CDMX, 8:15 am

A trip report from someone who has not yet gone to bed

It’s been about three weeks since my last post. Transparently, I’ve been in the thick of it. Personal loss, tears, late nights, family time and, not to sound like Kylie Jenner, but…a lot of realizations. I wrote a very long post about all of it that I haven’t published yet. Maybe I will soon. But right now I’m in CDMX, and I’d rather tell you about that and get back into the groove of posting.

It’s early morning on Sunday, March 8th, International Women’s Day, and I’m nestled in the center of a bed between two of my favorite girls. Ezgi can sleep standing up, but she’s not feeling well. Joelle is sneezing every two minutes. They both need tissues, tea, and distance from each other, so I’ve been relegated to the middle, which is fine. I feel like I don’t really sleep much anymore anyway.

I should tell you: I’m not an early bird this morning. I’m a person who hasn’t gone to bed yet.

For context, I’m technically on an extended work trip in CDMX, and the original plan was for my boyfriend to join me. But then I became single at the beginning of this year, which you might be able to tell from the “rock n roll” energy in my recent posts, or from the fact that I just referred to him as “my boyfriend” and then immediately corrected nothing. It’s a strange thing to be a single adult for the first time. This last relationship started the month I graduated from college, so I haven’t really figured out what I want when the wanting is just mine.

But as it turns out, I just wanted a girls’ trip.

Ezgi had PTO to burn. Joelle recently became single, too, with her birthday falling perfectly over these dates. The first couple of days in CDMX were surprisingly chilly. Like technically warm (25ºC, UV 11), but the high altitude (2200 meters above sea level) gives the city a constant, light mountain-town breeze.

Yesterday started with a solo walk from my hotel in Condesa to Soho House, which has the largest art collection of any of the houses and only four bedrooms (twenty-seven more rooms are being added next door, which I mention only because the manager told me, and it felt important). It might be the most beautiful House I’ve been to, tied neck-and-neck with Istanbul.

When Joelle and Ezgi arrived an hour or so later, we posted up by the pool immediately. A couple of margs deep, tan lines incoming, a rotating cascade of men in linen shirts and printed swim trunks kept circling our table asking for WhatsApp numbers, Instagram handles, and evening plans. We ate aguachile and a lot of chips and let them orbit.

We walked and shopped until the UV dropped — Xinu, Casa Ananda Vintage, Maison Celeste, Montserrat Messeguer, Lengua, Vera Colectivo. We stopped at Entremar for mussels, then I ran to put our names down for the last seating at Expendio de Maíz. We’d eaten there the night before and liked it so much we wanted to come back. We went home to get ready, all of us landing on mini skirts, cute going-out tops, and comfortable shoes. We knew we wanted to have a night.

At Expendio de Maíz, there’s no menu, no orders; the chefs decide and it just rolls out (Ezgi called it a taco omakase, so cute tbh). Each dish arrives with a story presented by one of the waiters: marinated pastor tacos prepared the way rural families in Mexico preserve pork or chicken so it lasts; chicken over beans and rice to give you a sense of what taqueria staff eat between shifts. No modern twists, no elevation per se, just the dish as it’s supposed to be, served with the context it deserves. The intimacy of being fed that way at a communal table, with what you’re eating and why explained, is something I keep turning over. We drank hibiscus mezcalitas, deep fuchsia with chamoy on the rim, and left full of ourselves, literally and otherwise.

After dinner, we went to San Luis, a salsa spot about 10 minutes away that my friend Sarah recommended. You pay a cover, get a table, and sit around a dance floor with a live band working through classics. Between songs, everyone returns to their seats and waits to hear the next one, deciding whether it’s worth getting back up. (The answer is always yes, but the ritual of deliberating is half of it.)

My favorite Rio girl, Joelle, taught me the footwork, dips, and turns. My eyes were on my feet most of the night, careful not to step on her toes. Eventually, two fifteen-year-olds came over to show us how it’s done. We giggled the whole way through like we were the teenagers being asked to dance for the first time.

The last song was Bad Bunny’s “Baile Inolvidable,” and the whole room lit up. Somewhere in there, I stopped counting steps and tried to sing along to a song I know so well, even though I don’t speak Spanish.

