I reread some of my old columns this week and I found myself  wondering where I was when I wrote them.

Not where I was physically, but where I was in my head. Because so many of them I wouldn’t be able to write anymore.

Security guards with their fingers on the trigger of a big rifle? I hardly notice them. Peso prices with dollar signs that shocked me with the number of digits? I translate those numbers without pause and no need of a calculator.   Manicured trees along sidewalks? I walk right past them. Even when the trunks are painted in zebra stripes.  

It is, of course, familiarity. You live in a place long enough and nothing is new. The things that other people notice are the things that you walk right past.

You quit reaching for your camera at the sight of every colorful mural or ornamental gate. You give up those meandering walks that took you down undiscovered streets with names of famous authors. 

You’re body begins to respond to the minor changes in the weather and you actually pull out a coat in December and an umbrella in May as protection from the sun. You already know which type of taco you prefer so there’s no need to order one of each or to try every taqueria you see.

Your plate becomes a little less interesting, but you grow more comfortable.

You may be living in a foreign land, but it doesn’t feel foreign. It feels like home. That place that you take for granted until you leave. The place that’s full of memories of a lilting cadence and salsa on your potato chips. A time that was soft and enveloping and vibrant. 

Oh, the things that I’ll write about Guadalajara when I’m gone.