Once upon a time in Mexico, I got locked out of our Air BNB. I was alone, in the middle of the night, and I swore there was someone watching me…

The night began…

standing in line at a small taqueria. One of the best, we were assured, by no less than Anthony Bourdin.

Calling it a taqueria is somewhat of a stretch. It was a hole-in-the-wall in the truest sense of the word. Two men worked there: A middle-aged man at the counter, taking orders on a small notepad before handing the jot to a man handling the food. Likely a generation older, this gentlemen stood less than an arm’s length behind him, chopping up bits of meat he fished out of a bubbling cauldron of animal parts.

We arrived a little too late, just being beaten by a group of at least 60 Americans, all vying for a taste of the Bourdin-approved Mexican street meat. The sidewalk served as a waiting area, littered with tiny colorful plastic chairs. Sitting in wait like little tykes, we got to chatting [with anyone who wasn’t part of the taco backlog].

There was an old man waiting with his son. They were Mexican-American, visiting Mexico City to join celebrations for the FIFA World Cup.

“Our father loves soccer,” the son told us just before his older brother arrived. Having sized up the wait time (and salivated over the smell), he went and got some beers. Quickly, we were welcomed as new friends and created a small little fiesta of our own.

It was a good way to quiet our growling appetites, a cocktail hour before the main event.

Our new fútbol friends gave us a few tips on what to try. Like a Mexican colleague I had working in a Brooklyn kitchen once suggested to me: try the tongue. This person I met on the sidewalk shared the same liking for the lengua. And during that trip, I learned I liked it, too.

Was it worth the wait? When you bond with strangers and try Mexican cuisine this rustic, this authentic: YES. Filled to the brim with tongue and cheek, we parted from our newfound friends. It was time to take their father home to have his ritual nightcap cappuccino.

Our night was only beginning.

The second act

It was 9 o’clock on a steaming July evening in Mexico City. The heat was exasperated by the city’s pulsating density. It was dark now, and we figured we could still enjoy being out so long as we kept it close to home. Our Air BnB was an apartment in an open-air building in the Mexico City neighborhood of La Condesa. We liked it there, felt safe and reassured by our host, who lived nearby. When we met, he spoke to me in Spanish, recommending things to do, places to go. He highlighted a restaurant near the Teotihuacán pyramids, a site we intended to visit.

“Esta debajo de los pirámides?“

“Si!” he affirmed. When we left, Rich wasn’t so sure I had understood him.

“That’s what he said…” But even I was doubting my own translation.

What I expected was a literal path below the pyramids, like you see in movies about Egypt.

What we got was an elaborate cavern, dotted with candlelight and breathing out Mexican fine dining. There were flatbreads with fried crickets and molé and cactus. Placards nodded to guests of honor, including the late Queen Elizabeth and Frida Kahlo.

I wasn’t sure my Spanish had picked it up properly, but La Gruta was real. Rich, somewhat impressed, said “you were right.”

Mexico was full of surprises.

***

Back on our bar crawl through Mexico City, we found a cute little haunt with a Puerto Rican bartender. Friendly, lively, and aghast that I myself wasn’t fluent in Spanish, the bartender was inviting, so we stayed. We were joined by a 7-foot man in a slim frame with a deep sun-kissed glow. He wore handed-knotted accessories and his long, pin-straight black hair below his shoulders. He told us he’s Mexican, but truly descended from the lost city of Atlantis.

“That’s why I’m so tall,” he explained, with the confidence of a physicist explaining inertia.

The Mexican culture is one so expressive, so spiritual, so intoxicating to be around. Like many cultures with deep ancestral roots, the modern Mexican is haunted by savagery. Conquistadors then, cartels now. At least, this is much of how Mexico is presented in political stages. But the Mexican culture is built on the backs of civilizations who built pyramids, who mapped the stars. As such, the art, tradition, and beauty that still thrives there is as potent as a chile peppers.

As the night capped with last call, we realized we were in trouble. We had overextended our daily cash budget of pesos. We were short on our bill.

