Letting a Place Rewrite the Story
Before we ever made it to Mexico City, the trip went sideways.
One of my kids missed the first two days after discovering — too late — that her passport was nowhere to be found. She is certain we lost it. We are equally certain it is somewhere in her apartment. The law of natural consequences made an early appearance, as did patience, flexibility, and the reminder that even the most carefully planned journeys unfold on their own terms.
Credit where it’s due: the Detroit Passport Agency was remarkably efficient, calm, and humane — a small but meaningful reminder that competence and care still exist in systems we’re often taught to dread.
And then, eventually, we all arrived.
Before going, I carried a set of expectations I didn’t fully realize I had. Some were mine. Many were inherited — absorbed through headlines, a trip from 35 years ago, half-told stories, and well-meaning warnings offered as care. I told myself I was being practical. In hindsight, I can see how much of that “practicality” was simply other people’s narratives living rent-free in my head.
What I encountered bore little resemblance to the story I’d been told.
Mexico City is vibrant and alive, layered with history that refuses to stay neatly in the past. It is a city of unexpected meetings and generous moments — conversations struck up easily, recommendations offered freely, warmth extended without pretense. It is also a city of extraordinary food, good stories, and waiters who will quite literally run across a room… just never when you’re ready for the check.
(Much of it) is clean. It is energetic. It is thoughtful. And it is anchored by an enormous park that stretches on and on, reminding you — gently but firmly — that cities, like people, need room to breathe.
There were moments of surprise that stayed with me. Wearing a small, discreet piece of Jewish jewelry and being acknowledged by other members of the Jewish community — a nod, a unique ‘favor’ being asked. An instant sense of connection. It was a reminder that identity travels with us, and that community often reveals itself when we’re not actively looking for it.
There was the unbridled joy of Lucha Libre — wrestling that was part theater, part athleticism, and entirely delightful. There was the rhythm of the city itself: fast, loud, intentional, and deeply human.
And then there was Teotihuacán.
Standing at the base of those ancient structures, history stopped being abstract. Climbing them — slowly, deliberately, despite fear — made something shift in me. Not just because of the height, but because of what those stones represent. Experts believe that ancient civilizations in this region lived side by side: connected, in relationship, while still maintaining their own distinct communities. Not erased by one another. Not flattened. Coexisting with intention.
It’s a powerful counter-narrative — and not just about the past.
For too long, places like Mexico City and Mexico itself allowed others to write their story. Outsiders defined its legacy, often through a lens of bias, fear, or convenience. Only now, as more people arrive and experience places firsthand, are those narratives being questioned. Only now are they being revised.
It made me think about legacy.
About how easily we accept stories we didn’t author. About how rarely we pause to test what we “know” against lived experience. And about how legacy — personal or collective — is shaped not just by what we stand for, but by what we stay curious about.
I can’t wait to go back. Not because the city revealed everything at once, but because it didn’t. Because it invited learning, attention, and revision — the kind that deepens rather than diminishes.
Places, like people, deserve the chance to be known on their own terms.
So I’ll leave you with a couple of questions to consider:
- Where might curiosity serve you better than certainty?
- As you think about the legacy you’re building, what are you still willing — and eager — to learn?
Fondly,
Kari
The Altermans go to Teotihuacán.
