Andre Breton said, "Mexico tiende a ser el lugar surrealista por excelencia." Having studied abroad in Mexico City, I couldn't agree more.

When I decided to spend my semester abroad in Mexico City, I did so on a last-minute, "do it before you change your mind" kind of whim.

The daily grind- class, clubs, work, class, clubs- was bringing me down and the idea of having to do it all over again the following semester was painfully unbearable. I dreamt of getting away from it all in D.F. (abbreviated version of Distrito Federal or Federal District), of eating authentic Mexican, of catching live  performances by "Nuevos Ricos," near and dear to my heart artists, and of limitless supplies of thriftstores.

My family was less than thrilled with my decision, wondering why I hadn't decided on usual suspects Madrid or London, and worried about my safety in the 20 million-plus megapolis that is Mexico City, the second largest urban area in the world after Tokyo. While unable to change my mind, my family succeeded in equating the city's green Volkswagen Bug taxis (or bochitos) with death and made me promise that I would never let on to a stranger that I was from the U.S. of A.  Consequently, the first time I explored the streets of D.F. on my own and hailed a cab off the street, I pretty much had a heart attack. Inside the cab, and in my clumsy, self-conscious, and out of practice Spanish I asked the cab driver to take me to the nearest Starbucks. "What? What'd ya say?," asked the puzzled driver. "Yeah, Starbucks... you know the place where they sell coffee and the logo is of a mermaid," I bumbled. "OOOH," he replied. " You mean ESTAR-BUCS." Riiiiiight.

Right then and there I realized that the ensuing five months would be all about adapting to my new home and that I would have to start routines and friendships from scratch. Especially in the beginning, I missed everything that was familiar, friends, and family. The greatest producer of discomfort was differences in "little things" I always took for granted. Produce, for instance, not only had to be washed, but soaked in water mixed with sanitizing drops for a good 10 minutes before being consumed; tap water, on the other hand, had to be boiled before use. And at my new school, La Universidad Iberoamericana, all classes began anywhere between a quarter to half an hour after the scheduled start-time and cigarette smoking was ubiquitous; the notion of having a cigarette in class with the professor was not a far-fetched one.

Sooner than later though, culture shock subsided and I began to embrace my new surroundings. I fell in love with my middle-class neighborhood, La Roma, and with the historic center of Mexico City, el Centro Histórico. The surrealness of every-day occurrences was dizzying. I would wonder if laying out on the beach in Acapulco, soaking up the heat and sipping on drinks during the middle of February was for real; if getting my hair braided by street kids in the middle of El Zócalo while next to me a friend got her eyebrow pierced was really happening. On a given Saturday I could be sitting in a packed Lucha Libre (mexican wrestling) venue screaming expletives at the top of my lungs at grown men in spandex or bopping up and down at a punk/thrash/folk/polka show in an abandoned building near once trendy Zona Rosa.

At the same time that Mexico City is fiercely progressive (its indie music scene is a hipster's delight and there are tons of venues, museums, galleries, and events chidos to hit up), it is still a city in development, with over half of its residents living in povert. While abroad, the private university I was enrolled in illustrated the extreme inequalities present in Mexican society. At la Ibero, the sense of being privileged was thick and palpable. Brand name clothing (surprise, surprise) was practically the de facto dress code; a fresas outfit would not be complete without heels and a Gucci/ Prada/ Coach/ Tous/ Louis Vouitton handbag. I wanted to vomit everytime I saw a fresa 'looking cute' in his or her Abercrombie and Hollister gear, and sometimes wondered if I was back in the Gringolandia. Personal distaste aside, the conspicuous consumption within Ibero's walls and the extreme poverty outside was sickening. In Mexico City, the minimum wage is around 50 Mexican pesos or about $4.68 for an entire day of labor. At 60,074 Mexican pesos a semester, la Ibero becomes a monetarily inaccessible school for the 60 percent of Mexican society that lives in poverty; only 3 out of 10 Mexican students have access to a college education. These facts would sometimes run through my head as I sat in class with my Mexican classmates, and make me freak out. There I was, the daughter of Mexican immigrants, rubbing shoulders with Mexico City's elite. What would my life be like had my mom not immigrated to the United States, and instead grown up in Mexico (I know for sure that I would NOT be at la Ibero, not that I would want to be)? I realized that so much of who I am today, is a result of growing up in the United States; my "American-ess" is just as salient as my "Mexican-ess."

My last day in Mexico City can only be described as serendipitous. After having my mind blown away by Jodorowsky's masterpiece, La Montaña Sagrada (then playing at La Cineteca Nacional), I headed out to my favorite neighborhood bar in La Roma, Mestizo where I was to meet up with friends and say my final goodbyes. When the time came to go, we loitered outside of Mestizo for awhile, trying our best to delay the inevitable. It was right then and there that we first laid eyes on "El Archivo General de Sueños y Utopías", a place where you could transcribe your dreams and fantasies; never was there a more oniric day.

Perhaps it is because it is where my roots lie, or perhaps it is because it is a dream come true for travel, play, and growth, Mexico City will forever be a place I am drawn to. When it came time to go, I said my adioses with a heavy heart, but already determined to come back for Spring Break.