowed lots of pills and hoped for the best.
Unfortunately, I didn’t get better.
I spent the whole week feeling under the weather and miserable, unable to eat or drink some of the things I had been so looking forward to trying in the city. Let alone the fact that I hadn’t seen Scott for three months at this point and knew I wouldn’t see him again for another three months, when our round-the-world trip would start.
I put a brave face on the whole proceeding and tried to enjoy my time out in Mixquic and at the cemeteries as best I could.
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Once I got home, I got even sicker.
The doctor warned me I could have some kind of bacterial infection and scared the living bejeesus out of me. Turned out it wasn’t as bad as all that and my system just really hadn’t been prepared for Mexico. After a few days bed rest and plenty of water, I was on the mend again.
When it came time to visit Mexico again this year, I was really apprehensive. I was scared about getting as sick as I had done last time.
I did everything I could to prepare my system for the street food and the fact I may consume some of the tap water inadvertently. And I hoped for the best.
A week went by in Tulum and nothing bad happened. I was fine.
Another week passed and I had a slight hiccup when I was served re-heated meat in a quesadilla, but apart from that, it seemed as though I had conquered Mexico once and for all. I figured that maybe my system had toughened up after over a year of travelling around Asia and Eastern Europe.
Then, several weeks later, I headed back to Mexico City, the scene of the original crime.
Feeling confident that I was now impervious to any kind of sickness, I ate and drank with abandon.
You can guess what happened.
Mexico City kicked me in the butt. Again.
Not quite as bad as last time, I’ll admit. This time I was more affected by slight altitude sickness and the constant feeling that I was getting a cold. I just didn’t feel 100%.
I tried to think whether it was something I could have eaten or something I could have done differently. Maybe I was just run-down. Maybe it was the weird-looking pulque we drunk in a dark hipster joint. I tried to use every excuse I could think of rather than blame Mexico City, a city which for some reason always excites and intrigues me, despite its bad reputation as being grimy and dirty.
But you know what? I just honestly think that my affection isn’t reciprocated.
I got this distinct impression because as soon as I left the city for the beach, I immediately began to feel better again.
I no longer felt like I always had a sore throat, that I was dizzy or had stomach ache. The saddening realisation began to creep over me that perhaps I’ll never be able to visit Mexico City without feeling terrible.
As sad as it makes me feel, I’m still not prepared to be completely defeated. One of these days I will re-visit the city again and feel convinced that I’ll be ok.
Or maybe, just maybe, I don’t belong in big, smoggy, hot cities. (Sorry Beijing, looks like you’re out as well). Maybe this is just Mexico City’s way of telling me that I’m not ready for the big leagues; just a girl from a small town in England.
Maybe.
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