CDMX

Gino speaks Spanish, which has been immensely helpful. I usually pick the day's route simply by finding the most tortuous line on the map, and he surveys locals for their input. On one occasion, he was told that we would surely be decapitated on my route, and that we should take the new toll road instead. I don't believe that for a second, but all other things being equal, if it's a choice between a road that takes cash and one that might take your head, then it's really a no-brainer.

In exchange, I've taught him how to stay at hostels and access the settings menu on his phone. But I guess I wasn't providing enough value, because he'd begun joking about selling me, saying that he could get a good price for a cute Ashkenazi boy like me. So when we got to Mexico City, a frenetic metropolis 20 million strong, I saw my chance to escape, and we parted ways.

I met Jordan in Albania six months ago. She knew I was somewhere in Mexico, so when she missed her connecting flight in Mexico City she messaged me. Two hours later we were watching Lucha Libre together. I don't know how to describe Mexican wrestling other than to applaud its egalitarian approach to fake violence. It is simply refreshing to see everyone get chokeslammed regardless of gender, orientation, race, age, weight, or religion.

From CDMX I rode to Puebla, a pilgrimage long in the making. You see, five years ago I was introduced to the cemita, a sandwich - nay, a culinary apotheosis - native to the state of Puebla. It is nigh impossible to find elsewhere, even within Mexico. Apparently, because it dares to add string cheese to the mix, it is unworthy to join the pantheon of Mexican favorites like the taco, taquito, tostada, quesadilla, fajita, enchilada, enfrijolada, tlayuda, gringa, gordita, and crunch-wrap supreme. See a theme? I'm just saying that even without my interpreter, no matter what I accidentally order, I'm pretty sure I know what it'll be.