“We have more, but we’ll have to go home and get them. One of us will stay.”

And so it was me, 5-foot-2 and shaky Spanish taking the walk through Mexico City to replenish our pesos. I was confident but, as my parents and New York always taught me, I was alert, my head on a swivel. When I got to the front gate, it groaned open and I was grateful. I ascended the first flight of stone steps, and then the other. Turning down my hallway, the dark night sky yawned its way across the ceiling-less foyer.

I had made it, safely back. With the key in my hand I plunged it into the door and

Nothing.

I looked around at the rest of the apartment, sleeping in the dark. Lights off. Except for one door. It was midnight now; not a completely unreasonable time to be up so late, but still something to note. My brain did, and I went back to the key and the door. I pulled the handle back, pushed it in, tried to rearrange the entire structure to ensure it was just right. This was the key. There was no other. Earlier that day, we had used it, confirmed it. Yet hard as I tried, it wasn’t working.

I turned again and saw the apartment upstairs with its light on. This time the curtain moved, like someone was behind it. Like they saw me, but didn’t want me to see them…

Internally I was frantic. This should not be this hard, I tried to reason, calming myself. I tried and tried, now with the added pressure of a strange pair of eyes on the back of my head.

The key went in. The key wouldn’t turn. It felt hopeless.

I turned, half expecting to be devoured by the dark. The eyes were watching me still. This time, from the inside of the door. But the eyes, they weren’t malicious, cunning, or scary. Like a cat’s, they were curious.

Dios mío, I thought, am I this desperate…

Alone, locked out, and peso-less, I turned toward the eyes and said:

Puedes ayudarme?

“My boyfriend is waiting for me.”

The man came downstairs from his apartment. I stumbled through a bit of Spanish before we found mutual ground.

“You’re American? I used to live in Boston,” he told me. So there, feeling more comfortable in my mother tongue, we discussed a little about my situation, making it very well known that there was a man waiting for me, I wasn’t alone. This strange man wasn’t a 7-foot tall Atlantian or an intimidating futbol fanatic. He helped me fiddle with the door and, when neither of us was successful, offered to walk me back to meet my boyfriend.

Rich, the Atlantian, and the Puerto Rican bartender waiting outside on a dimly lit street. A confused look rippled across them as I approached accompanied by a complete stranger.

Not only that, but I also had to explain it was mission: failure. I had returned with zero pesos and a problem. Rich and I swore up and down that we’d be back to pay up in the morning, apologizing profusely to the bartender for the ridiculous nature of events. Rich offered to leave his watch as collateral. I guess we gave out just as good vibes as they did. We all went our separate ways with the promise of morning money–except of course Rich, the eyes, and me, still with a job to do.

We got back and, without even the slightest hint of resistance, Rich opened the door to the apartment. He looked at both of us now, wondering what the issue was. We looked back just as confused. I thanked the Eyes for helping me, walking me, and bearing witness that this door did not respond to me.

As promised, we returned in the morning to the bar to pay the piper. All is well that ends well. Rich and I spent one last night in the Mexico City flat, sweating under color-transferring blue sheets and being devoured by mosquitos. The next morning, we were sad to go, having fallen under the spell of Mexico.

We had seen so much heritage, ate so much food, met so many people who touched our lives in lasting ways. I did my best to make sure they could see that.

I started to pen a letter in Spanish. I explained I’d switch to English to be sure it comes through clear. Before heading off the the airport, I slipped it in under the door of the Eyes. It was one last show of thanks, not for, well, literally nothing. He was no help at all opening the door. But the way he showed such kindness in the dark was an act that deserved some light.

***

If you take anything from this tale, please don’t take my advice–except for the recommendation of lengua tacos next time you get the chance. This is, like all adventure tales, the true story of a wild ride with many lucky moments and a little bit of faith in fellow humans along the way. Most of them, I’ve found, aren’t really out to get you. Some still have this undeniable urge to see things get better, to help someone who needs it. If you let it, the world will teach you, support you, surprise you.