Satisfaction Guaranteed (I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change)

I want to go back. I miss it. I haven't been to Mexico in eight years. Since my last visit, there have been two marriages and and six births. People have moved away. Children have grown up. People have run for office. Businesses have been sold or bought or passed on to the next generation. Drug traffickers have moved into town and put everyone on edge. Threats have been placed against my family. Phone lines have been tapped. Cottages have been built.

It's a city where the men wear dress shirt at all times, the top three buttons always undone, no matter how formal the occasion, and the women all colour their hair and have nose jobs, or other any other type of surgery they feel necessary to enhance their appearance. Where the women are say every hello and goobye with a kiss on the cheek, and the men, a handshake. A city where everyone sports Louis Vuitton, Burberry, and Caroline Hererra. Where youth gather at country clubs on Thursdays and Saturday nights to party, drink obscene amounts of alcohol, and daddy pays the bill the following afternoon. A city where drivers are as young as fourteen, the streets have no lanes, and everyone drives SUVs. A city where the children are more well-spoken than most adults in Canada. A city where people marry and they marry for money, where Lebanese parents do not let their Lebanese children date Mexicans, no matter how much they love them. A city where the women turn a blind eye to their husbands cheating on them. Where no man shaves his chest, and boy are those men hairy. And I love it.

The trip was exactly what I needed. For ten days I spent absolutely no money, gained up to $1500, and rested. I seldom thought of my life at home. I had no troubles. I was loved by my relatives. I was given money and shelter and was not judged. I was comfortable. I didn't want to return.

I'm back in Toronto.

I don't want to be here. I can't wait to leave again. This is not the place for me anymore.