A "Trailing Spouse" figures out Mexico City

"So you’re going to Mexico for a year? That’ll be fun. Do you have work lined up?”

“Oh, I’m sure something will come along. I’ll work for the Canadian Embassy or something.”

“How’s your Spanish?”

“Well, nonexistent really, but I’ll be immersed plus I already know French, so I’m sure I’ll pick it up no problem.”

It wasn’t quite that easy.

I didn’t come to Mexico of my own choosing, exactly. My wife Amie is a PhD student in Mexican history at the University of Arizona, and this past year she dedicated herself to archival research in the DF. Whether or not I would accompany her wasn’t much of a decision: we had spent one long year apart while she pursued her Master’s, and doing it again wasn’t a real option.

Though we arrived in Mexico City to a comfortable furnished apartment in the Zona Rosa, I experienced occasional bouts of pouty resentment during the first few weeks. My frustration was exacerbated by communication difficulties: despite knowing for years that this move was coming, I never bothered taking Spanish classes— nor had I planned anything useful to do with my time.

My peers back home in Toronto were all buying houses with backyards, having kids, and adopting all those routines that so many equate with growing up and making a success out of life. Meanwhile, here I was unemployed and living on a shoestring budget in Mexico City.

Luckily, my wife and I had a built-in support network. Other student researchers were always up for exploring the city with us, or just going out for a beer. This was important, as “trailing spouses” like me often face the risk of social isolation in an unfamiliar setting.

After that first doubt-ridden month, my Spanish started to improve, thanks to an excellent tutor who I was able to hire after landing some gainful employment, both as an English teacher and as a copyeditor at this magazine. Work colleagues broadened our social group, which meant fewer evenings spent gazing mindlessly at some bar-room TV while my wife and her colleagues droned on about grant applications and creepy archivists.

Phone conversations with friends back in Canada also helped. I like to think that I heard the occasional hint of envy in my friends’ voices as they listened from their nice houses, with their kids and their routines, to my tales of climbing thousand-year-old pyramids, dancing all night to Cuban salsa bands, and cheering on soccer teams with a hundred thousand other fans.

By the time our stay came to an end this past June, I wasn’t sure I actually wanted to leave. I had gotten to know the city from Azcapotzalco to Villa Coapa, and though it remained in turn captivating, frightening, and infuriating, it felt like home. It’s too early to tell, but the friendships I made there seem like they will last, and living there offered me some great opportunities and forced me to seize them. Whatever fleeting resentment I once felt towards my wife’s career for abducting us to Mexico City has been replaced by gratitude. Her work will bring us back often in the years to come. 

Jonathan Jucker and Amie Kiddle lived in Mexico City from September 2007 to June 2008 while Amie researched Mexican-Latin American relations. Now back in Tucson, they are searching desperately for tacos al pastor.