Halfway: One Night in Monterrey
Close enough to still feel like Mexico. Far enough to know you are already gone.
Monterrey. Over halfway between the life you had and the one you have not met yet. Close enough to still feel like Mexico. Far enough to know you are already gone.
Frida stops for the night. And in the aisle of a local HEB, she finds something she did not expect: a full shelf of Tehuacán, hundreds of miles from the spring. The same turquoise label she grew up seeing on her family's table, standing in neat rows under supermarket lights in a city that is not hers.
There is a particular comfort in that. You leave home and home turns out to be ahead of you on the road, waiting on a shelf. She buys a bottle, pours it that night in a rented room, and the fizz catches the lamplight. For a second the distance shrinks.
If you are north of the border, the same shelves are filling in across Texas: H-E-B, Central Market, Buc-ee's, and Amazon.
On the road from Puebla to Austin. Follow at @drinktehuacan.
