The Prepaid Musician Plays Bad Music: Part II

“Músico pagado toca mal son”
—My grandmother and all of Mexico

1.

“How many days will you be in the United States?” the customs officer asks me in Spanish with some English-speaking intonations. 

“Fifteen days. I’ll be here for eleven, and four in New York,” I answer. 

I pull out my phone and show him the flights from San Francisco to New York and from New York to Mexico City. He asks no more questions and stamps my passport while wishing me a pleasant stay. I identify some Mexicans by the passport in their hands. One of them is on the phone. Posh people from Mexico City with a Valley Girl Spanish, so by the accent, and the ugly Alexander McQueen sneakers with the chunky soles, they’re clearly rich kids coming to study at some university in the Bay Area.

More than art, I’m interested in people and cities (in that order). I suppose without the latter two, the first can’t exist. Before landing, I save some videos on my phone showing cul-de-sacs and curved streets in the suburbs covered by low clouds and intermittent pools of water mixing with roads and avenues. The air in U.S. airports always feels different—like it’s “cleaner,” but with a certain artificiality, plus the fact that here people don’t use “Fabuloso” cleaner. We’re now waiting by the luggage belts for our bags. After picking them up, we walk to the oversized items section to collect the tube containing my paintings, which form a diptych. The journey of this piece began in my improvised studio at the artist-run space “Hooogar” in Guadalajara, Jalisco. It then traveled six hours by road to Mexico City in a roll of polifoam and wax paper, spent a few days at my parents’ house, and after six hours of flying, it’s finally in San Francisco.

While the taxi drives us to the Mission District, I’m struck by the fog surrounding the typical gray concrete of the highways. I remember from the first time I came here how the Sutro Tower disrupted the idyllic San Franciscan landscape from the top of a mountain, but this time the mountain peaks are hidden by thick fog. Coming from a culture where all buildings are made of brick and concrete, I’m still amazed by the sight of Victorian wooden houses over 100 years old standing. 

My accommodation for these days is a cozy attic that also serves as an artist studio, and has a meditation room that dates back to when some hippies lived there in the ’60s. After organizing my things and working for a while in the kitchen, we go out to visit the gallery, Climate Control, in person.

We walk to the BART train station on the corner of Mission Street and 24th; this corner reminds me a lot of Mexico—not only because it’s surrounded by Spanish speakers and Latin American businesses, but because the dynamics around that station could easily be found at the exit of a subway station in Mexico City or a light rail stop in Guadalajara. Some local youngsters use that architectural landmark as a meeting point with their friends, others walk in circles speaking loudly in Spanish on their phones. An informal commerce completes the scene with juicy offers on beauty products and other items spread out on the ground. Just like in Mexico, I don’t question the origin of these products. “No mames, that looks like a good spot to skate, man” I tell Nicolás. “Actually, it appears in several famous skate videos,” my gallerist replies. With that info alone, I immediately grow fond of the Mission District.

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Climate Control is a large space with a program that caught my attention online, thanks to two artists from Mexico and Peru who have exhibited there. Leonel Salguero, a painter, sculptor, sound artist, and skilled skater born in Ciudad Obregón, Sonora; and Alonso León Velarde, a Peruvian painter born in Lima, whose work I’ve curated when discussing the ongoing relevance of abstract painting in Latin America. The gallery has two main exhibition spaces—one facing the street, where the work interacts directly with the avenue and its rhythm, and another, more intimate, in the back for isolated, contemplative engagement. These spatial dynamics allow curatorial play between participatory and meditative formats depending on the show. In the center, between the two exhibition areas, there’s a third space that serves as office, social space, workshop, and storage.

My first meal in San Francisco is a slice of sausage and cheese pizza at a place called Serranos, a couple of blocks from the gallery, where I also order a Shasta root beer. I don’t know if it’s the perfect pairing, but root beer is exotic enough for me as a Mexican to make it my first drink on U.S. soil on this trip (the second being homemade kombucha at my hosts’ house).

The next day we have breakfast at Mission’s Kitchen, a restaurant offering a selection of Mexican dishes, with chilaquiles that, to my surprise, have a taste and texture quite close to their Mexican counterpart. They're served in a setting that resembles the stereotype foreigners have of an “American diner”. Throughout my trip I’ll continue to be amazed by places like this, because the aesthetic homogenization of the tech revolution has left cities full of dull, repetitive corners, where you can’t tell if you’re on Valencia Street or in Guadalajara, Jalisco.

