So, there I was, three months away from finishing my bachelor’s degree, about as financially stable as a house of cards in a hurricane. Then a primal travel itch hit me, and I impulsively dropped $600 on a hostel and flight to Mexico City. It was a school week, but… adiós textbooks, hola questionable life choices.
Fueled by taco lust and blind optimism, I landed ready to explore. I should’ve listened to the warnings—Charlotte’s infamous accident in Sex and the City and that Family Guy line: “Mexico! Don’t drink the water.” My first stop was street food, then shopping, and somehow I ended up on a boat ride with margaritas heavy on the ice. It started fun and ended with tequila shots and lukewarm tacos. By morning, I finally understood why hostel bathrooms are always locked.
Day two took a sharp left turn. I woke up to a pregnancy test shoved in my face. Positive. I panicked—not because it was mine, but because I don’t speak Spanish and had no idea how to react. My roommate of one day was pregnant, so instead of going to the Hello Kitty Café, I found myself at an OB-GYN clinic 45 minutes outside the city. For reasons I still don’t understand, I went halfsies on her appointment. I thought it might be a bonding moment, maybe even a future baby shower invite, but nope—she blocked me on Instagram the next day.
By day three, I was in a churro-making class, sweating bullets, coating sugar, and trying not to throw up. Pretty sure I earned the title “Most Useless Churro Enthusiast.” Thankfully, the rooftop hostel bar redeemed me. I made friends from all over the world, all of us fighting to stay out of the bathroom, and we ended up at a lucha libre match—because nothing bonds strangers like shared digestive trauma.
Day four, I got brave (or stupid) and did the boat trip again. This time with my hostel crew and zero margaritas. One poor guy got so sick he collapsed on the grass during a stop. I donated my portable super-fan to him, creating what I now call the Brotherhood of the Diarrhea-Fighting Fan. Beautiful, in its own tragic way.
I left Mexico with new friends, a lighter wallet, and probably five fewer pounds. But honestly? No regrets. Ten out of ten, would risk food poisoning again.
- 21 years old in CDMX, Mexico for 5 days
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