Long ago, I visited Guadalajara, Jalisco, in Mexico. I was excited when I put my foot out of the plane. The city from the airport looked like most Mexico cities, but I can’t tell you how it changed when I arrived at my hotel in the downtown area. There are a few things I hadn’t seen before, but there are so many details I’ve forgotten due time; it happened five or six years ago, so do not blame me.
I walked down its streets, enjoying the light breeze while I walked past the museums and college campuses. There was a concert close to a park, a couple of blocks from a place with a name that would make you lose your head if you know what I mean.
It was an enjoyable mix of different genres and bands. I stood in front of the scenario for more than two hours. Then I returned to my hotel, and for some reason, I felt like a lot was missing; you know, the sensation you feel when you forget something, and you need to go back and look further.
The only difference is the fact that it was darker. People were leaving downtown and a few night owls came to enjoy night bars where they play the music I hate most. The majority of places in this country play that genre, and I tend to avoid them. That time, though, I felt like it would be better to enjoy all moments, good and bad, to have a better grasp of what a tourist would like to know when visiting a city this big. I did not enjoy any of it, but the experience I lived is now part of me.
The irony came a few days back when I tried to remember every single second of my trip, but I ended up thinking about those bars instead. I didn’t dance, my nose was burning for the smoke, and the smell of pee blended with the place. Ask me about the churches, the museums, and the concert; I barely remember a damn thing. The city I loved most, my head tricked my memories into the parts I disliked.