I was born in Chicago on a cold and misty January morning but wouldn’t stay there long enough to notice. Before I was even a week old, my parents flew me down to Mexico City to be raised alongside my older sister. Lucky for me, I wouldn’t have to bare coping with the Windy City’s long and treacherous winters. Instead, Mexico’s capital spoiled me with its almost year-round, spring-like weather, which suited me just fine. This wonderful climate gave my sister and me the opportunity to grow up enjoying the outdoors, something we did to the fullest. As children, we would ride our bikes around our street block with the neighborhood kids pretending we were riding motorcycles instead—“Vroom! Vroom!”—or we’d go exploring in empty fields with grass so tall that it seemed to reach the sky. We enjoyed early Sunday afternoons when our mother would take us to Chapultepec, Mexico’s largest city park and buy us balloons. My sister and I would discuss in detail and with utmost excitement what color balloon we each wanted to get. Once our minds were made up, our mother would reach into her brown, leather, change-purse and pay the balloon peddler. I remember vividly how I would mimic my sister and wrap the end of the balloon ribbon around my hand several times tight, for safe-keeping and then run after her as our balloons trailed along with us. We would do this until we could run no more, or until one or both of our balloons popped. Sometimes we would just let the balloons go and watch as they danced their way up into oblivion. Once the thrill of the balloons was over, our mother would take us to nearby food vendors so we could eat. Our already growling stomachs would growl even louder at the sight and smell of all the wonderful choices available. There were assorted tacos, made with beef, pork or chicken; quesadillas, which you could order stuffed with cheese, potato, mushrooms, or the ever exotic, squash blossom. There were also tortas, (typical Mexican sandwiches made with an oval-shaped bread-roll called bolillo), and of course my favorite, elote, or corn-on-the-cob, which I would get smothered with mayonnaise, covered with shredded white cheese and then sprinkled with a spicy pepper-like chili called Piquín. To help wash down the food, our mother would buy us Jarritos, a typical Mexican pop which comes in an assortment of flavors. My sister always got the lime flavored one and I the pineapple one. When our bellies were just about full, we made sure to stop so we would have enough room for ice-cream. Our mother would find us a shaded bench facing one of Chapultepec’s man-made lakes so we could sit and eat our dessert while enjoying the park’s wonderful surroundings. The light breeze, the lush trees, the birds singing, the children playing and watching the lovely boats float freely on the lake made our day at the park perfection. We could sit for hours and relax without a care in the world, fulfilled by the day’s wondrous events. When the time came for us to go, my sister and I would each hold one of our mother’s hands and the three of us would graciously promenade our way out of the park to head home.
