The break came suddenly. After 24 years together, my husband told me he wanted to explore his bisexual side. It had always been an open relationship, but when he started dating a woman seriously, my heart broke. He fell in love.
For my 50th birthday in October, we went to Mexico City. My high school Spanish class took a yearly trip to CDMX, but my family was always too poor to let me go. Decades of daydreaming about the city made it an obvious choice, and what better time to splurge? The international trip also fit into my mantra for the year: “50 and fuck it.”
A month after the trip is when he met her. In January, he told me he was in love and wanted a polyamorous relationship. I’d been planning a big party for our 25th anniversary. Was I supposed to invite her now, too?
Instead, I came up with a whole new plan.
The impossible dream
Our marriage was already on the rocks. Sex was one thing, but a relationship was something entirely different. That wasn’t what I wanted. Six months after my birthday, I returned to CDMX on my own for a two-week separation. With spare airline miles and a need to get as far away as possible, the choice was obvious.
Tears came the moment I walked into the Airbnb. Texting with friends helped; it was time to focus on the solution, not the problem. Sulking in bed wouldn’t help. I went for a walk.
It sounds clichéd, but as I roamed the city, I could feel the heartbeat. Big cities had never appealed to me, but the never-ending buzz, noise, and energy pulled me in. It felt comforting in a strange way.
Toward the end of the trip, wandering alone through Chapultepec Park — where my ex and I had strolled together just months before — I stumbled across a statue of Don Quixote and the accompanying fountain with hand-painted tiles that tell his story. The memory of that earlier trip hung over everything, but as I stared at the statue, one question kept running through my head: What if I lived my impossible dream?
Two weeks later, I walked out of the Airbnb determined to stay true to my motto. Fuck it. Despite my limited Spanish, I was going to leave my husband and move to CDMX.
I’d met someone while weighing my options: Uriel, a guy who blew right through my self-imposed rule of only hooking up with someone three times to avoid any attachments. We stayed in touch when I flew back to Washington DC, packed three large suitcases, and got back on a plane headed south.
Courtesy of Luis Alvarado
When I stepped off the flight, ready to start over, he was waiting at the airport with a bouquet of flowers.
Collecting a new life
Finding an apartment took a couple of weeks, but with Uriel’s help, I found a small, furnished one-bedroom apartment in a newer building with a gym and rooftop garden for about a third of what a crappy studio apartment in DC would cost, and signed a six-month lease.
Right away, the locals helped me start a new life. A stranger guided me to the nearest grocery store, the landlady recommended some nearby restaurants, and Uriel showed me the bus lines and the metro. My now ex-husband texted almost every day and, despite his own heartbreak after so many years together, offered support as well.
The apartment came with a housekeeper who cooked and cleaned once a week, and she took me under her wing despite the language barrier. The landlady and I slowly became friends after she nursed me through a sudden illness.
Uriel started taking me to places locals know but never show up on tourist to-do lists. He became part of what made the city feel like home, along with the housekeeper, the landlady, and the market vendors who knew me by name.
There was no 25-year anniversary party surrounded by friends who had been part of my decades with my ex. Instead, I had a quiet dinner with new friends and Uriel.
At the end of the lease, my landlady offered me a bigger, unfurnished apartment at a slightly higher price. Not only would the rent be more expensive, but everything from furniture to silverware would have to be purchased from scratch. It seemed daunting, but the furnished place had always felt like a long-term hotel room. Nothing was actually mine. I made the jump and said yes.
When my temporary residency visa came through, it was official. Instead of building a new life, I’d been collecting one from bits and pieces of the city and the people in it. This wasn’t a long vacation. It was home.
Three years later, I’m still here. So is Uriel, the landlady, the housekeeper, and the friendly strangers. The apartment is bigger, and my Spanish is better. When someone tells me they could never do what I did, I think of the statue of Don Quixote. Sometimes you have to tilt at windmills and chase the impossible.
Fuck it. What you’re searching for might be waiting for you.
