I absolutely love London. I had always dreamt about living in London and breaking into the fashion capital. Flat white in hand and today’s newspaper caught under my drenched commuter armpits, take the train towards Liverpool Street to merge into the unknown. Always in a rush. GPSing and feeling unstoppable
I was born and bred in México. In a beautifully traditional Spanish city called Guadalajara. And when I was still an adolescent, me mami took me to Cancún, where I grew up and had my first tequila shot. The rest is chachachá. A history I will be sharing with you, beautiful strangers of the www.
O.K. The first thing that British people ask me when I tell them where I am from is: Cancún?? What are you doing here? – And then is the weather talking. Indeed, I get it. Although, to be completely honest, I prefer London. Hands down. – Why? Who wouldn’t want to live in perpetual summer? Well, M&E. Because in London it is easier to appreciate the warmth, the sunshine, the dancing leaves blooming away from a winter breeze and those Aperol Spritz we all love, so much more than back home, where the summer strikes 358 (minus the hurricane week) days a year, forever until the world’s end. And thanks to that, cancuners love to complain about the weather too. I guess we have that in common.
Cancún is a place where there is no spring, no winter, no nothing. Seasons are inexistent. And don’t get me started with fasha. If you were in my Dr. Martens, you would understand it. As a former cancuner I used to wonder, – Where is the change? And, – How does Autumn feels like? – “Hey guys, it is some Lupita’s wedding, what are we wearing?” – The answer is: Cotton. Things like, – “I wish I could wear a jacket to work or trade my huaraches for some UGG’s sheepskins”. Thoughts that used to run through my troubled and heated cancunstate-of-mind when all I could wish for is that nudism was not crazy, just to tear my summer trends apart like She-Hulk. Instead, I was sweating every inch of my mexican life off throughout my epidermial being, every-single-time as a cancuner, I had to abandon the perfect fakeness of my beloved air con walls.
So, Keep Calm and… pay the electricity bills. Which most of the times, are higher than rent itself. Go on, and gather the necessary strength it takes to get into your boiling evil car. At a 100 degrees, turn left. Your destination is on the (never) right. F o r g e t IT. Impossible. Your whole caribbean existence wants to take you to the North Pole to live in an ice-cream 24/7. And, when you find your cancun-self too busy to cope with the devil’s climate, rely on your cotton-linen tees, on your forever cargo trousers and whatever version of Dr. “Martines” sandals are on mexican offer since we also need to wear shoes after the Spanish conquest. (Thanks for that, I think). Anyways, Hurry! We need something, anything that would make us look or feel smart and standout from the rest of the prancing crowd, stumbling around in shorts and all sorts of sliders while enjoying a deviously hot climate. It was hell on earth!
Then there is this thing called, tourists. Think twice when your London-self tries to avoid Northern Line at 7:05 PM. Imaging driving in a city where every single form of human life is smashed on ayayay-who-knows. Try to commute back home then. When one have to work where everybody “thinks” is having whatever fun that is, one kind of develop some sort of innocent hatred towards tourists and their american pies. I was that one. Driving to work, air con on, windows closed, on my Throwback Tuesday spotifying Killers, Depeche or Bowie and, it was inevitable, every now and then, I had to look over. And there it was, the mighty, and the beautiful, and the painful mexican beach. Beautiful indeed. Thinking: well, guess what? I am not swimming isn’t?! No. I am late. Again. Thanks to the pies and their spring breaks. I was sure one fine day I was going to be convicted for murder during traffic if the pies wouldn’t stop crossing the sandy streets like I was invisible or my car was made out of piñatas! – ¡Vámonos amigo! Nothing could get any worst right? All of the sudden, at noon, my gum soles would start to melt…! Literally. Oh then. Goodbye Gazelles. Hello again Adilettes. I hope to meet you one day, UGG’s.
And here I am, one Buenos Aires, one Madrid and one wicked Indian adventure after, living in Hackney. Going after my London fashion dreams at London College of Style. Sporting jackets and UGG’s. Finally! And nothing, not a single pie is stopping me now. #fashacha
(Of course, I still enjoy the occasional Cancún on holidays to check on me mami. Although this time, I am one of the pies, and someone else wearing cargo trousers and melting footwear, has to bring M&E more Piña Coladas!) ¡Arriba, arrrriba!