While we work at the gallery, Morgan Corbitt arrives—one of the local artists in the show. She brings some more pieces for Nicolás and me to check out. After chatting for a while, we agree that I’ll visit her studio formally after the opening. 

After installing the show for several hours, listening to Teddy Pendergrass, ’90s Hip-hop and R&B, and some jazz, drinking La Croix, and me consuming high doses of ZYN, we decide to go for coffee. “I want to give you a little tour of the area,” Nicolás says. I accept. 

We close the gallery, and walk along Mission Street, where I get excited seeing stores selling brands like Dickies and Ben Davis. My favorite becomes one named “King of Fashions: Clothing Ropas.” Even though everything can now be bought online, my head is still stuck in those early 2000s post-NAFTA years when I’d get excited finding those brands that didn’t yet reach Mexico.

Some storefronts suggest they were once cinemas, but now they’re closed or turned into miscellaneous shops. Other stores sell cheap souvenirs, weed paraphernalia, t-shirts with Peso Pluma’s face, and jerseys from Mexican and Central American football clubs. Nothing too far from what you’d find in the San Juan de Dios neighborhood streets in Guadalajara.

Later we meet up with Emily Small, who works on various tasks at Climate Control, particularly writing texts. To get there, Nicolás shows me how to take the Folsom Street bus downtown and then walk to Chinatown. As the bus moves forward, the houses start turning into industrial warehouses between which I see young people in very clean, generic and expensive looking clothing speeding by on electric scooters (banned now in Mexico). I also see driverless cars making that distinctive silent hum that electric vehicles produce. At one point, the industrial buildings give way to taller and more sinister ones.

When we get off the bus, we’re in an area that still feels more like ‘yuppie’ evil than ‘startup’ evil (though in practice, the latter probably dominates). While Emily finishes work, we walk to an alley where The Bix is located—a place that seems frozen in the time of Sex & the City season one, back when villains dressed much better, in my opinion. I could also picture it in Frasier, although in this case, in English—since in Mexico it was broadcast dubbed into Spanish. 

“This is the kind of place a kid would bring his first date, or where someone’s family would go after their high school graduation,” Nicolás tells me. We order oysters, french fries, a martini, and sparkling water with a coffee for me. Sitting at the bar next to us is a group of Mexican women who, again, by their clothing and accent, are clearly upper class.

 “Did you hear that rich Mexicans are gentrifying Madrid?” I ask Nicolás. In the main area of the restaurant hang two paintings—one large-scale, depicting a night of drinks and live jazz that exaggerates the venue’s dimensions, and another smaller one above the stage showing a butler inspecting a glass.

Back on the street, I recall a spot on Kearny Street, on the hill where Coit Tower is, where I once took a photo that I later used as reference for a painting ten years ago. We climb up, I take another photo of the skyline from that point. It’s the same view I saw at 22, but now Art Deco, Victorian and Eclectic architecture share space with sterile tech buildings and baroque homeless encampments in the margins of “Tomorrowland”.

After, we walk to City Lights. I like seeing the people in the store. Instead of the quiet vibe you would find in a Mexico City bookshop, I hear whispers recommending books, someone reading out loud a book they haven’t bought,  and people saying over and over again “excuse me” while trying to navigate the narrow hallways of books.

Overwhelmed by the endless selection, I only buy a couple of William Carlos Williams books I’ve never found in Mexico. The cashier says one of them is hard to find even in San Francisco—they haven’t restocked since 2003. I feel lucky. 

2.

“This is what people do in the Bay—smoke weed and listen to music while driving around with no destination” Nicolás tells me as we cross the Bay Bridge toward Oakland.

From my window I can see the cranes at the Oakland port that inspired George Lucas to create the AT-ATs in The Empire Strikes Back, while songs by Andre Nickatina, The Jacka, Mistah F.A.B., Rappin’ 4-Tay, Johnny Ca$h, and Too $hort play.

“Hey, what’s in East Oakland?” I ask Nicolás. “Latino and Black folks, it’s an industrial area. I don’t think we’ll pass through there because we’re going to Benicia. 

“Why do you ask?” he replies.

“Oh, nothing, I just heard Souls of Mischief mention it in some of their songs.”

