Being an expat in Mexico City

“So, where are you from?”

It’s always the second question out of their mouth. Because I’m not just a mezcal rep at the largest bar show in Latin America. I’m a white girl with purple hair and an American accent.

I can explain the differences between agaves cupreata and tepezate in Spanish... but I can’t correctly pronounce the state they’re from (Guerrero), despite my best efforts. So, I get it!

And instead of talking about the mezcal, we have a whole side convo about where I’m from, how long I’ve lived here, and what I like most about Mexico.

I have this conversation almost every day. Sometimes it’s once, and sometimes, when I stand out more than usual, it’s a dozen times.

You’d think I’d have developed stock answers by now. And I do in some ways, but in others it’s more complicated.

For example:

• “The US” is never enough. “Yeah, obviously,” their face always seems to say.
• “Chicago” is kind of a lie. I lived there for ten years... almost ten years ago.
• “Nashville” is complicated even though it’s where I was born, and Mexicans don’t always know it.
• “Florida” isn’t true at all, even though that’s what’s on my tax return.

So, “Chicago, but I live here now” is what I usually settle on.

“Oh, you live here! For how long?” (It was pre-COVID, so that’s a whole other convo.)

And then, inevitably, “Why Mexico? What do you like about it?”

I didn’t move here for work or love, and that’s always hard for Mexicans to wrap their brains around.

More than once, I’ve gotten, “What, do you like tacos that much?”

“Everything okay down there? I saw the protests and just wanted to check in!”

The first time I got this text a few weeks ago, I had to Google it. The first protest had only happened the day before, and I was heads down on getting the podcast out.

Even now, a dozen check-ins later, I don’t have any friends who’ve run into problems. Nothing about my day-to-day life or how locals treat me has changed.

The only times it’s come up were a few instances of Mexicans going out of their way to assure me that they didn’t consider me a problem.

These were recurring characters in my life, but not friends per se—a barista at a cafe I frequent, the family I've bought fish from for years. People I think of fondly, but also not ones I expected to bring up gentrification in casual conversation.

It threw me off a little each time.

Partially because abrupt topic changes in Spanish are still not my forte… but also because these were people I do feel accepted by, reminding me that’s not a given.

That, once the government stamps your passport and says, “come on in,” they don’t give you a checklist of what you should and shouldn’t do to avoid being that foreigner in a country with a weaker currency than the place you came from.

Which means I’m literally always worried about my impact on Mexico.

When I first rented my apartment in Condesa. When I got my mezcal sommelier certification. Every time I think about “stealing” a Mexican job. When I’m overcharged for something and ask myself… is this a “gringo tax” I should happily pay? Or an up-charge I should push back on because it’s driving up prices for everyone?

These are not things I’d worry about if I moved to Toronto, or London, or even Tokyo.

And so it’s an anxiety I’m generally happy to carry because I know being able to immigrate to the country I love with minimal red tape and expense is a very privileged position.

But I also frequently wonder if I’m willing to do that forever.

I recently celebrated six years in Mexico. I’m a Permanent Resident with permission to live and work here indefinitely. I’ve taken two Spanish intensives, 568 individual lessons, and yes, I wish I were fluent, too!

But anything the government has asked me to do, I’ve done, and then some.

I’ve exhausted the list of things to do, and I almost wish I hadn’t. Because it would feel a lot better if there was a light at the end of the tunnel, you know?

One more Spanish intensive to make me fluent. A few more checkboxes to check before I can brush my hands off, throw the list away, and live the rest of my life assured that I did it! I assimilated! Whatever that means.

But that’s not how immigration works. Especially when you can’t point to a partner or a child or a fancy job as a tangible reason to live somewhere.

“Why don’t you live in Miami?”

I left the US for the first time ten years ago, gave up my last apartment in 2018, and have spent increasingly less time there ever since.

The only things I miss are specific people and the level of convenience.

Going back is like spending the weekend at your childhood home—there’s something nice and easy about it, but it’s only enjoyable for a few days. You’d never want to move back in.

And yet, I do often daydream about online shopping without import taxes, watching TV without fighting a VPN, and buying shoes without having to ask, “Which ones do you actually have in a size 10?”

I’d love to live in a place where I can run errands without mentally reviewing the vocab I’ll need to frame a picture or buy allergy meds.

More than anything, I’d love to feel entitled to live in the place I love.

But the only way I get that is by finding another place to live, and that’s the one thing I’m not willing to do.

“This is where my bones need to earn their resting place.”

I have a postcard with this quote on my wall. A friend in college made it for a class project, and I remember being struck by how strong the sentiment was.

I was living in Chicago at the time, and I loved the city fiercely but didn’t feel that way about it.

Now, thirteen years and thirty-five countries later, that is how I feel about Mexico.

Because of the tacos, obviously. 🙄

And for many real reasons, and also just ~ feelings ~ that I can’t adequately put into words without doubling the length of this newsletter.

And yet, some days, when I get rejected for another job because of my location or language skills, or I can’t quite find the words to feel understood… It’s tempting to think, “Maybe this isn’t worth it.” But it never goes much further than that because I can’t seriously imagine leaving Mexico for more than a few months.

Maybe Future Caro will change her mind one day. Maybe there will be a good reason to go back to Chicago for a bit, or spend a year or two in London or Japan.

This is why you’ll never hear me say, “I’m going to live here forever.”

Instead, when people ask about my long-term plans, I often say, “I don’t know, but I’m going to die in Mexico.” Because, as dramatic as it sounds, I can’t imagine otherwise.

And if that means answering, “So, where are you from?” on my deathbed, then so be it.

Hopefully, I’ll be able to pronounce Guerrero by then.

About those protests tho

TL;DR - I’m in favor! The tourist visas here are set up in a way that’s begging people not to get residency, and way too much of the housing market is locked up in Airbnbs, among other things.

Journalists make a big deal about “digital nomads,” but anecdotally, I don’t see nearly as many as I used to. In the last year, prices have gotten high enough that most nomads I know have opted for places where their dollar/euro stretches further, and tourists coming for 5-7 days have replaced them.

Which is a very different set of problems to solve for. (It’s one thing to tell expats to learn Spanish, it’s another to tell a tourist to do so.)

But I don’t pretend to be an expert, so here are some other POVs:

• One local’s perspective
• One foreigner’s perspective
• The city’s response

I’ve also recently had conversations with friends living in Chicago, Berlin, and Tokyo about different shades of the same things. So, this is not just a CDMX issue. Any big city that’s not dying is going to face the same problems, if they’re not already.

Which is… great fun to think about. 🙃

Up next: a shift back to more lighthearted topics. AKA a new episode of the pod featuring two Mexican beverage brands I love.

Any guesses on the spirit? 👀

xo,
Caro