Family among strangers
It’s another overcast morning here in Mexico City. Antoine, Christine, and I have just finished our breakfast of scrambled eggs, chorizo, and charred tortillas, and I’m now seated at the kitchen bar sipping my thrice reheated coffee while Moe, the 2-year-old mastiff, enthusiastically tries to engage me in play with a crushed soda bottle.
My first week in Mexico, the magical country that was the subject of Dad’s stories all throughout my childhood, has been a whirlwind of both the new and the unabashedly familiar. I’ve met family—uncles, aunts, first cousins—who until this week I’d never seen in person. They welcomed me into this house of orange and blue tile with a warmth and unquestioned acceptance that I didn’t know I’d been craving until I arrived. We laugh at our shared Maroney mannerisms and expressions, have divulged secrets deep into the Mexican night, and fill our bellies with Antoine’s Mexican–French fusion cooking (when we’re not feasting on tacos al pastor or bowls of pozole at local restaurantes, that is). Last weekend, Dan, Christine and I crashed an Embassy party, where people were mystified by our family history:
Identical Embassy Rep: And when did you all arrive in Mexico?
Christine: I’m born and raised here, but my cousin is visiting for the first time from Canada.
Rep: Wait, so how are you related?
Christine: Her dad and my mom are siblings, but we never met until this week.
Rep: Really! And your mother moved to Mexico when?
Christine: They both grew up here, and I’ve been here my entire life. Mary’s dad moved to Canada when he got married to her mom.
Rep: So your American parents were born in Mexico? That’s so interesting!
Christine: Actually, they were born in India.
Rep: WHAT??
Christine: Yes, our grandparents were working in India at the time… though they met and married in Pakistan. Our grandpa worked for Union Carbide and our grandma for the Pentagon.
Rep: ….are you part of the Romney family?
To be fair, even I have a hard time believing our family’s story sometimes. Yet, after 28 years and thousands of miles of separation, I feel more connected to this brood of Maroney–Barois than I could have ever expected.
Now, don’t think that this week has just been a continuous Kumbaya circle; we’ve had our fair share of touristic trips and extraordinary chance experiences. Christine and I drove out to the Teotihuacan pyramids to be overwhelmed by the genius (and brutality) of an ancient civilization. The supposed-to-be-catastrophic Hurricane Patricia passed by with scarcely more than a barometric fart. I came face-to-face with Chris Hemsworth in the historical downtown of Mexico City and promptly turned to hormonal mush. I’ve sipped free tamarind margaritas from a dashing waiter who vaguely resembled Cristiano Ronaldo, reveled in the culinary wonder that is mango con chile ice cream, and suffered the intestinal consequences of mouth-watering esquites (grilled corn topped with spices, mayonnaise, and crumbled cheese).
I expected to stay in this house only a few days, not wanting to impose too long on these people I’d never met, but we’ve all smilingly acknowledged now that it’s been over a week and I’m still here. It will be bittersweet when I leave this weekend, but I’ve booked an apartment in San Miguel d’Allende—the colonial, cobblestoned art town where my parents met so many decades ago.
I’ll arrive just in time for Dia de los Muertos.
Until then,
Chau.
