Tequila Stories

Our last day in Mexico City was intentionally low effort. We had already packed the night before, so we only had to locate the stray socks and chargers that like to hide in hotel rooms. Late morning, we enjoyed a 90-minute massage, which put us in the calm, loose-limbed mood in which absolutely nothing seems urgent — except, apparently, tequila.

I mentioned to the concierge that I couldn’t find Jose Cuervo Reserva de la Familia Reposado anywhere nearby. With the competence of someone who has solved this exact problem at least 200 times, she called another shop and confirmed they had it: 1250 pesos (about $68). I handed her 1500 pesos and she dispatched a tequila courier. By checkout, the bottle was bubble-wrapped like a newborn baby and waiting for me. Final trip task: complete. Felt like a victory.

The hotel arranged a car to the airport, and we merged into Mexico City traffic — which is like watching a school of fish, except the fish are compact cars and nobody seems particularly concerned about personal space. Cars weave so closely you could probably exchange lip balm through the windows, yet no one honks. (Ahem, India. Please take notes.)

At the airport, check-in was quick and they secured a wheelchair and attendant for us. Then we faced security, where I suddenly realized: we had not checked a bag. And the tequila — my beautiful, bubble-wrapped, concierge-acquired tequila — was in the carry-on. I could practically hear the slow-motion “Nooooooo…”

Security in CDMX involves removing everything you have ever owned or thought about owning — belt, wallet, phone, laptop, passport, ticket, dignity. The bottle was, of course, confiscated. I try to picture its fate. Did someone drink it? Gift it to their manager? Sell it in the parking lot? I hope whoever got it appreciates the flavor notes of my sorrow.

Our attendant led us to the AmEx Centurion Lounge and told us exactly when he’d return to take us to the gate. I knew he’d be back because I hadn’t tipped him yet. Sure enough, right on schedule, there he was — reliable as church bells — and off we went through the terminal labyrinth. Truly, the best part of wheelchair assistance is not actually the chair — it’s not having to think. He knew every corridor. We just trailed behind like obedient ducklings.

On the way, we had a less-than-charming encounter. A guy in his 20s or 30s was walking slowly ahead of us, and our attendant said, perfectly politely, “Excuse us.” The guy whipped around and started yelling at him for speaking English instead of Spanish. It was dramatic, unnecessary, and the human equivalent of someone honking in that beautiful Mexico City traffic stream. Cathy lashed back at the intruder and told him off. Because of that he backed off and let our pusher alone. Our attendant, who was probably in his late 60s or 70s, handled it with quiet patience. At the gate, he apologized repeatedly. I tipped him generously — and sincerely.

The flight home was uneventful. We landed, Uber Black arrived in two minutes, and just like that, we were back.

Our tequila, however, lives on — somewhere — in the loving arms of airport security.