Palo Santo

Mezcaleria in Mexico City

I was walking home and minding my own business when a woody, slightly spiced, pine smell guided me through the entrance of a Mezcaleria. I hadn’t yet made the connection. So I sipped a Mezcalita on the rocks, and didn’t give it too much thought. There was a fleeting feeling of familiarity, and I had the sense that I should be savouring a glass of red. I stood by the bar in a strange state of comfort and confusion, drawn to the incense but not knowing why, until I recalled the scent’s name - Palo Santo - and remembered you and the incense stick that still rests on the ashtray on my bedside table.

The streets surrounding the Zócalo square of México City all smell of Palo Santo or petrol. Dented cars on poorly maintained roads were strangely comforting, but the last place I thought I’d be reminded of you was here. I went to a street market, and you were there between the tie-dye shirts and the Aztec tapestries, wearing your old sombrero. Then, you followed me to the Teotihuacan pyramids, where I stood between the sun and the moon pyramids, listening to my guide’s whistle refract around thirteen base pyramids in stifling heat. Learning about the base of one of the ruins that would have been a pool for astronomy, I realised that I wanted to tell you about it, and then, when I got back to my hostel, I could hear you telling me what a great idea it would be to nap in the garden’s hammock. 

On Wednesday, I allowed my fellow hostel sharer to convince me to attend a Bachata class. Located above a bar, we squeezed into a room filled with a hundred swaying hips. Partners tangled and untangled each other to a four-four rhythm, always knowing where to move. Soon, we were called to learn the basics: hands held between the index and middle fingers, elbows up. I spent the evening dancing with thirty partners I’d never met - some confidently holding my hands and others shy to embrace me. The tall Canadian looked over my shoulder for the length of the dance, whereas the partner afterwards didn’t blink once. The Italian partner with green eyes had danced before, and it wasn’t until I arrived in front of the Mexican with chocolate eyes and long hair that I figured out the dip. Sometimes we chatted and other times moved silently, with dance uniting us beyond all language barriers.

I think you would have liked it: the Western discomfort of dancing sensually with strangers would have been something we’d have laughed about on the walk home. With raised eyebrows and blown-out cheeks, you’d break into a laugh at the uncomfortableness. Swapping partners clockwise, we’d end up facing each other. My fingers between yours as we sidestepped. Our arms embraced from shoulder blades to fingertips, bodies so close the only way to avoid brushing lips is to look away. Sashaying forwards and backwards, knees touching. Your hand brushes up my wrist as you turn me, before I turn you. Hands interlocked. Arms crossed and uncrossed. Finishing as we began, eyes smiling. 

But now I’m in México and you’re in Australia with a one-way ticket. Plans we’d decided on before we met. Besides, following someone you’ve known for a few months to the other side of the world only works out in Rom-coms and Nicholas Sparks novels. I hadn’t anticipated eating bland tacos on a strange street in México, and preferring the ones you used to make me every day for lunch with crumbled feta. Or noticing the absence of you when I watched a Mexican lady toast spices in a large cast-iron pan, the same way you’d prepare yours for curry night. 

I think it’s sweeter to remember the memory of you. To savour the best of us, and remember us only as we were at the start: sat on my sofa with a bottle of merlot, toast lathered in brie and sweet chilli jam, and a stick of Palo Santo burning on the living room floor.