When I was 19, I decided to impetuously travel to Mexico to visit a guy I had just met. After knowing each other approximately one day, he had declared his intense love for me, via a series of romantic, letter-filled FedEx packages, and I was unspeakably flattered.
I had never been to Mexico before, so I wanted to go. The problem was, I had very strict parents. Luckily, they were away.
My best friend drove me to the airport (I was flush with cash from a summer office job), and I called my mother, who was in Florida, visiting her family. “Mom, I am going to Mexico. I’m flying into Guadalajara,” I said when I called.
She laughed. “You are not,” she said.
I could hear my aunt Mary Anne chirping in the background. “What’s she saying?” Mary Anne asked. My mother repeated what I’d said, in a tone that decried how insane I was. I could picture them, hopping around the kitchen, drinking wine, chopping vegetables for a salad.
My aunt is a free spirit, a watercolor artist. “Ooh! Mexico!” she said. “I love Mexico! Tell her to have fun!”