Aside from movies, what little I knew about the Bay Area came from hip-hop. “You know this one?” Nico asks as he plays “Vans” by The Pack. As soon as I hear the robotic voice at the beginning, I lose it and say, “No way—of course! The jerkin’ anthem! I didn’t know they were from here.” 

“Yeah, they’re from Vallejo,” he explains. Then I tell Nicolás how all that music reached us in Mexico through blogs we’d check out at internet cafés and friends who paid extra on their cable service to get MTV Jams.

“How old are you?” Keith Boadwee asks me, surrounded by his paintings in his studio in Benicia. 

“Thirty,” I answer.

“Ah, so not old, not young,” he replies.

We continue looking at paintings that depict imaginary scatological scenes, starring a cartoonish elegant frog or other anthropomorphic animals, a gray humanlike figure that might represent the artist (or all of humanity), and other elements like cheese, palm trees, and fish tanks. 

After showing us some books documenting his performance pieces with excellent photos, Boadwee brings out some drawings and collages. The collages combine photos of known figures, pop references, and cutouts from gay porn magazines. It’s refreshing to see fragments of printed media with visible technical print qualities in a time of digital image overload.

Keith’s studio is located in a military complex from the first half of the 20th century, which now serves as a group of artists’ studios. We walk to the car and the artist recommends a bakery for breakfast. He gets into his white pickup and we follow him to what seems to be the town’s main street. 

Hanging from the lampposts are photos of soldiers, which tells me the town’s military past has left a deep mark. A black truck with tinted windows and a Harley motorcycle drive past. The truck is blasting a Metallica song. The scene is completed by lush green trees, well-trimmed lawns, and the flowers surrounding the houses in the area. 

“Damn bro, look at this town—it looks like something out of Sons of Anarchy,” I say in a voice note to a friend in Guadalajara, which I send along with a video of the town’s main street. It’s a bit hard to think of assault rifles when I look at how fluffy the pastries look while other customers order matcha lattes. I ruin the vibe a little by ordering a meatball sandwich. Later, in the backyard, we eat under the shade of a bougainvillea while Nicolás, Keith, and I talk about the relationships between Mexican and American painting.

Standing on top of Potrero Hill at night, you can see the skyline of San Francisco, along with the California College of the Arts. We came up here to kill some time while we waited for the flight of Angélique Heidler, a French artist who’s part of the group show I’m in at Climate Control. Driving aimlessly around Millbrae, near the airport, we finally park in front of a quirky Mexican restaurant called “El Super Burrito,” the building shaped like a tent.

Since it’s already late, everything is dark and empty. Finally, once we get a message from Angélique, we pick her up at the international arrivals area, load her suitcases, and as we drive back to the Mission, she tells us how her long flight from Paris went.

Angéligue is a bit tall, has light brown wavy hair. Her eyes are something sad, though her eyebrows arch almost as if she’s angry, and the pair contrast with a great sense of humor (dorky enough to understand my dumb jokes) and smart sarcasm that sometimes goes undetected under the American comedian radar. 

Her face reminds me of one of those dolls my grandma used to buy in Downtown L.A. that had 19th century European clothes and were made of porcelain. She’s wearing brown boots that remind me of the ones Link would wear in a Legend of Zelda game. During our trip I'll learn that she’s also a tracksuit top, sneakers, and hoodie enthusiast. She’d also dress in a really tasteful and elegant way when the occasion demanded it (like our art show’s opening). 

3.

Angélique and I watch a machine spitting out compacted cylinders at intervals into a container full of them. It looks like a horse taking a shit. The action seems very funny to us, considering the rest of the place looks like the kind of location where a money handoff would take place in a series like Breaking Bad. 

We came to pick up the stretchers for Angélique’s pieces in an industrial area of Oakland, at a workshop where they make fine furniture. Back in the Mission, we go to a taquería just a few meters from the gallery, which always has very long lines. Even though the food is really good, I can’t say I get too excited about eating food from my own country when I’ve only been away from it for such a short time.

Since the day before I already stretched the diptych I brought from Mexico— accompanied by a pack of ZYN and a Mountain Dew—I decide to go for a walk on my own and get to know a bit more of the city. While Angélique and Nicolás finish the last adjustments to the works, I say goodbye and buy a bus ticket on my phone. The temptation to board without paying is strong, since I saw many people getting on without inserting money or tapping any card, but my paranoia wins and I decide to buy the fare. 

