I’ve been to Mexico City twice now and I love it.
I wish I could say the feeling was mutual.
Back in 2011 when I visited the city for a week to experience Day of the Dead, I got sick. Like, really sick. It started on the second day and, convinced that it was just my stomach adjusting to all of the michelada beers and some less-than-sanitary street food, I swallowed lots of pills and hoped for the best.
Unfortunately, I didn’t get better.
I spent the whole week feeling under the weather and miserable, unable to eat or drink some of the things I had been so looking forward to trying in the city. Let alone the fact that I hadn’t seen Scott for three months at this point and knew I wouldn’t see him again for another three months, when our round-the-world trip would start.
I put a brave face on the whole proceeding and tried to enjoy my time out in Mixquic and at the cemeteries as best I could.
Once I got home, I got even sicker.
The doctor warned me I could have some kind of bacterial infection and scared the living bejeesus out of me. Turned out it wasn’t as bad as all that and my system just really hadn’t been prepared for Mexico. After a few days bed rest and plenty of water, I was on the mend again.
When it came time to visit Mexico again this year, I was really apprehensive. I was scared about getting as sick as I had done last time.
I did everything I could to prepare my system for the street food and the fact I may consume some of the tap water inadvertently. And I hoped for the best.
A week went by in Tulum and nothing bad happened. I was fine.
Another week passed and I had a slight hiccup when I was served re-heated meat in a quesadilla, but apart from that, it seemed as though I had conquered Mexico once and for all. I figured that maybe my system had toughened up after over a year of travelling around Asia and Eastern Europe.
Then, several weeks later, I headed back to Mexico City, the scene of the original crime.