It is my last night in Guadalajara, Mexico, 15 minutes to midnight.
I type this sobering up, with a mild headache after a tequila tour in the town of Tequila. I sit at the kitchen table by the balcony waiting for the wind to pick up and the rains to come, as they have done almost every night since I arrived 10 days ago. It is the rainy season, so it's typically sunny all day, with stormy nights.
Last night I went out with two American expats living here, Tran and Jess. We went to Pare De Sufrir, ("stop the suffering") a mezcalarita and danced late into the evening. Tomorrow I fly to LA, then wait several hours, then fly 15 hours to Sydney. Then the train to Newcastle.
This is the second time this year I have travelled with my family to Mexico. My brother speaks fluent Spanish, enabling us to navigate the country better than most gringos. My Spanish gets us by, but I could do much better. I want to learn everything. I love it here.
Last Saturday night I went out with my brother's friends. Rodrigo and his girlfriend Ale picked us up and we started driving. I thought maybe a fancy bar in Guadalajara, but no, we are heading into the country. Rodrigo is in his mid 20s and a viral Tik Toker in Guadalajara (his most popular videos have 15 million views). We talked and drove for over an hour, getting further and further away from the city and into tequila country. We eventually pulled up to what would perhaps be best described as a high-class farm party in the agave fields.
The drinks were beautiful, steaming with dry ice. We had to dance all night because a table was $400. Stunning, sexy women shook their hips in front of the DJs, setting a vibe. I got my face painted, I climbed on structures no doubt created for social media. A guy played an electric flute on top of the very expensive table. Massive fireworks went off at the end of night.
"It's like Tulum," Rodrigo tells me. "We call it Tuluminati."
That was the grainy glitz. That is the wild side of Mexico, crazy beautiful people gathered in the middle of nowhere. But the second-most populated city in the country, nestled among the mountains, is also tech-savvy and sophisticated.
My mother and I walked to Museo Cabanas where I learned about Jalisco artist Jose Clemente Orozco, who painted 57 murals along the grandeur walls and ceilings of what was once a children's orphanage. I got Sistine Chapel vibes, only I liked it more because his art is more sinister.
A guide explained he helped launch the Mexican Mural movement. In many of his paintings you can see references to the Indigenous and the Spanish and their conflict, their conquest. It was the 1930s and Orozco wanted to paint the realities, not just what the Spanish wanted to portray.
There is art and there is nature. Halfway through the trip we went to the Lago de Chapala where, my father learnt, many Americans live. The little community of Ajijic has much less chaos. It's a small pueblo. We stay in luxury accommodation, always less than $US75 per person per night. My family and I strolled along the lake and cobblestone streets, gazing at mountains, the colourful walls and the glorious flowers. In Mexico you never know what's behind a wall: it could be a mansion, a garden, a trash dump.
Every time I come I get more comfortable and fall more in love. On a tequila tour today I met three Mexicans living in Austin, Texas.
"My best friend lives there," I tell them excitedly. They know the organisation she works for. I tell them the places in Mexico I've visited, mostly near Cancun. "Ah", Hugo says, "that's fake Mexico."
"What is real Mexico?" I ask. "More sad," he replies.
Unquestionable sadness and poverty are here as well. I love the chaos, the wild tequila party, the women who drink alcohol unabashedly as they cross the street. That people casually ride around in the backs of big utes.
But the sadness is hard. You have to look away sometimes. Small children beg for money, walking in between cars on the streets of Avenue Chapultepec. The American expats have lived here for years, but they choose not to walk home alone at night.
The infrastructure is failing, from irrigation in Ajijic to massive holes (huecos) in the sidewalk that seem to come with every street. But still I love the joy and the movement. Today at the tequila tour I danced with men in the streets to mariachi, feeling elegant and proper as they lead me to the sounds of the blaring trumpets.
Last night the American women and I laughed about the unmistakable desire to grind to get low that comes from a US upbringing; you can always spot us on the dance floor. They tell me about the Mexican men, and I tell them about Australian men.
Tran is 43 and flawless. I loved her energy. She told me she was working in Thailand until she was 36, then she decided to move to Mexico as it was closer to home (also Texas). She spent the first six months learning Spanish, then she got a job and hasn't left since. I'm 35 and flooded with joy merely entertaining the idea that you can dramatically change your life at any time.
Tonight at my laptop, I think about my last 10 years walking around in the immaculate footpaths of Newcastle, often alone at night. I think about the children begging in the streets of Guadalajara, the young influencers, the agave farmers, the retired Americans down the road. I think about the beauty of choice, for those who have it.
Everyone has a right to decide how they want to live in this beautiful, sad, dangerous, intoxicating life.
