It was a summer of love that could not be, of sudden rain and of fevered dreams, so I thought that the best course of action was to put myself on a plane from Dublin to London. I had just finished just over three weeks of studying abroad in Ireland and felt that I needed to do something big or else it would have been just a blip in my academic career. I hadn’t told anyone that I was going besides my parents, who thought I was out of my mind. I had no plans or expectations of London except that I had to be there and to experience something.

Being away from my family and by extension, the continent of North America, I was missing food that had some color and spice to it. So much of the food in Europe was sepia-toned and mushy, except for the spare carrot. I was missing the authentic Mexican cuisine that I had grown up with and it didn’t help to look to see what kind of Mexican food London had to offer. I had some vague recollection that Salma Hayek’s favorite place to get tacos in London was called Taquería, so I put it into Google Maps and off I went.

Even before I finished ascending the stairs, the bus lurched forward, causing me to lose my footing and stumble on the steps. The unfortunate thing about a double decker bus is that once you are out of sight, the bus driver assumes that you’ve already sat down or they just don’t care. It was not until the tracker on the app showed me heading in the opposite direction of the restaurant that I realized I had boarded the wrong bus. It was the same number but it was heading in the opposite direction.

I quickly pushed the button to signal the driver that I was heading off and as soon as it had stopped, I stepped off the bus to find myself at the center of a street lined with buildings. There was an Amazon Fresh store in front of me and a supermarket to the right of me. I went back to Google Maps to search to see what kind of food was in the area and saw that there was another Mexican restaurant two blocks north called MESTIZO.

Oh.

What a wonderful name to call a Mexican restaurant. Mestizo is a term that describes a person of mixed Spanish and Indigenous peoples. Despite people and scholars trying to reclaim mestizo/mestizaje as a positive label, the term still has a deep history of erasing Indigenous peoples and their culture. For a restaurant in Europe to be named after that term, it signaled to me what the intended audience of the restaurant was: white Europeans. As I walked towards the restaurant, there was a pit growing in my stomach because I was unsure of what to expect. To my surprise, right next to the restaurant was MESTIZO Market, an offshoot of the restaurant that sold “authentic Mexican goods.”

As I entered the market, what took me by surprise was how rustic it was. Lanterns covered the ceiling while all the walls were adorned with pale wooden shelves that stocked woven bags and jars of salsa. Blankets and shirts like the ones hung up in my parents' closet were put out for display in the center of the store, hitting me in the chest like the wind just got knocked out of me. I took a sharp inhale and dove into the back of the store, next to the refrigerators that held various flavors of Jarritos and tubs of masa.

There were two women stood near the front of the market that were talking to each other in Spanish. Even though I was behind some shelves, I could still hear their conversation, but most importantly, I could understand them. Growing up, English was the prominent language spoken at home instead of Spanish, which has led me to being able to understand Spanish more than I could speak it. Still, standing in that market, it felt intrusive to listen in on their conversation and to be privy towards something that I should not have been. I don’t know how many Spanish speakers they usually get in the store, but it could not have been that many. I wondered what would happen if I went through my transaction speaking Spanish, would they react in a cheerful way or would they scan whatever I decided to buy nonchalantly? Would they even guess that I was Mexican just by looking at me?

I would continue pondering those questions as I grabbed a bag of Takis and a grab bag of various Mexican candies. I only really wanted the Takis but there was a 5 euro minimum if I was paying by card. Even then, it was not even a proper bag of Takis as it seemed like they just put a handful of Takis from a bigger bag and put it into one of their smaller plastic bags. I went up the front to pay and handed one of the women my things to scan as she continued to talk to the other. I stayed silent as I tapped my card to pay, not daring to speak a word of either Spanish or English. I wasn’t given a bag to put my stuff in so I just stuffed both of my things into the pockets of my jacket. With my pockets bulging with Mexican snacks, I exited the market and walked over to the restaurant.

The first thing I noticed in the restaurant was how open it was, with the high ceiling towering over me and all of the tables inside being pushed off to the side. The walls were a bright red that contrasted the bright white seats that lined the walls. The bar in the back had shelves of tequila and other liquor lined up neatly in various rows. There were only two other people in the restaurant and both of them had uniforms on. One was a man who stood a couple of inches taller than me and had a sharp face with a well-trimmed goatee. The other was a woman about my height with her lightly bleached hair pulled back into a ponytail. I shuffled myself over to the host stand where they were having a conversation in Spanish so I quietly waited until the man walked off to the bar. Speaking to the hostess in English, I was told to just sit wherever I liked so I chose a table by the wall.

Once I sat down at the table, I began to read over the menu to see what I should order, but before I could read it through all the way, the man came back and asked me if I was ready to order, but he said it in Spanish. I was caught off guard by this so in a moment of panic, I replied that I was in Spanish. A grin slowly crept onto his face as I said this, so he began to speak some more Spanish to me.

However, I felt my face begin to glow red as I realized that I did not understand a single word that he had just said to me. He could have said something conversational or something related to my order but I did not know. I just stared blankly at him while forcing a smile. A moment of silence lingered between us before I looked back down at the menu and asked for barbacoa tacos and a bottle of Jarritos in Spanish. Still with a smile on his face, he asked me what flavor I wanted. At that moment, every flavor of Jarritos that I had ever tried was erased from my mind so I again stared blankly at him. It took a couple of moments before I blurted out that I wanted the mandarin flavor. Cheerfully, he wrote that down in his notepad and went off. My nerves were, at that moment, frayed like I was just in a screaming match with someone.

Truthfully, I’d been on edge ever since I’ve touched down in Europe. I was cautious of the way I carried myself around others, particularly around white people. I’m not sure if it is because of my “American-ness” or my “Mexican-ness” that I was checking myself to see how much space I was taking up in a given space. Although, that might also just be a consequence of studying at a PWI where I have to continuously put in effort to be palatable to my white peers. My desire to blend in with the crowds always manifested as never speaking a word in class as to not upset the quiet balance of the classroom.

It wasn’t long before the man returned with my plate of tacos, but to my dismay, it was all disassembled. Each individual piece of the taco, from the meat to the tortillas to the onions and cilantro, were all placed on small individual plates and bowls. After getting past my initial shock of how it was all presented, I just started to assemble my tacos one by one, picking up a tortilla and just filling it. Before this lunch, I never liked onions on tacos but I knew I had to put them on mine. They all tasted just like the ones I would get late at night from the trucks, but with just a ten dollar price difference. I finished the tacos off quickly and flagged down the man so that I could pay and get out of there.

Once I paid, I stacked my empty dishes and left. I did not know what to do once outside, so I just started walking back to the bus stop that led me to my place. There was nothing I had planned for the rest of the day so I was just in limbo. There were a few benches that lined some trees off to the side so I walked over to sit down. I took a package of cigarettes out of my pocket and put one in my mouth. All I could think of at that moment was how nice it would be to be back at home, but I didn’t have a plan of what I would do back at home either.

I put out the cigarette on the top of a nearby trash can and took the bag of candy out of my pocket. The way I had twisted the bag earlier made it difficult to open it again, but once I did, I reached my hand in and pulled out a Vero Mango lollipop. I hated the flavor of mango, but that did not matter as I ripped the wrapper off with my teeth and put the lollipop in my mouth.

With a tight grip, I began to crumple the bag in my hands, feeling the various candies inside crumble and warp. The sound of cellophane and plastic crinkling was satisfying as it filled my ears. Once I got the ball small enough, I pushed the bag through the flap of the trash can and let it fall.