I’ve been living in Mexico City for four months now.
Every piece of research I did for Mexico all seemed to center on this big, smoggy city: Films were set here, musicians grew up and played their first gigs here, protesters and politicians flocked here to make their views publicly known, my husband ( 
) and one of my idols, Frida Kahlo, called it their home …
The more I read about this city, the more I was determined to settle there and teach English for a few years. I’ve always loved big cities and I knew I’d love D.F. I’d find inspiration and excitement from the craziness of one of the biggest cities in the world and get the chance to live amongst a different culture and speak a different language at the same time.
But I was wrong.
I arrived in late December 2011 but never felt that spark, that inspiration, that joy, excitement or happiness I was expecting. Instead, I was faced with smog, chest infections, another robbery, stern faces and dangerous traffic. The city was cold, grey and had some of the ugliest parts of the Western world.
There were some parts I loved – the whole of Condesa, Frida Kahlo’s house, the beautiful Ángel de la Independencia. But I didn’t feel any connection. I expected my heart to feel something towards this city; Something that would tell me I was in the right place, doing the right thing. But nothing ever came.
It was actually a disappointment.
Then I took a break from it all and went to California.
And something strange happened.
