Roma Norte Part I

Winds

The first winds of autumn often set strange things into motion. So it was in Mexico City.

One Labor Day weekend, we flew into the Mexican capital for my good friend’s 30th birthday. It was my first time in Mexico City, buzzing with unfamiliar sights and smells, sitting high above sea level elevated at nearly 7,500 feet.

Several of us arrived for the celebration, most being close friends from home.

His mom, sister, and brother-in-law were there as well. His sister was even expecting.

We stayed at two separate villas, one for friends, and one for family.

Karaoke

On what was supposed to be my last night in Mexico City, we dined at one of the city’s finest restaurants. In a private dining room, each course burst with bold flavors and meticulous presentation.

We took pictures and told stories. We sang and laughed. I felt that rare, fleeting sense of being fully present with friends and family, even as the city hummed just beyond the balcony.

After dinner, we strolled through Roma Norte. Smoke from a woman’s cigarette swirled through the warm night air. Locals glanced our way, curious about the foreigners wandering the streets. The city pulsed quietly around us, alive but oblivious to the tiny dramas unfolding on its sidewalks.

We ended up at a karaoke bar, tucked upstairs in a private room, belting out all our favorites.

When karaoke wrapped, most of the group called it a night, walking back to the villas to rest.

Three of us, Michael, Elias, and I, stayed up and set out in search of a late-night bite, hunting the best street tacos in Roma Norte.

The Stranger

The stand was crowded. We waited, then ordered three tacos each: chicken, asada, and al pastor.

We dressed each one with onion, cilantro, lime, and a drizzle of hot salsa, devouring them as if we hadn’t just finished a five-star feast. I can still taste the tang of lime and the heat of chile lingering on my tongue.

That’s when a white American in a checkered shirt and golf shorts approached, leaning in with a puzzled look.

“MVP?” he asked.

Michael wiped his mouth with a napkin and smiled.

“Yessir. MVPs right here. Both of us,” he replied, nodding toward me.

I scanned the sidewalk. I wasn’t in the mood to chat with strangers in a foreign city this late, even American ones.

The stranger raised an eyebrow, grinned, quietly repeated the cryptic acronym, then walked off.

MVP

Elias chuckled. “What the fuck was that?” he asked, polishing off his last taco.

“Game recognize game, I guess,” Michael said, shrugging with a loud laugh. Elias and I shook our heads and laughed too.

Minutes later, as we prepared to head back, a black Range Rover limo eased to the curb. Two men and a woman stepped out.

They looked local, but wore dress shirts with sleeves rolled, pressed pants, and polished shoes. The woman wore heels.

One man had slicked-back hair and towered over the other. We’ll call him Al.

The shorter man was bald, stout, and wore sunglasses, even though it was past midnight. We’ll call him Stevie.

The woman was striking. She had tanned skin, wavy black hair, and a confidence radiating off her. She had the look of Eva Mendes, so we’ll call her Eva.

They spoke softly in Spanish, continuing a conversation from inside the limo.

Al approached us while Stevie grabbed tacos. Eva stayed back, phone in hand, with her hip cocked.

“MVP,” Al said slowly, as if waiting for us to react.

I felt my pulse in my ears, instincts screaming that something was off. I thought of the American in the checkered shirt, who had asked the same cryptic acronym just minutes before.

“No, gracias,” I said.

Al stepped back, hand on his chest, mock-wounded.

“No, gracias?” he asked, smiling, muttering something in Spanish and laughing.

Stevie returned to Al with a plate of tacos as if it had been pre-ordered.

Eva stepped in.

“MVP or no?” she asked sharply, snapping her gum.

Elias asked, “What is that?”

Al mumbled in Spanish, amusing Eva.

She laughed, head down, then popped back up, her hair falling perfectly into place.

“Come and see,” she said, trying to sound American.

“Where at?” Michael asked, incredulous.

“Bro,” I muttered, squinting at him, wondering why he would entertain this.

“Oh, so close,” Eva said with a sly smile and wink, pointing opposite the villa. She was a charming woman.

“No, gracias,” Elias said, waving her off.

“No, thanks,” I added, siding with him.

Eva crossed her arms, tilting her head. Her voice softened.

“I know who you guys are,” she said. “And I know what you want.”

“Look, it’s late,” I told Elias and Michael, glancing at my phone. “We should get back.”

“Yeah, plus, we don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Michael added.

The sidewalk fell silent. Even the grill’s sizzle seemed to fade.

Al’s smile flattened. Eva’s expression hardened. Stevie reamined calm, tossing his plate into the trash.

Al and Stevie slid back into the limo without saying a word, the engine humming low. The driver barely visible.

Eva stepped closer to us. Heels clicking against the pavement.

“Get in the limo, guys. I’m not asking,” she said.

Part II

The events that followed are disputed among us, each recalling a slightly different version. Still, I consider my telling the truest.

The first winds of autumn carry peculiar currents. Never have I been faced with choices so grave than at that taco stand in Roma Norte.

What happened next is a story tangled in both pain and love, a night that would linger in memory long after we returned home.