The Layover (MMF)

My canceled flight led to a night of mezcal, cumbia and a cramped hostel bunk getting pinned between a brooding German and a cheerful Swede.

I've got this theory that the universe occasionally gets bored and decides to fuck with your travel plans just to see what you'll do. My plan was simple: Portland to Lima, with a quick, painless connection in Mexico City. I'd be sipping a pisco sour near Machu Picchu within twenty-four hours.

The universe, apparently, had other ideas.

The email arrived with a sterile, apologetic ping while I was still standing in the customs line at MEX. "Flight Cancellation Notice." A mechanical issue. The next available flight wasn't for another 26 hours.

Fuck.

A lesser woman might have cried, or yelled at an underpaid airline employee. Years of bartending have burned that impulse out of me; you just deal with the spill and move on. I spent ten minutes leaning against a pillar, scrolling through the Hostelworld app on the shitty airport Wi-Fi.

My criteria were simple: cheap, not a murder den, and a bar. Preferably a rooftop bar.

I found one in Roma Norte that looked perfect. Pictures showed colorful murals, aggressively cheerful font on the signage, and a rooftop patio with plastic chairs and a view. Good enough. I booked a bed in a four-person shared room, figuring I could handle snoring strangers for one night.

The Uber ride from the airport was a chaotic symphony of horns, Spanish radio, and the thick, humid air of a city that never really sleeps. Roma Norte was beautiful, though. Big trees arched over the streets, and old colonial buildings sat next to modern glass-fronted cafes. The hostel itself was exactly as advertised: a little worn, smelled faintly of damp concrete and cleaning supplies, but undeniably cool. The guy at the desk had a nose ring and a bored expression that I recognized from half the hipsters back in Portland. He handed me a keycard for Room 3B and pointed vaguely towards the stairs. "Rooftop is open 'til midnight," he mumbled.

My room was small. Two sets of metal bunk beds, four lockers, and one window that looked out onto a brick wall. It was empty, for now. I claimed a bottom bunk, tossed my backpack into the locker, and locked it. All I kept out was my phone, my wallet, and my journal. The air in the room was stuffy and hot. The idea of staying in here for more than the five minutes it took to drop my shit was suffocating. Rooftop it was.

The bar was just a small counter with a couple of coolers full of Cerveza Pacífico and some dusty bottles of tequila, but the patio was the real draw. It looked out over the neighborhood's treetops. The sun was setting, painting the hazy sky in shades of orange and pink. A few other backpackers were scattered around, speaking a mix of English, French, and German. I grabbed a beer, found an empty table in the corner, and settled in to feel sorry for myself.

That lasted about half a beer. Self-pity is boring. People-watching is not. My bartender senses took over, scanning the small crowd. My eyes landed on two guys at a table near the edge of the roof. They were slumped over their own beers, looking defeated. One was tall and lanky, with dark, floppy hair that he kept pushing out of his eyes. He had a serious, almost brooding look on his face. German, I guessed from the accent I could faintly hear. The other was his opposite: blond, broad-shouldered, with a kind of golden retriever energy even in his dejection. His eyes, even from across the patio, were a startling, bright blue. Swedish, maybe?

I couldn't hear their whole conversation, just snippets carried on the breeze. "...total rip-off..." and "...paid twenty dollars for that?" and the blond one sighing, "...at least the picture was nice."

Tourist trap. Classic. They'd probably been suckered into one of those polished, sterile restaurants in the Zócalo that serves microwaved tacos to unsuspecting foreigners. I knew the type.

I watched them for another minute. The dark-haired one gestured emphatically with his hands, long fingers tracing shapes of disappointment in the air. The blond one just nodded, taking a long pull from his bottle. I saw the moment their conversation died, leaving them in that awkward silence of a shared bad experience.

Fuck it. My layover was already a wash; might as well make it interesting.

I stood up, walked over to their table, and pointed at their empty bottles with my own. "Let me guess. You went to that place with the giant sombreros on the wall and the laminated menus."

The blond one looked up, and his blue eyes were even brighter up close. A slow grin spread across his face. "Is it that obvious?" he asked. His English was almost perfect, with just a hint of that sing-song Swedish rhythm.

