MEXICO CITY, 15 January 2024 - A city so daunting that it can feel suffocating, Mexico City makes you question your entire life. I was no exception to this rule when I arrived.

I was staying in Cuahtemoc, a neighborhood characterized by steel “beams of hope” protruding from rooftops with clotheslines tying each together. I had always wanted to come here, and finally made the trip after my college graduation.

With two weeks to discover why so many had fallen in love with this city, I quickly understood. I hadn’t even yet checked into my hostel, with all my bags in hand, and the street food options even at 10 am left my mouth watering.

I tried my first gordita, letting the juices stain the t-shirt that I always delegated to travel days. The surrounding park was filled with other vendors, families enjoying the warm morning sun, and young couples passionately embracing. I must’ve stuck out with my oversized, bright red hiking bag on my back while I carried my regular backpack on my front like school children that pretend they’re pregnant. Despite this, I felt the hospitality right away, with many asking if I were lost and offering to take me to where I needed to go.

Once I checked in and showered the airport away, I went to the rooftop of my hostel. The view of Mexico City was enough to say the trip was worth it. There I planned my first day, which would consist—per usual—of walking around until I found something interesting.

The foot traffic was busy, filled with hurried businesspeople, vibrant fruit carts, and oiled factory hands. My day was filled with tacos al pastor, micheladas, and a ton of funny looks for the heavily Dominican-accented Spanish that came from my gringo mouth.

Grabbing some Tecates on the way home, I planned on a night cap on the rooftop, arriving just as the sunset ignited the horizon. Here, there was a group crowded around a bonfire, listening to a crooning voice of a man in his late forties.

The voice belonged to Javi, an Argentine vagabond that was traveling with not much more than a tattered notebook with his own songs, and a beat-up guitar.

He was magnetic, friendly, care-free, with a hooked nose and salt and pepper hair. He commanded attention from the group with his stories and songs. I admit, the raspy nature of each was comforting and I figured listening was a good way to wind down.

As the night drew on, the group dwindled bit by bit until it was just a Canadian traveler named Hunter, Javi, and I. We exchanged memories and goals. I was captivated by Javi’s life as he reminded me of the Pícaro legend, Lazarillo de Tormes.

He was set on traveling up the spine of America, making money on street corners playing his music. His goal was arriving in Canada, where he'd work as a carpenter for a few months until he could afford a van and drive back down to Argentina. This was the type of adventure I had always dreamed of, ever since reading about the misadventures of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid who escaped to Argentina from NYC over a century prior.

So what made Javi different from me? How was he just able to decide to up and leave?

This is a question all of us with wanderlust struggle with. The responsibilities, relationships, and realities that seemingly tie us down give us a great bit of fight. Always telling ourselves that the big trip makes more sense when X, Y, or Z are satisfied.

The truth of the matter is that the list of reasons to not go will perpetually grow, placing us in an imaginary box that limits our life’s true potential for adventure.

In Javi’s case, he had run this race. He had been married, raised three kids, sent them through school, became an empty nester, and then, unfortunately, a widower. By the time he had hit the budding midday of his life, he felt like there was more to conquer.

With this feeling, he dropped everything, selling all he owned and took off with just the necessaries: that old guitar and notebook.

His experiences thus far were rich. Trekking through the jungle in Misiones to witness Iguazu Falls, falling into hypnosis upon hearing the Aymara play away on the Siku in Bolivia, haggling with ferry operators in Colombia to circumvent the Darien Gap, and much more.

Before Mexico, he had traversed Argentina, Paraguay, Bolivia, Peru, Colombia, Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, El Salvador, Guatemala, and southern Mexico. He described that some cultures appreciated his streetcorner tunes, while others not so much, but regardless saw more of America than anyone in the process.

His story struck close to my heart, and I looked up to him. I had finally broken through the glass ceiling of waiting for the right time to travel a few years prior. When I was 21 years old, right as COVID restrictions on travel were beginning to be lifted, I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.

For years I had waited and waited for the right moment to travel. I waited on finances, on friends to travel with, and an international job offer. All of which never came. The cancer diagnosis woke me up to the fragility of life, as it does for so many. I was determined to never revert to my fear and hesitancy once I was healthy.

A year after the diagnosis, the very week that I finished my final treatment, I packed my bags for Peru.

Despite my small one-off trips, I was still inhibited by fears of a long vagabonding experience that Javi was undertaking. What could I learn from this man that so easily took a break from his own life?

I spent the next few days with Javi, the question still eating at me. He seemed so care-free and unintentional, yet things went exactly according to his undetermined plan. He took everything slow, spoke to anyone who was within earshot, and never passed up an opportunity to smoke a cigarette.

At the local market, we dodged meatpackers slinging about cuts of everything, looking for the right slab of ribs for the night’s asada. It was to be my first “authentic Argentine asada” he claimed. All that we needed was good meat, salt, limes, and of course, the right company.

He was right, despite the simple ingredients and preparation, the meat seemed to never have been attached to the bone, and the overwhelming flavor gave me an epiphany: time spent the right way is what makes for the best outcome.

Often, we are so worried about money and our careers, that we lose sight of the importance of life’s most important currency: time. We also overcomplicate our lives so much that we think our happiness lies at the end of a perpetually growing list of obstacles.

The best option often stares us in the face: Going on that trip, saying yes to the right person, or pursuing our dreams. But, we are so focused on peripherals that we don’t notice. The issue is that the peripherals will never go away, but the time we could have spent just saying yes, diminishes quickly.

As my time in Mexico came to a close, I thought hard about how I could spend a thousand lifetimes here, yet not have a clear answer as to how to describe it. I realized that much like this city, I have gone under periods of redefinition, fighting to become whatever I want. Once I removed the imaginary box I placed myself in, I began to see the world for what it was, rather than what I thought it to be.

Slowing down and really experiencing life, with eyes that actually see, ears that actually hear, and a mind that actually thinks has made all the difference. All of Javi’s adventures that I coveted, just as easily could’ve been mine had I allowed myself to actually experience life from the get-go, rather than waiting for the right time.

As I sit here writing, I bet Javi has already made it to Canada, crooning at street corners from Sonora to Saskatoon. He has undoubtedly already planned his route back home, and prepping new songs to belt out for all those lucky enough to hear.