On the way to Playa Azul in Manzanillo, Mexico were long stretches of sun-speckled sand, iridescent iguanas sunning themselves on the rocks, large as my forearm and thicker still. A man in the ocean threw jellyfish onto the shore; they landed softly, translucent bodies distended. I hopped over rivulets of water, scaring the mottled brown sandpipers that scuttled in and out of the waves. At the playa, I rushed into the water, felt it stinging cold on my skin, the tang of salt in the back of my throat. Far away, bright umbrellas popped open like mushrooms upon the sand.
Afterwards I made my way past the beachside restaurants to the main road. Along it were stands with open entrances and one word signs. In front of one, a woman with dark curls pulled into a bun smiled at me an invitation; I stepped inside. At the table, she set down a ring of condiments: perfectly cooked pinto beans as well as pico de gallo, tangy salsa verde and a fiery sweet chipotle salsa. Freshly diced onions and sliced radishes thin enough to see through. Tiny limes and pickled carrots and jalapenos. From my booth, I could see her chopping the pork on the griddle, smoke rising between her rapid hands. The corn tortilla she brought was thin and wider than any others I had had, filled with the warmth of tender aromatic meat. I slipped in the salsa, the beans and onions, squeezed a lime quarter, and took a bite.
The pork was savory, the onions sharp, the cilantro with its signature scent haunting my nose. The textures of crunchy onion along with tender meat and firm beans, the brightness of the salsa and acidity of the lime, came together in a delicious whole. Like Mexico itself, with its gold-tinged beaches and tourists, with its construction-filled cities and roadside vendors, with its indoor markets and clay pottery—the taco reflected the disparate parts that make a whole. I watched the dusty road, with the ocean shimmering behind the buildings, and took another bite.