The German just grunted. "It was a culinary tragedy."

"Hugo is a bit dramatic," the Swede said, sticking out a hand. "I'm Filip."

"Nice to meet you," I said, shaking his hand. It was warm and solid. "And Hugo is right. You got fleeced." I turned to Hugo. His eyes were a dark, thoughtful brown. He looked me over, not in a creepy way, but like he was analyzing me.

"You are American," he stated. It wasn't a question.

"Guilty. And you're a victim of bad tacos. A crime here in Mexico City." I took a seat without waiting for an invitation. "Tell me everything. I need to know the extent of the damage."

Filip laughed, a loud, happy sound. He explained how a promoter on the street had promised them the "most authentic food in the city," and led them to a brightly lit tourist trap. They'd been served lukewarm meat on stale tortillas.

I listened, nodding sympathetically. This was my territory. Back home, I could tell you the best IPA, the dirtiest dive bar, and the food truck with the most life-changing carnitas within a five-block radius of anywhere in Portland. Turns out, the skill is transferable.

"Okay," I said, leaning forward and lowering my voice like I was sharing a state secret. "Here's what you're going to do. We're going to leave this place. We're going to find a street vendor with a giant flaming cone of meat called a trompo. You're going to order al pastor. It's going to be greasy, and it's going to be served on a tiny corn tortilla with pineapple, onion, and cilantro. It will cost you about a dollar. And it will change your life." I paused. "Then, we find a real mezcalería. Not a tourist bar. A little hole-in-the-wall place that smells like smoke and limes. We're going to drink mezcal until the city starts to feel like a dream."

They stared at me. Filip looked like a kid who'd just been told Santa Claus was real. Hugo's serious expression had cracked, replaced by a look of intrigued curiosity. His dark eyes flickered from mine down to my mouth and back up again.

"You seem to know what you are talking about," Hugo said, his voice a low rumble.

"It's a bartender's intuition," I said with a shrug. "I know a tourist trap when I see one, and I know how to find the real deal."

Filip leaned forward, his blue eyes practically sparkling. "Will you be our guide? Our taco-and-mezcal-prophet?"

I looked at both of them. At Hugo's intense, searching gaze and the promise of a sharp mind behind it. At Filip's easy smile and the sheer, uncomplicated fun he radiated. A forced 24-hour layover. A cheap hostel. And two hot European backpackers in need of a proper adventure. The universe hadn't fucked up my plans. It had given me better ones.

"Of course," I said, a slow smile spreading across my face. "Get your wallets. It's time for your real education to begin."

The walk back from the mezcalería was a blur. The streets of Roma Norte had come alive, spilling over with a spontaneous party. A cumbia band played on a corner, the brassy sound echoing off the buildings. People were dancing, laughing, drinking beers they bought from coolers on the sidewalk. The air smelled like grilled corn, exhaust fumes, and joy.

The alcohol had sanded down all my sharp edges, leaving me warm and open. Filip, buzzed and happy, grabbed my hand and pulled me into the moving crowd, spinning me around. I laughed, a real, deep laugh that came from my stomach. Over his shoulder, I saw Hugo watching us. He wasn't smiling, but his dark eyes were fixed on me, an intensity in them that cut right through the mezcal haze.

He moved through the crowd and put a hand on the small of my back, a steadying, proprietary pressure. Just a simple gesture to keep me from getting swallowed by the throng, but it sent a jolt straight to my cunt. Filip was still holding my hand, his thumb stroking my palm. I was sandwiched between them, a bubble of heat and potential in the middle of the chaos. My head was light, my body was heavy with a feeling I knew all too well.

It was the feeling right before the storm hits.

We bought another round of beers and drank them walking, our shoulders bumping, our fingers brushing. The talk was easy, pointless stuff about their travels, about my life in Portland. But underneath the words, something else was building. Every shared look lasted a second too long.

When we finally got back to the hostel, the sudden quiet of the hallway was deafening. The party noise faded behind us. It was just the three of us, the buzz of the fluorescent lights, and the keycard in my hand. Room 3B. I suddenly remembered the two empty beds besides my own.