As soon as I get on the bus, a group of uniformed officers with transit patches also get on and start asking everyone to show their tickets. I hold up my phone showing the screen that indicates my ticket is valid, while the group of officers argue with someone in the back of the bus and other passengers get off at the next stop as quickly as they can. The ride heading south is much more suburban. 

I get off at a stop where there’s a workwear store and decide to spend some of my curator-earned pesos on a few Dickies shirts and thermal tees for the winter in Mexico City. I take the bus back to the Mission and go to “King of Fashions” to buy Pro-Club t-shirts and a Ben Davis jacket that would’ve probably cost me twice as much in Mexico. Then I walk to a store called Sheik where everyone speaks Spanish.

“Can you show me this in size eleven and a half, U.S.?” I say in Spanish to the store clerk. They bring me a pair of Air Force 1s with a yellow sole, I pay, and I head back to the gallery. We change at home and head out to the opening of an exhibition.

Nico parks a few blocks from the Wattis Institute. From where we park, you can see Potrero Hill where we looked at the city view the other night. It’s very cold. We walk up a big staircase, and the show is divided between two buildings with a courtyard in front. From the speakers blast a mix of Colombian and Peruvian cumbia. It’s a big crowd. This is one of the first openings I attend outside of my country, so it feels good not to know anyone for a change.

Amid all the noise, Angélique and I sneak away from the crowd, where we eat snacks and chips and drink beer and La Croix. Not drinking alcohol makes me consume high amounts of the fizzy stuff. In a corner, we talk about hip-hop and French films set in the banlieues, like La Haine, Les Misérables (the 2019 version by Ladj Ly), and Athena. In the show, I recognize works by Marc Camille Chaimowicz, an artist whose work I got to know thanks to my job at the Guadalajara location of Gaga gallery. I also notice some drawings by Federico García Lorca.

We can still hear the cumbia from the inside of the gallery. The crowd is interesting. I don’t see that many young people. It feels like the place where I have to pretend to be more serious than I am. I look at the drawings to blend into the solemn vibe of the whole thing. I like Lorca’s drawings, the paper is yellow, they’re schematic the same way Miró is schematic, but the surreal aspect of the work makes it feel like something more than what you’re actually seeing. I go outside once more looking for more La Croix and chips.

A friend from Guadalajara who works as curator at the Zapopan Art Museum in Mexico had worked on an exhibition that brought many drawings and original notes by Lorca to Jalisco, so I recognize the style. Later, I’m introduced to Daisy Nam, the director and chief curator of the Wattis Institute, and the curators of the show: Diego Villalobos and Rodrigo Ortíz Monasterio, who are fellow Mexicans. 

Rodrigo and I talk about the recent show he curated at Proyectos Multipropósito in Mexico City, a gallery that works with artists Juni Aranda and Scott Galván—both of whom are also participating in the Climate Control show alongside Angélique and me.

4.

Today is the opening of the exhibition. Nicolás takes us early to Oakland, since we’re promoting the opening on a broadcast from the Lower Grand Radio station. At the station, I recognize the work of Jeffrey Cheung—an artist my friend Mariel Eplboim, an Angeleno deeply fond of the Bay Area, had told me a lot about. She was one of the first people to share the mythology of Oakland with me. 

Years ago, I was a radio host in Mexico City, so I’m pleased to see that the console they use is the same one we used back then. Halfway through the show, I start feeling dizzy and cold-sweating, so I sit down trying not to draw attention. I ask for a bottle of water, and I must’ve looked really bad because people start asking me, “Are you okay?” I feel better after drinking a full bottle of water and say, “I think I really should’ve had breakfast.”

The show goes well despite the hiccup. We rush out of the station to find something to eat, and Angélique and I ask Nicolás to take us somewhere that embodies American culture—so we have him drive us to a Jack-in-the-Box drive-thru. Just as we’re getting on the freeway in Oakland, we spot a group of people in the front yard of a house, praying eastward on prayer mats. We unpack our fries, sodas, and everything else from the paper bags and eat our breakfast on Highway 580.

As we once again cross the Bay Bridge toward San Francisco, I ask Nicolás to play a song. It’s a bit of a ridiculous request—I tell him I want to hear “Ain’t No Fun (If The Homies Can’t Have None)” by Snoop Dogg, Nate Dogg, Warren G, and Kurupt while looking at a body of water connected to the Pacific Ocean, even if it’s several miles north of where those rappers were born. I’ve liked this song since long before my understanding of English was enough to realize how questionable the lyrics are. 

