About a month ago my flight touched down on Mexican asphalt, thus beginning a twenty-three-day flight of my own.
(My official video camera was in my luggage. Any videotaping would be done on iPhone.)
Opening the door to my temporary home on the road was a major moment. For me, the magic had already taken hold, before I even opened the door to this Condesa neighborhood Airbnb in Mexico City. I refer to the posting of my name “Ben” on the door to my room, following a challenging three-story climb up the narrow iron “fire escape” styled stairs, carrying a heavy blue suitcase (more about that in a minute) and two smaller bags. As you watch the video, keep in mind Mexico City sits more than a mile high, 7,349 feet above sea level. Plus, for me, at the moment I took this video, another 400 feet. Notice the heavy breathing?
Yeah, seeing my name was so welcoming. MY place!
Here was my HQ for the first 3 days of my time in country. I had a kitchen, had all my meals prepped there (by me); enjoyed a tiny balcony, and an ensuite shower and toilet. In Condesa, a neighborhood of high repute! A mini supermarket was a couple blocks away. Little shops, cafes and restaurants abounded. Tree-canopied streets everywhere. An old American car in a driveway behind bars. (What was the offense?)
I had chosen to take a red-eye to Mexico City. It was scheduled to depart from O’hare Terminal 5 at 1:05am. We didn’t push back until after 2.
I took a similar flight last year. It was the best price and it was nonstop. And the fact that it arrived so early in a notoriously chaotic airport ended up being to my advantage. The place was empty. I shot through passport control and customs with ease.
I expected the same this time around. And even with the hour delay in getting started, it was still relatively easy getting my luggage, passing through the official red tape and out to the curb to catch my Uber. I was tickled.
About 3 minutes into the ride to town, traffic already building, my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number calling, a Chicago area number. How odd. I tapped the phone and a Spanish-speaking male voice started rattling off sounds I did not understand. I was able to ask (en Espagnol) if he could speak in English, por favor. He said, “Oh sure! No problem! Listen. You have my bag, my suitcase. And I have yours. Exact same bags.”
Remember when I talked about The Magic taking hold? Check this out. My Uber driver seemed nothing but delighted at the craziness of the situation. We actually laughed about what was happening. Even if it meant he had to turn around and come back to the terminal to effect the successful exchange of bags. Rather than be annoyed, or downright pissed off, he was the picture of happiness. He loved doing his impression (in his limited English, mind you) of what I sounded like as I listened to the guy on the other end of the phone tell me what had happened.
“Really?? … Oh No….Oh noooooo.”
I was, and still am, SO grateful for his response to this mishap. Grateful too that I recognized the wonder in it, the Good. My trip to Mexico was being blessed, clearly. Even amidst possible calamity. Thank God for Juan Luis, my Uber driver.
Oh, and how could I have possibly taken the wrong bag to begin with?
All I know is Hector was very pleased to get his bag back. “You almost got all my whiskey!” said he. I don’t know. Life is pretty intoxicating in its own right.
Arriving at Mexico City Airbnb