I walk into my old neighbours’ beautiful home in the suburbs of Melbourne, dotted with mid-century furniture and instaworthy curated nooks, spend 5 minutes trying to find the trash can (discreetly tucked under the sink in a separate enclave away from the sleek, tidy marble kitchen) and I’m overcome with nostalgia for Mexico.
Where the plumbing can’t handle toilet paper, where the electricity or the hot water cuts out and where the mosquitos feast on you. But also where the avocados are always perfect, your taxi driver offers you delicious cheese tarts and hamburgers made by his wife this morning as a side hustle, and you run so late getting home that it’s karaoke time.
I loved how easy Mexico was; everyone makes connections and everything resolves itself. In the short time I spent there I grew confident and knew where I stood, how to work things out, enough to get my driver to hold the bus for 2 minutes while I run to find a stranger who will post my postcard before the bus carries on, enough that even when the transport has stopped running for the evening you can somehow find a friend in town to take you back. Most places don’t or don’t want to take card but there’s always someone you can transfer funds to who’ll pay the bill, or better yet - you can use your card to buy them a bus ticket online and they give you cash.
I’m sure I’ll love Melbourne too, I just need to get out of this funk that feels almost like a break-up. And put more layers on.