Angélique starts singing along and I ask her if she likes hip-hop. “Actually, I went to a Snoop Dogg concert recently in Paris—it was pretty bad, very short, and the sound was awful,” she says while asking Nico to put on some of the Long Beach rapper’s older tracks. The French artist and I keep pestering our gallerist with music requests, taking advantage of the sound system. We stop at a supermarket to buy drinks for the opening. 

“You know what? You dress like a Cypress Hill fan,” Angélique tells me in the checkout line, with a cart full of Modelo, Sapporo, and La Croix in various flavors. 

“I mean, I am a fan of Cypress Hill, but that has nothing to do with how I dress,” I reply, pretending to be offended—even though I know the group’s overexposure during my childhood definitely turned me into a baggy-clothes enthusiast. “But I do steer clear of red and blue so I don’t offend norteños or sureños back in Guadalajara,” I add.

We take turns showering. Even though I’d seen it on TikTok, during this trip I truly learned the benefits of using different soaps for different parts of the body. In Guadalajara I would often rub the bar of soap together to make a lather and improvise a shampoo when I was short on money. 

Once we’re ready for the opening, Nicolás and I look for parking near the gallery, and as we pass the liquor store on the corner, I notice a graffiti piece using the same reference I used in my artwork: Diego Rivera’s mural in the Palacio de Cortés in Cuernavaca, Morelos. There’s a scene of a jaguar warrior stabbing a Spanish soldier in armor with an obsidian blade. That coincidence makes me feel much more confident in my piece, because constantly bouncing between conceptual and pictorial approaches can leave you feeling insecure in both over time.

The paintings are hung high because we are trying to frame the social interactions of the opening with the artworks. Nicolás and I spoke about this, and I've noticed that in most shows, at some point they get packed, people start ignoring the works and they only end up getting in the way of the spectator who’s trying to appreciate the piece. But also instead of thinking about that as something bad, this simple gesture is a way to integrate all these aspects into an intentional curatorial decision. 

It pisses me off that my 9-to-5 job, curating, has taken over people’s perception of me. The main reason I accepted to come and work with Nicolás is that he gave me the opportunity to incorporate my curatorial practice as part of my artistic practice. So I basically operated as a “ghost” co-curator while I’m also presenting a piece as an artist. People start arriving, and since I don’t know anyone, I spend the evening talking to a couple of folks Nicolás introduces me to—friends of friends from Mexico and some local artists.

There’s a contradictory mix of enthusiasm and hopelessness in how many of the artists describe life in the San Francisco art scene. I find a lot of similarities with Guadalajara. Just like in Mexico everyone wants to move to Mexico City or Europe, here I realize many people move to LA or New York. I get that the major cultural centers in our countries offer more opportunities, but something I’ve learned in Mexico is that money doesn’t always equal culture. I think there was a time when people thought there was “nothing” in New York, LA, or Mexico City. And eventually, it was the people who made art there who turned them into the places they are today—not the other way around.

At least in Guadalajara, one of my main goals has been to create a small ecosystem where artists can grow in that city—especially if they don’t have the resources or desire to leave. I’d have to spend more time in San Francisco to make a deeper analysis.

Standing across the street on Mission, I look at the group of people who came to the opening. I wonder if San Francisco’s shift to remote work and the rise of home offices could be a contemporary version of the manufacturing exodus from LA and NYC in the 20th century. Who knows—maybe this is an opportunity for artistic development. It sounds far-fetched to imagine art studios in abandoned corporate offices instead of converted warehouses. But for now, what matters is supporting local scenes outside the major hubs, since not everyone has the privilege to relocate. 

In Mexico, during the last decade, a limited market and an unhealthy culture of grants led many of us to make art that wasn’t for institutions or galleries, but for ourselves and our friends. I ran out of ZYN, so I decide to get a pack of Newports. 

“We don’t carry menthols, sir—they’re banned in California,” says the corner store clerk. 

“Chale” I mutter. 

New non-menthol Newports, I read on the box, disappointed. I walk back to the gallery. Another similarity with the Guadalajara scene is that there’s little room for hyper-specialization, because there are far fewer players. Artists end up being curators, art historians, gallery managers, art handlers, and assistants all at once. While this shows that there’s no job security in our field, it also fosters a richer mix of practices and fresher perspectives compared to careers in big cities. Still, this too often feels like we’re following a script.

