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We take the elevator down to the lobby, and as we’re leaving, we see a group of gringas laughing hysterically, glittering in mini dresses and heels.
I recognize a couple of them from the engagement party—these must be the other bridesmaids.
“Girls, let’s go get margaritas!” one of them says and the rest squeal.
Eloise shrinks to my side and stares at the floor, hoping not to be recognized.
“Do you know them?” I ask.
“Rachel’s influencer friends,” she mumbles. Once we’re past them and outside, she breathes a sigh of relief. “I could definitely go for a margarita though.”
“We are not getting margaritas,” I say.
She pouts. “Why not?”
“They’re not Mexican.”
She crooks an eyebrow at me. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, no one knows the exact origin,” I admit. “But they are very much a US thing. Not a Mexican thing. Except for gringas like you.” I grin at her. “We have prepared all summer for this moment, and now, we are here. It is time to explore the places you have learned about! And time to eat. And drink a real Mexican drink.”
“What’s a real Mexican drink?”
“Mezcal.” I sweep out a hand at the enormous avenue in front of us. “This is Paseo de la Reforma. Do you remember it?”
Eloise brightens. “Oh, this is where the jacarandas are!”
“Exacto,” I say. “Unfortunately, they aren’t blooming in October but look. They are planting the cempasúchiles, for Día de Muertos.”
I point to where the brilliant blooms of yellow-orange flowers are filling the median that runs in the center of the huge street.
“You’ll see this flower everywhere, on homes and in restaurants, and vendors selling them for the ofrendas in people’s houses.”
“Right. Like in Coco.”
I sigh. “Yes, yes, like in Coco. Listo! How would you like to go to one of my favorite taquerias in all of CDMX?”
Her eyes light up. Food can always be counted on to help with her nerves, I think.
“Yes,” she says emphatically. “But I don’t want to do any talking, or ordering, or … or anything.”
I smile and offer her my hand. “Of course not.”
She takes it and we head off down Reforma. “This area is very loud and touristy, but we are going to go just over that way, where Roma Norte starts. Remember Colonia Roma? It’s an area with lots of restaurants and bars. There has been a lot of controversy recently, because many ex-pats from the US are coming and renting apartments here, which drives out the locals. And they don’t pay taxes in Mexico, so it’s a very good deal for them, but a very bad deal for the city.”
“That sounds really unfair,” Eloise says.
“Yup.” Once we cross over Avenida Chapultepec, the streets become smaller and quieter. Mexico City is a place of contrast—there are elegant buildings with Art Deco doors and windows next to squat, plain apartments made of drab concrete. There are buildings painted in pale yellow or cheerful pink, with colorful tiles proclaiming their street and address, alongside 7/11s and edifices covered in graffiti. And of course, hanging above every street are strands and strands of cables, forming dense knots and tangling up with each other as they connect the city’s electricity and internet.
Eloise is definitely nervous at first, gripping my hand tightly, but once we enter the heart of Colonia Roma, I sense her relax a bit. We pass tiny, glass-fronted bookstores, cafés with tables spilling out onto the sidewalks, bars with graffitied doors that won’t open until much later. There are clothing stores and jewelry stores and vendors under white or pink umbrellas on streetcorners, grilling meat for tacos with tubs of toppings laid out, onion and tomato and lettuce, salsas in all colors and spice levels, shredded piles of cheese, and bowls filled with crema. It makes my mouth water just passing them, and Eloise sniffs the air hopefully.
“No,” I say with a chuckle. “Your stomach is not ready for street food.”
When we pass a little jewelry store, lit from within by a warm golden light, Eloise stops short.
“Look!” she says, pointing. A pair of earrings shaped like two chihuahuas hangs on a stand in the window.
“Do you want to go inside?” I ask.
