Every summer, when I was a child, my family and I used to pack our things, jump into our truck and travel wherever the tires and gas allowed us. The rode mostly led to the same cities and beaches; sometimes we would take another rode and visited old towns with old people and old streets.
When we are gifted with those hot and sweaty weeks I get reminisce of one particular town that we once visited and I allow my memories dwell and remember every bit of it. I remember the old stone streets, the arcs surrounding an old park full with big dark green trees that covered each of her sons from the racing rain, I remember tasting a cappuccino for the first time ever and wearing an adult size jean jacket because the wind was so icy. I let myself get a long enough sigh and try to remember that perfect holiday.
But then, I was 13 years old when I had my first summer holiday outside Mexico, this time the roads led to a Big Apple and for the first time in my life I saw another world that I wasn’t used to. This time the old people with bronze skin was replaced with tall man with sun kissed hair, the green valley with little houses were replaced by giant buildings and endless streets and my pretty language with one that I listened all my life in school but never cared enough to learn it. I was overwhelmed with a new feeling and that feeling has continued in me 7 years later.
People call it wanderlust, an English term used to describe a strong desire to travel and explore the world. I feel cursed with wanderlust, my heart desires and my mind suffers from it. Every bit that makes me who I am is a consequence from wanderlust and I want to consume that desire. I split that feeling in two parts, one is called Mexico and it is marked as problematic and the second is The Rest of the World and is the futuristic one.
Problematic, violent, sacred, an anomie, magical, colorful, corrupted, unequal yet warmth and full with hope. That is the Mexico we live in, the...