I am not yet fully awake. I take the elevator down to go to the buffet near my hostel which doesn’t serve breakfast. The lobby is populated by people trying to get stuff done on their computers, young travelers asking about rewarding experiences to the receptionist, the woman whom I decide is the manager of the hostel from watching her ordering people around for the last couple of days. Even though the individuals change, the roles remain the same, a morning just like any other… I nod to the fellow patrons who have extended their trips like I have as I see myself out. Chaotic Mexico City has its own unique air and scent. The traffic on the main avenue where I am is quite calm. I think the avenue that is usually filled with claxon noises and a sea of exhaust has not yet started its day.As I leave the hostel, I take a look around as if I am trying to decide on something important. In fact, I know where I’m going, what I’m eating. I will eat a hot cheese and meat sandwich and drink some juice at the buffet that’s about 400 meters away, and get coffee from the cheap place. I like creating routines in the cities where I stay for a while. It enforces my bond with the city. At the same time, I love the irony that I was traveling to escape my routines in the first place. The grass is always greener.I smell something familiar on the way to the buffet. It’s a smell I am familiar with from Istanbul, but I can’t quite place it. I sit down on a sidewalk stool at the buffet and my brain starts working as I take my first few sips of juice. I notice two people dressed as cowboys a few stools away, with horses right behind them. As I start to wonder what they are doing in the middle of the city, I see hundreds of horsemen touring the avenue. I then name that familiar smell, horse feces,&nbsp;a smell that I remember from the Prince’s Islands of Istanbul.<img src="https://images.aposto.com/2022/6/3/1658920314567.jpeg" style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="0.80" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">I quickly devour my sandwich and start wandering around the avenue. I learn that on the third week of November, people come from all over Mexico to the capital to celebrate the revolution and that they are waiting for the parade in the biggest plaza of the city. Men and women are dressed in beautiful local clothing. From in between the most beautiful, well-kept horses, a young man calls out to me as I wander among the horsemen. We start a conversation with my broken Spanish and his broken English. This is how I meet Angel, whom I learned came from the&nbsp;Tlaxcala region. He tells me that they came to celebrate the revolution as a family and introduces me to his whole family. Then he asks if I want a ride and puts me on his horse. All of a sudden, I find myself riding around the streets of the capital among the traditionally dressed Mexicans. After a while, Angel hands over the horse's bridle to me and disappears. We are left alone with “Turbo”, with whom I wander back and forth on the street. Meanwhile, other horsemen from other regions come along and we take pictures together. They seem happy about a "gringo" plunging into the middle of the revolution celebration on horseback.<img src="https://images.aposto.com/2022/6/3/1658920346431.jpeg" style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="0.80" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">In a little bit, Angel returns with an opened cardboard juice box and hands it to the horse. "Vodka," he says, laughing when he notices me trying to figure out what it is. "A good morning," I say to myself. When traveling, a person doesn’t know they will remember a moment for a lifetime while it’s still happening. But this moment is the opposite because everyone would know that they will remember the moment they drank vodka with traces of fruit juice among Mexicans in traditional clothes celebrating the revolution in Mexico City – on a horse. As we sip more vodka, we start shouting Viva Zapata. There is a sense that if I continue drinking and riding for a little longer, I might receive honorary citizenship. After a while, I look at my watch and realize that I have a meeting to catch. It's time for me to come back from being Lucky Luke to my real life. I say goodbye to Angel and his family, stroking Turbo's head and thanking him. While I was thinking I woke up to an ordinary morning, I mingle with people trying to catch up on the streets of the giant metropolis with a smile on my face with this strange memory presented to me by Mexico City.<img src="https://images.aposto.com/2022/6/3/1658920361324.jpeg" style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="0.80" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">

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