I remember the ever-rainy summers in Mexico City. It always rains on my birthday.

I remember Mexico City when I think of the 1970s buildings with their coloured mosaics forming geometric patterns on the façades, when I see parquet floors, bamboo blinds; and I remember Mexico City when I think about the sound of camotes, the sweet potato vendors on Sunday nights. One Sunday night when the sweet potato cart went past a friend said that those were the bells of the apocalypse.

I remember the sounds of the street: the gas, the horn of the garbage truck in the morning, the knife-grinder, the chiming of the triangle from the elderly gentleman selling his round and cone-shaped coloured wafers in La Escandón, the background sound of airplanes regularly flying overhead, the noise of cars passing over the Viaducto, suddenly a trailer, a cargo truck thundering by. The recording touting ‘We buuuy! Mattresses, drums, fridges, heaters, washing machines and microwaves… or any scrap metal you want to sell…’

I remember street corn every Sunday on Coyoacán Square. When I was a young girl I loved corn on Sundays. No mayonnaise or chilli, just salt and lemon, please.

I remember teaching a gringo girlfriend of mine to pronounce the words chido, chale, chingón, órale, híjole and no mames when she came to live in Mexico City, going over examples of how to use some of this basic local slang. ‘Where is the nearest OXXO?’ [convenience store], was another thing I taught her to say.

I remember midnight on Sundays with the National Anthem being played at different times on each radio station, desynchronised into fragments, as if between mirrors.

I remember listening to the music of Rockdrigo, with Chelas & Cheetos, in the studio of an artist friend, while he painted an eagle devouring a snake.

I remember some big candles made of black wax with the figure of Coatlicue on them, which I bought on Instagram.

I remember having sung Hasta que te conocí by Juan Gabriel in a karaoke bar in Queens with a feeling like I was inventing both Spanish and resentment.

I remember when some graffiti on the New York N train, converted into an Ñ, whispered secrets to me about Spanish in a country where they speak English. I remember having quickly understood that my Spanish is very chilango¹.

I remember when I read a Mexican poem to an Argentinian girlfriend while travelling on the underground, and a Dominican in the seat behind asking if that beautiful language was also Spanish.

I remember the time I went to the Day of the Dead in Tupátaro, Michoacán, and I discovered that in the cemeteries they cover up the images of the living in the photos with bits of paper so death doesn’t take them away.

I remember a market stall in La Narvarte where I used to buy candles. They sold herbs, candles and charms. There was a curtain made of fabric, and behind that curtain a woman read the Spanish Tarot deck, did cleansings and sometimes ate stew with a spoon out of a bowl; she had a little black and white TV, almost always on, and she was called Tere. One time she gave me a candle to make a wish. Ask for whatever you want, hon, it’ll come true.

[...]