Mexico City. 1975. Age 6. Well, 6 1/2 if you had asked me at the time.

My parents had recently divorced, shortly after my sister was born, and my mother decided to take a trip unlike any she’d taken before. Because I was pretty much the perfect kid – except for that one time some prescription meds turned me into a terror for all of one afternoon – I got to go with her while my infant sister was left I have no idea where. With grandparents? Maybe with my dad? That seems unlikely.

Anyway, that trip opened my eyes to a whole new world. One where there are giant stone pyramids that you can climb up and big plazas that women walk across on their knees and distinguished men who sit around all day in the lobbies of hotels with glass in the ceiling that lets light in and who pronounce “Mexico” funny – “meh-hee-co,” as they taught me.

They also had busses that don’t stop moving when it’s time to get off, unless you’re a scared little boy with his obviously not Mexican mother.

What I most remember, well, after the pyramids, was how friendly everyone was. Even that bus driver who didn’t just come to a complete stop for us but also smiled when I looked back at him from the street, relieved.

That friendliness is why I had no fear whatsoever when I told my mother I was going to get her some medicine because she was unable to get out of bed with a stomach bug. Montezuma’s Revenge as she called it then. I was certainly not one to disobey my mother, but she was so sick I knew she didn’t mean it when she feebly told me not to leave the room as I shut the door behind me.

I made my way to the front desk, pesos in pocket, and calmly asked where I could get my mother some medicine to help with her tummy ache. Next thing I know, I’m heading down the street with a young hotel worker who spoke enough English to talk to me and to act as my translator at the drugstore where we ended up. Much to my surprise, we left a few minutes later with a product I knew well – Milk of Magnesia.

I was expecting something far more exotic.

Then came Nantucket, which really didn’t excite me very much. The only thing I remember is Mom being sick again. A year later, Mom and I went to Cozumel, and I remember the “suicide birds” as I called them that dove in front of the Jeep as we drove down the road for reasons I still don’t get. And I definitely remember the topless girl bouncing, er…, walking her way down the beach.

The following year we went on a cruise to the Bahamas with two of my cousins. With Mom sick yet again (noticing a theme to her travel experience?), us three kids had the run of the ship, stopping into the room where Mom was laid up only long enough to get more money to pump into the slot machines in the on-board casino. When she was finally well, I ditched her as my snorkeling buddy to chase my two older cousins. She was super pissed, but she doesn’t even swim! Looking back, I’m not sure what she expected.

After that, travel outside the US slowed to a stop for me, but I never forgot those amazing experiences, especially Mexico City. At age 17, I got my chance to begin collecting passport stamps anew. More on that next time.