There are two dinner options now that people have gone off to continue the party and we’ve closed the gallery. I’m not in the mood for tacos, so we head to a place across the street that sells sausages and German beer. After dinner, we walk to a bar called “Phone Booth,” where some of the people from the opening are still hanging out, drinking and chatting. I get a sparkling water and approach the table where everyone is gathered.

“Where are you from?” asks a man with a prominent beard sitting next to me. “Mexico City, but I’ve been living in Guadalajara for a few years now,” I reply. 

“Oh, nice. I love Mexico City,” he says. 

“Have you been recently?” I ask. 

“No, I went in 1989—I played at the Tianguis del Chopo back then. I was in a post-punk and industrial band,” he tells me. His name is Kenny Latham, and he turns out to be Keith Boadwee’s husband. 

“No way! That’s incredible—playing at El Chopo back then is like the biggest thing you could do in Mexico City’s underground scene back then! That’s amazing,” I reply, unable to hide my excitement. The rest of the table doesn’t understand my reaction. 

“El Tianguis del Chopo is an informal market that pops up every Saturday in Mexico City, where all kinds of youth interested in alternative music and culture gather—from punks and goths to reggae and ska fans,” I explain to the others.

Kenny and I end up talking for a long time. He explains the importance of Self Help Graphics & Art in the development of Mexican-American art in Los Angeles, tells me about rehearsing in Panorama City in the San Fernando Valley, and I tell him about rumors that a real estate company plans to relocate El Chopo forty minutes outside of Mexico City. We switch to Spanish for a bit, since he grew up with a Mexican family in L.A. 

Angélique, Nicolás, and some others are playing pool. I walk over to the jukebox and spend five dollars picking “Pull Up The Roots” by Talking Heads, “Luck of Lucien” by A Tribe Called Quest (as a tribute to my new French artist friend), “West End Girls” by Pet Shop Boys (as a nod to Juni Aranda, whose Instagram handle is @littlestpetshopboys and couldn’t make it to the show), and finally, “Hang On To Your Love” by Sade.

It’s getting late, so we say our goodbyes and walk back home, stopping at a store to grab snacks and drinks. The problem is they’re about to close and don’t accept cash. We head home with just a bag of dill pickle–flavored Doritos. Once home, someone suggests we play cards. I try to teach my friends how to play Conquián, a Spanish-origin card game that’s played in some Mexican towns and that I learned from some studio mates in Mexico City.

Angélique gets frustrated and suggests we play Scopa instead—an Italian game that uses Italian cards but can also be played with a Spanish deck. After a couple of rounds to explain the rules, we end up playing until four in the morning.

5.

We wake up quite late. 

We hit the road heading north around noon. We take Route 101 and cross the Golden Gate Bridge toward Sausalito. We drive down an avenue full of pedestrians walking along a waterfront path, from which you can see the San Francisco skyline. We stop at a restaurant surrounded by docks with yachts and other boats. 

While we wait in line, Angélique and I try to figure out which dish isn’t French or Italian so we can order it. We go with fish & chips, trusting in the quality of the local catch and American potatoes. Nicolás orders some clams. As we eat, I pay attention to the playlist playing at the restaurant—a mix of Boz Scaggs, Ambrosia, the Doobie Brothers, and Steely Dan. It feels redundant to play Yacht Rock in a place surrounded by yachts, but that doesn’t stop me from enjoying a playlist that would fit my dad’s Americanized taste, thanks to Mexico City radio stations in the seventies.

We head toward Mill Valley, which feels almost unreal—both Angélique and I are baffled by how beautiful it is. And considering she’s French and I’m Mexican, it’s not like we lack beautiful places in our countries. Sure, the upkeep probably benefits from a dense concentration of wealthy people, but the prehistoric beauty of the redwood trees is unique to California.

We stop at a small public park with a creek running through it, where the original mill that gave the town its name once stood. As we walk among the towering trees, we stumble upon a wedding being held on a wooden platform nestled in the forest. Then we step into a public library, and jokingly I ask Angélique, “How many of these kids do you think will end up at an Ivy League school?”

We walk to the town center and stop at a small café. While waiting for our drinks, we’re surrounded by busy people (on a Saturday), talking through their AirPods, blonde women in Lululemon, and some families with kids. A young man kisses the woman at the counter goodbye, and she tells him she’ll see him later after her shift.