After dancing, we went to a bar called FoMa Bar that wasn’t my favorite, but our bartender kept us entertained, and when you’re with the right people, the venue barely registers. Then we set our sights on M.N. Roy.

I’d gotten the recommendation from a little birdie and then randomly stumbled upon it in Apple Music’s Nightlife guide for CDMX, which is surprisingly soooo accurate (I know, I too was shocked). They described it as a members’ club, technically once home to the founder of the Mexican Communist Party, with an interior of timber beams forming a pyramid around the DJ booth. Don’t bother going before 2:00 am, the guide said. We went at 1:00 am lol.

Walking down the street, we couldn’t find it until a man materialized out of thin air and said, “Are you looking for M.N. Roy?” We said yes. He walked us across the street to a bouncer at a very unassuming door, who asked who we knew.

Joelle, without blinking: “Tortu.”

I have no idea why she said this name. Ezgi and I just nodded. There was no Tortu inside, the bouncer informed us. Obviously. Did we know who owned the club, he asked? We did not. But after enough lash-batting and tourist energy, he let us in.

It was completely empty. Just us and the DJ, who was playing the kind of music that makes you put on auto Shazam. We ordered carajillos, and somehow Ezgi also ended up with a Red Bull Jägerbomb, which tells you everything about where the night was going. We found the smoke room, then the upstairs lounge with two mischievous swings, then the VIP room with velvet couches and a stripper pole that we immediately backed away from. We went back downstairs and let the DJ’s music have its way with us.

Slowly, the place filled up. It felt like a vortex, where somehow seven hours passed, and it was bright and warm out by the time we left. We all agreed it was one of the best clubs we’d ever been to, and it wasn’t even a peak night. My formula for a good night is simple: good outfits, good music, good girlfriends, and one fake name at the door. Tortu would be proud.

Honorable CDMX mentions:

Patrick Miller — only open on Fridays, italo disco and 80s music, only serves water and beer, probably our favorite going out spot

Contramar — the classic seafood joint; servers in white tuxedos, impeccable service, the more famous Hermano restaurant to Entremar

Casa 1900 — bakery and delicatessen of your dreams, get the cappuccino and dip all the pastries in it, celebrated Joelle’s birthday morning here

Condesa dF gift shop — beautiful artisanal Mexican trinkets, notebooks, jewelry, and clothes

Camila Banzo — where Ezgi and I splurged the most; independent woman fashion designer, beautiful structured clothing for any occasion, surprisingly fair prices, feels genuinely one of a kind, half the store is a vintage boutique

Maximo Bistro — I only had drinks while the others ate, but the food looked incredible; farm-to-table, serious meats, our friend Fernando got the tab, which was the cherry on top

Cometa Disco — two floors, upstairs is for dancing, disco and house music, beautiful bar and light installation, lava lamps by the dj booth (hadn’t seen those in a while)

Roca Hi-fi — bar and lounge, indoor-outdoor vibes, vinyl only; men will always get you free drinks here, nice smoking area

Escalina — interior design store of your dreams

Georgina Pounds Gallery — recommended by my friend Sarah; the space itself is almost the showstopper. I’d also add Lago Algo for the James Turrell installation, I missed it for work, but Joelle and Ezgi went and said it was fabulous, and I take their word for it

Loo Loo/Essex — had heard a lot of good things, Damian Lazurus was djign the night we were there, but felt very 1 Oak/Marquee coded, so it wasn’t really our jam; wish we tried YuYu or Fünk instead

Casa Margarita — incredible matcha foam, the margs live up to the name, chrome interiors throughout

Sunday Sunday — a day party that happens in Centro only on Sundays, kinda similar to Nowadays/Mister Sunday in BK, great view of the city and notoriously the best place to party on a Sunday in CDMX; go at 6 pm to catch the sunset from the top and don’t be scared of the really scary entryway and elevator

Salon Palomilla — head on upstairs into a bar that feels like a large open dome, plays R&B, works for big or small groups; ran into half the men who worked at Georgina Pounds Gallery here

Walk everywhere — this is a general tip, CDMX is extremely walkable, and when you’re subsisting entirely on tacos and margaritas are flowing through your veins, the movement becomes less optional and more medical

Wearing lime-green Havaianas, denim shorts, and my favorite mini dress folded into a top by SEROYA.