I’ve got this skinny tie in my closet. The back tag that was used to hold the tail used to say “100% Thai Silk” and I referred to it as my Thai Tie. My grandma gave it to me when I was 13 years old. She said it was my grandpa’s. I never really met or knew him but the sentiment was sweet, and it was 2010 - skinny ties were in. It’s an odd thing to choose, rather goofy really. I’m not a small man, but I had a small self-esteem. Picture a 6’0” 240 pound 16 year old trying to find the courage to wear a tie that’s skinnier than his esophagus and smaller than two of his fingers. A small tie on a big boy is comical, but discovering more about the man who wore this tie in devastating tropical heat wasn’t. A skinny, lanky, tall British man so pale the sun made him red and only red. He was balding, had blonde hair, spoke with a Geordie accent, drank rum, and grew bananas. I never really knew him, only the version of him my mom would retell - him drunk, being verbally abusive from time to time, having standards so high, always needing to be aggressively right, but would never lay a hand on a woman (except that one time with my grandma when he was too drunk. He cried over that for days I heard). He studied bananas and received awards from someone somewhere. Something about taxonomies and honorary doctorates and strains of bananas still used in South America. I heard he almost beat me once for tearing the petals off his flower. He sent my uncles off to boarding school in England at 12 because the education in Jamaica wasn’t “good enough.” One of those uncles is estranged now with cousins I’ve never met. I’m not sure if my grandpa expected this. He died of cancer when I was 4. I still have the tie. It’s a nice reminder. I can see where my mom became my mom and my uncles became my uncle and my aunt my aunt. I don’t wear the tie. It’s still too “small” for me and who I’ve become, but I hear it fit him well.

     Honestly shocked that I had not gotten my way this time - I moved on and enjoyed an always wonderful time waking up early to crisp air, eating plate-fulls of powdered eggs, and piling into warm vans, driven by cute college boys to play tennis at the nicest courts in the city. Not so bad. Quickly to fall in love, but quickly to move on - the sweater of a week ago had left my mind, and the soon promise of a full stocking and presents to unwrap kept my spirits high.

     Christmas morning began with all the usual traditions of our three-person household - ‘Cafe Christmas’ blasting on the speakers; me, sipping egg nog from a whisky glass; stocking first, already high on it all. A few presents down, I then unwrapped a flimsy clothing box and in just as much disbelief, pulled back a layer of tissue paper to reveal a folded blue sweater. They had pulled the long con - enduring my disappointment to see me light up on Christmas morning. Never had I ever had such faith in my parents, so much gratitude.

     A few years ago, for Christmas, my dad, in his usual way, gave me an odd but charming set of gifts. Like me, he rarely buys anything new—a trait I’ve inherited and wear proudly. That year, he gave me a pair of work gloves, a humorous trinket, and a small terracotta ashtray, about three inches in diameter, chipped on one side. The ashtray is what fucked me up. Meaning, took me through a kind of time warp that I thought about for days.

     In 1988, I left my country for the first time. My parents and I were headed to Mexico, and I remember the excitement: picking out clothes, my dad letting me bring his beloved silver Sanyo cassette "Walkman" knockoff, and a recent pop hits sampler from Avon that I played endlessly. We spent a night at my grandparents' farm in Coal County, said goodbye to my recently acquired baby sister, and set off for the first trip in a while that would be just the three of us.

     We began  in Mexico City—my first truly big city and my first experience not knowing the language. We spent days exploring amazing buildings, sprawling parks, and ancient pyramids. I took my first taxis, subway trains, and buses and became infatuated with watching a large city move in a way I still find romantic.

     After a few days, we headed to our real destination: Morelia. In the 1980s, Mexico still had many relics from the post-war years, including the art deco stainless-steel passenger trains straight out of 1950s American movies. We had a small bedroom with bunks and a tiny bathroom, ate some food, explored a little, and went to sleep. By morning, we’d arrived.

     Morelia, officially founded in 1544, still boasts one of the world’s best collections of Spanish colonial architecture, now a UNESCO heritage site. Unlike most cities that undergo constant rebuilding, many of Morelia’s 17th- and 18th-century buildings have simply endured. It wasn’t just the iconic twin-towered cathedral or the towering Roman aqueduct that carried water to the city into the 20th century. It was the entire city center: the bodega, the taqueria, the post office.

     The Hotel Virrey de Mendoza (named for the first Viceroy of what would become Morelia) was, and perhaps still is, the grandest place I’d ever seen. Built from the pink stone quarried near Morelia, this opulent former Spanish state palace was completed around 1744, the same year as Morelia’s cathedral at the end of a 100+ year construction. Long before the internet, hotels like this remained privately owned and untouched. It held its original 18th-century chess tables with intricate inlays, massive ancient succulents in terracotta pots, and genuine suits of Spanish Conquistador armor, all undisturbed. Each morning in the courtyard restaurant, the plates of the best fresh fruits in the world were served as casually as chips and salsa back home, live piano music played, and guests read books and sipped coffee in the grand suites above, framed by 400-year-old doorways and gently lit through an excessively opulent stained-glass ceiling. Exploring the building was unforgettable and sparked lifelong curiosities that are deeply important to me. But, by 2023, memories were mostly all I had of this place.

Note: Morelia remains a stunning UNESCO World Heritage site, though unfortunately, it is located in the state of Michoacán, an area currently affected by narco conflicts in Mexico. The hotel was renovated in 1991, and while some of its original charm was altered, it remains open. I look forward to a day when travel to this beautiful city is both affordable and safe again—I would love to stay there once more.