I lived in a town of only a couple thousand people, so everybody knew everybody. When someone got married, turned 15 years old, or had a new baby, whole town was invited to party. The colors, music, and sense of community are still vivid memories I won’t soon forget. My birthday party at Olive Garden with a few friends seems completely lame in comparison to even smallest party I went to in Mexico. The town also had their annual celebration to venerate their favorite Saint, revolutionary hero, or Pope – and food was always incredible.

Since I moved back to America I have only had one meal that was close enough to authentic Mexican food that I could close my eyes and imagine I was still there. (In case you are wondering, it was not at Taco Bell.) Every tour book and travel agent will tell you to avoid eating food from street vendors when you’re in Mexico because you will most likely get sick. I would trade a week of Montezuma’s revenge for one good Taco al Pastor any time; and what I wouldn’t give to have a quesadilla not made from cheddar cheese. Unfortunately, state health departments regulate restaurants too closely to allow for any really good Mexican food here in America, so I’ll have to bide my time until I can afford a plane ticket back.

Good soccer, good food, good music, and good times. I grew up American through and through, but spending a few years in Mexico made me think that had I been born south of border, I would have fit in just fine.