Dream wedding

On Friday I woke up on a couch in Miami as a Boston terrier named Twiggy licked my face. I heard voices speaking Swiss German in the kitchen, giggling over the sound of techno music and frying eggs. For a second, I experienced a complete reversal of my first few mornings in Mexico, this time waking up and freaking out about not being there.

Slowly I got my thoughts together. I spotted my yellow high heels heaped in the corner and suddenly [kinda] remembered the bachelorette party. Oh my god, I was home in the USA! Felt like a dream.

and my brother was there...

And it KEPT feeling that way. My visit was weird, a surprisingly smooth mixture of familiar and foreign. In many ways it felt too good to be true, and it was over in a flash.

If your dreams are like mine, they bring together people from totally separate spheres of your life. This wedding was no different. I was riding down sunny highways with my brother, long-lost cousin, and two college roommates who know me well, but hardly know each other. I decided that the only logical missing character in this dream was my mariachi teacher. 

So when mariachis surprised us at the wedding reception, blowing into their trumpets from the balcony of the bride's childhood home, I froze. Where was I? Even more bizarre, we guests (Swiss cousins included) enjoyed the serenade from below the balcony, not on it. The mariachis were up there in our place, their sombreros silhouetted by the moon. A total switcheroo. Typical dream stuff.

After rolling off the couch with Twiggy that morning, I had chatted with my hosts and then sat out on their front steps while they got ready for their wedding duties. Unshowered and still dressed my club clothes, I was a greasy speck in middle of a pastel-painted and sun-saturated suburb. 

I took a walk under a line of palm trees towards the Intercoastal. The sidewalk was so smooth and blemish-free that I walked around the block barefoot. I thought about Mexico City's sidewalks, which are considered fabulous for simply existing. They look as though they've been through a series of earthquakes—which, come to think of it, they have.

Prior to this trip, I had been nervous that I would love Florida too much. I was afraid it would somehow awaken the spoiled American in me and make me dread getting back on a plane to Mexico. But it turns out I had underestimated both countries and myself. So instead of awakenings, I just enjoyed a quick recharge of my batteries in the English-speaking, blue Florida sun.

That was the dream, and my 7:05 Sunday flight back to Benito Juárez International Airport was reality. At the gate, I made a last-minute round of calls from my American cell phone before turning it off for another six weeks. I kinda felt sad about not feeling sad about what a big deal it wasn't.

I boarded my plane and opened a copy of Archaeología Mexicana, a wildly popular bimonthly magazine that reports on the latest archeological finds and Mexico's cultural curiosities. It sells alongside Spanish-language Playboy and Cosmopolitan at most Mexico City newsstands.  The latest issue happens to be about where Mexican music comes from.

I hunkered down and forced myself to read in Spanish, circling words I didn't recognize, planning to look them up when I got home. I needed to warm up, I told myself, if I was to avoid being a clumsy mumbler when I went through immigration. When I eventually landed and reached the officer's desk, though, I was happy to discover that I slipped back into neighborly conversation with ease. I knew where I was and felt wide awake.