Postcard from Mexico City

Mariana Oliver

Translated from the Spanish by Julia Sanches

I live in the south of Mexico City, in one of those towns on the outskirts that the city has engulfed. One advantage of living here, far from the commotion of the center, is how easy it is to leave. All I need is ten minutes of negotiating traffic lights, dodging motorcycles and badly parked cars. Ten minutes at a steady velocity of 90 km/hr with Rita Indiana’s voice thrumming between my fingers as I hold on to the steering wheel, siento que vuelo/pero no suelto el suelo/anillo pa’ tu dedo/colmillo de rubí. Then the scenery fills with green and the sky drops closer so that I can breathe it in. Every curve in the road is a revelation. I learned to drive at the age of thirty-two. To accelerate. To maintain a safe following distance. To brake. To anticipate the movements of other drivers. To keep my eyes ahead. To always check the rearview mirror. To never, ever mistake the accelerator for the brake pedal. This is a common error.

P. said I would feel freer once I could drive. She was right. I learned to move without my foot hovering over the brake pedal. I learned to enjoy the changing color of the landscape and the musical velocity. Maybe the horizon is the point where imagination and desire begin. When faced with a fork in the road, it’s impossible not to wonder where it will take you, and choosing one direction always means imagining what the other could have been. And then forgetting all about it and enjoying the road ahead.

Mariana Oliver was born in Mexico City in 1986. She is the author Migratory Birds.