Take Every Rite of Passage

I wouldn’t call it a 30 year crisis, but the thoughts surrounding entry into my third decade of life did spur a fascination with solo travel. My thoughts were for the most part, pragmatic. I had a generous allowance of time off work, and my passport was soon to expire. I therefore needed a location which was favorable to the dollar, lax on visa requirements, and exceptionally cheap. Mexico would never have crossed my mind, save the rave reviews of a dear friend. As her stories and pictures began to capture my imagination, I realized that I had been an unconscious south of the border snob. Mexico? That’s where people leave. 

I jimmied up the courage to say, “why the hell not,” and booked a flight to Mexico City. I doubt I realized the gravity of it all in the moment, for I was choosing to experience a foreign country where I was completely devoid of connections, and with little to no command of the native language. 

And to top it off, doing it all as a single woman.

Considering that my largest shock and hurdle was the lack of English being spoken, the trip was in general, a pleasant one. I stayed with a stylish, kind couple in an area largely less bougie than the highly blogged Condessa and Roma areas, but which lended itself to a more genuine exposure of the life of a middle to upper class Mexican.

Ubers were shockingly affordable; like an average of $4 per ride affordable. Tacos, $1; Champagne, $6; coffee, mere cents. Yes, these were delightful respites to my pocketbook, but at what cost to the people who call this city home; who live and work and survive on an average of $4 per day. That's right, a $4 per day minimum wage. 

This catapulted my mind into thinking about immigration; about the fact that people do not leave their homes for no reason. It has to be with great hesitation, fear, and hope that they risk everything at only the mere possibility of a better life.

Is there anything that can be done so that people can stay in the homes they love, and have the opportunity to wield their own creativity and ingenuity within the borders of their own homeland? It broke my heart to think that so many people would have to, through no fault of their own, leave such a beautiful, enchanting country to make just a few dollars more. And that just a few dollars more could make such a difference. I couldn’t shake the naggingness of the injustice.

I became increasingly aware of how much white priviledge I had/have, and was currently exercising in a foreign place. It remained in the back of my mind throughout the trip, and became the filter through which I experienced everything else. I saw the smiles, but I also saw the glares. I saw the impeccable manicured lawns of the 1%, and I also saw the ruddy faced peddlers on the potholed streets. 

Within the archetype of my own privilege, I was experiencing two paradigms of life; a vantage point and freshness of eyes that could see two polarized worlds within one, grand tapestry. A city and country birthed out of violence, war, and oppression. I was quieted as I walked through the grand halls of Chapultapec Castle, now Mexico’s National History Museum. I can scare say that I remember seeing so much pain depicted in the course of hundreds of lifetimes. Pain, juxtaposed with color, vibrancy, and life. Mexico City is truly a city of palatial opposites. 

But at no point could I afford to appear timid, apologetic, or shy. I cannot express strongly enough how much this necessity is magnified as a solo woman traveler. Quite truthfully, to my surprise, I met expats nearly every day; some making me miss companionship, and others reminding me how glad I was to be alone. 

But as a woman on her own, it is doubly true, and doubly necessary to be on guard, and maintain a composure of certainty and sureness, because there is no companion to pick up any slack in your ambivalence. It is both empowering and exhausting. You gain a taste for the level of unfamiliarity that you can withstand, navigate, and ultimately enjoy, against what feels like very unlikely odds at the start. So often I found myself saying, “well, I just have to figure it out; suck it up.”

It never ceases to amaze me at how tremendously versatile humans are when they are open to the shit, the challenge and the learning.

I am a woman who is fragile, and strong. A woman who is timid, and adventurous. A woman who can brave the unfamiliar and thrive. A woman who has been reminded that she can be scared, but always has the choice of whether she is intimidated.

But interestingly, the very reason I even need to write these reassurances, reveals that traveling alone as a woman is not easy.

It’s actually fucking hard. But it is worthwhile, authentic, and telling; experience that will disclose a great deal of internal truth. 

It was a hell of a way to enter my thirties. But a rite of passage that I will undoubtedly cherish for many years to come.