I don’t think she remembers me.

I remember her, though. I remember the kind eyes gesturing at me to take a seat. I remember the careful sculpting of the masa. I remember the rickety table where the tortilla press sits, somehow bending, but not breaking, with each forceful flattening - a true engineering feat that always amazes me. I remember hearing the spatula clanging against the steel while the fat sizzles and steam rises off the plancha. I remember the time she caught me wide-eyed, staring at the work she was doing with her cleaver, and offered me a sample. Carnaza, she said.

No, she definitely doesn’t remember me. How could she? But I remember her, how could I not?

I think, as travelers, we love to tally. There is a tendency to view places as notches on a bedpost, or magnets on a fridge for future admiration. I see it enough on social media, “100+ Countries” in a bio or post, as if that number signals their worldliness. Spend enough time in hostels and it’s the same game - have you been here, have you eaten there? That’s when I start fidgeting. I mean, I know it’s all in good fun, and of course I’m guilty. But how many faces do you remember? How many names learned? I’m always tempted to ask. Though I obviously don’t want to sound like such a jackass, so the petty thoughts stay with me.

In a way, I get it. We only have so much time and money, a return trip can be hard to justify. I have the same thoughts. Why would I spend money to see and experience something I already have? To make it worse, even 10 years later, the corporate design homogeneity doesn’t seem to be slowing down. If sameness spreads, what could returning somewhere possibly give you?

And yet there is value in the return.

The first time you visit a place, all the new sights, smells, and stimuli take control. It’s exciting, of course, there’s nothing quite like experiencing a new locale with naive eyes and an eager stomach. But it’s hard to get depth while you’re figuring out all that comes with the novelty - the transit system, customs, language, food, and unspoken rules. It’s hard to craft your own personal understanding while you’re fumbling about trying to find a few pesos in your pocket for the bus fare.

That’s where the return comes in. With a second, third, fourth time under your belt, you develop a rhythm. The artifacts of travel become second nature; the train ride from the airport is a known entity, and the transit card still has a few bucks on it. The mind starts to notice the peculiarities, the textures that are emotionally resonant to you and only you. It probably won’t be what you expect! That’s a good thing. It’s kind of the whole point.

Even better if the returns span years. The place will have changed - for better, for worse, or just different. On my last visit to the taqueria, the woman was still there slowly working the masa, just as welcoming. And so was the rickety table, as resilient as ever. But this time a little boy came over, coyly taking my order. That’s new, I thought. I’ve changed too, for whatever that’s worth - older, supposedly wiser, definitely more tired. But I still ordered the carnaza. 

A few photos from a quick jaunt to Mexico -