Manny: “I decided to start my own band.”
Me: “Yeah?”
Manny: “Yeah. Can you guess the name?”
Me: “My Own Band?”
Manny: “No.”
Me: “…”
Manny: “What’s my name?”
Me: “Emmanuel Sevilla.”
Manny: “Bingo!”

There is still lots to pack. If we could, we’d take this apartment with us to Los Angeles.

Last weekend in Mexico City/Dreaming of Los Angeles.

Sundays in Condesa are easy to manage when all you want is a simple stroll. The neighborhood is full of parks and green space, and almost all shops are closed for the day. It equals minimal traffic and unusually deadened noise pollution in the city. After a memorable evening, we needed a simple photo shoot and relaxation.

Our host decided his largest dinner party would be to say Adios! to us. The ambience was consistent with everything we’d ever experienced here; the aroma from the kitchen notified us there wouldn’t be many surprises. Tonight, like every dinner party here, would be delightful in the most raucous way. We greeted Michael and he told us Araceli had created a four-course meal she knew Anna would enjoy. Guts around the room immediately swooned. But she could have served anything for us tonight. Araceli is, without a doubt, Mozart in the kitchen.

There is no other Republica de Cuba street quite like this one. For two years, we were granted the privilege to attend multiple dinner parties with some extraordinarily warm, intelligent and festive people. But as our friends sat, the candles flickering brilliantly enough to let me capture the evening through my lens, I began to realize that this would not be, could not be replicated anywhere else. The friendships, the music, the food, the preparations, the seating arrangements, the time-warping, the discussions, Araceli’s cooking, the laughter, records, rolodex, bow-ties, name cards, and Virgencita aprons, were all unique moments rapidly fleeting. Evenings like this – in the beautiful monstrosity of DF – would no longer be a regular occurrence in our lives. Like Anna said at the end of the evening, “It feels like an end of an era.”

I walked through Chapultepec market and found a man calling out challengers to find which bottle cap was hiding his little marble. The stench of raw meat was heavy in the air. I stood and watched for a few minutes. A man with a mullet bit his lip and stared nervously at the caps shifting back-and-forth. Another man stood and gazed at everyone else. A woman with child allowed a few seconds of gawking and then scurried along. I took my camera out and didn’t even get the lens cap off before a stern reprimand was leveled on my ass. “Quita tu pinche cámara! “Put away your fucking camera!” The man, with a towel now draped over the bottle caps, shot eyes of death at me. I smiled nervously and went on my way without saying a word.

My face was down, my camera hidden from sight and inspiration sunk into my hard, cold shell. He was right. Why was I trying to get photographs of a scam? Who the hell was I? I stopped to get a cup of coffee and read a free magazine DF bookstores were giving out. I came to this sketch and felt better. I left energized, grabbed my camera and came to this scene.

Conejoblanco was empty. I had the entire store to photograph without anyone interrupting me. The hardwood cracked, my shutter echoed, but no one came up. I went from room to room until I got to the bathroom. There were books everywhere. In the sink. In the tub. On the toilet. I reached over for Peter Kuper’s “Diarios De Oaxaca.” The sketches were riddled with images of Mixtecos and soldiers. Finally I heard a voice. A customer walked in asking for a collection of someone for someone. I put the book down. My private time was over.

I recognized the street corner. I had stopped there with my friends last April when it was a cafe. The place – scrapped from my memory – maintained a beautiful espresso machine and served a perfect cortadito. Now the corner was home to La Nacional and it’s mezcal joint, La Botica.

I looked into the restaurant and didn’t see anyone I knew. An open door adjacent to La Nacional looked more like a storage area for the restaurant, but then I saw the caballitos. We looked in and Alexis was there. The bottles of mezcal were plenty, but I could already feel an overwhelming sense of indecision coming on. The menu, written on a piece of what looked to be rain-soaked cardboard, made things a little easier. Osito ordered “el mas suave” and I went for the same. The first sip was earthy and robust. The second made me say “damn” and wince like the first time I ever tried absinthe. I took periodic chugs of my beer, but it only made me drink everything else faster. I switched to a cocktail laced with worm salt and, suddenly, everything became extremely clear. Mezcal, the artisanal badge of honor for the hip in Mexico City, wasn’t going to win me over this night.

I gave Matt my camera so he could take a few shots of us. I’m hardly ever ready to relinquish the role as memory-capturer, but today was a special occasion. This marks my last day with the StoryCorps’ team. We only gathered three times during my tenure at StoryCorps. We met for training, we met for a mid-year retreat, and now we meet again for our departure. Five of us our leaving, a sixth leaves in late August.

I’ve never worked with a more mature, dedicated, smart, humorous, passionate and loving group of people. They’ve set the level extremely high for my next job. In fact, I’m terrified I’ll spend time without collaborating with gifted individuals like you see above. When words fail me, I turn to images that say what I cannot. Below, a tribute to the year that I’ll be reflecting on for the rest of my life.

Farewell To A Great Year from Alejandro De La Cruz on Vimeo.

You call this place awkward. I call this place “childhood.”