Nicolás then drives us up a mountain from which we can see the Pacific Ocean, the Bay, the peninsula where San Francisco sits, and all its skyscrapers and clouds. The landscape looks like the climactic scene of a 1950s movie—or a battle scene in an anime. Lush green trees frame golden meadows that contrast with the deep blue sky and ocean surrounding us.

We then descend to Bolinas, a coastal town that used to be inhabited by hippies but, from what I’ve heard on this trip, has since been taken over by wealthy tech moguls. While walking on the beach, we come across a structure made of driftwood arranged in a way that could hold a tent. 

“Damn, I’m gonna go into real estate,” I tell Angélique. 

“Studio with ocean view, one square meter, integrated kitchen, living room, and bedroom,” she adds. 

“Don’t forget we’re in the U.S.—these people have no clue what a meter is,” I tell her. “Well, I have no clue what an inch or a foot is,” she fires back, now my partner at our newly founded firm: Heidler Muñoz Real Estate.

We head back toward San Francisco, driving along the 101. We stop at a supermarket that the average Mexican or French brain wouldn’t even know how to process. The walls are painted in warm yellow tones that create a cozy atmosphere. Everything looks incredibly appealing—and also like the bill is going to be astronomical. There are entire aisles dedicated to supplements and beauty products. Plump vegetables in vibrant colors sit almost perfectly arranged, as if they were waiting to be photographed. Angélique and I take pictures while people give us strange looks. In my mind, I imagine “Californication” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers playing through the store speakers. We buy the ingredients for a risotto that Angélique offered to cook for dinner.

The next day, I decide to go to a Catholic mass. I figure the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Assumption in San Francisco is the best option to practice my faith and visit an architectural landmark at the same time. I take two buses to get there, and after climbing the hill, I reach one of its many entrances.

“Where are you headed?” two men ask me in English as I enter an area that appears to be closed. 

“I’m here for mass, jefe,” I answer in Spanish. 

“Oh, then head out this door, turn left, and you’ll find the main entrance,” one of the men responds—in Spanish.

I follow his directions and walk in. The interior is filled with incense smoke, the scent wafting through the entire nave. The ceiling is built with paraboloids that intersect to form a cross at the highest point, made of yellow stained glass that glows with sunlight. I say a personal prayer and leave before mass begins. The truth is, I consider myself a non-Protestant “reformist” Catholic, which means I don’t strictly follow the rituals of the faith. I walk from the church to Union Square to meet up with Angélique, who is having breakfast with her parents’ friends in Chinatown.

Today we’re giving Nicolás a break and playing tourists on our own. Angélique’s priorities are seeing the sea lions at Pier 39 and visiting the botanical garden. I suggest we stop by Coit Tower to see the murals in its lobby, which are inspired by Mexican muralism, but my suggestion is rejected. Since I vaguely remember how to get from Chinatown to Fisherman’s Wharf, I lead the mission to go see the sea lions.

Once we’re standing at the edge of the pier, watching the sea lions for a few minutes, Angélique asks, “That’s it?” “Yeah… hmm, want a churro?” I reply. We both decide that, given France’s proximity to Spain and Mexico’s abundance of churros, we can skip the snack and smoke on the curb while we wait for a bus to take us to the botanical garden.

We get back to the gallery with an hour to spare before the video screening, which is one of the satellite activities of the exhibition. I manage to convince Nicolás and Angélique to eat Peruvian food at the place next to the gallery. We order a causa, lomo saltado, and a ceviche with fried calamari. I get an Inca Kola and chicha morada. After spending a few months in Peru last year for an exhibition, I can't go too long without eating Peruvian food.

For tonight’s event, I propose to Nicolás that we add another activity to take place while the video piece I made with my friends M. José Tellez and Esteban Ponce is being projected in its five-hour, durationally daunting glory. The piece is inspired by the video work that Andy Warhol filmed with the help of Jonas Mekas—eight hours of footage of the Empire State Building seen from the Rockefeller Center. What fascinated me most about that piece was the story of its first screening. It was shown in a movie theater, and people thought they were going to watch a “normal” film. Some protested, others called the police because they felt scammed, but around ten people stayed until the very end, playing cards, taking naps, or getting drunk.

That’s why for this screening, I felt it was essential to not only produce the video but also to play with the fact that most (normal) people at exhibitions can’t really pay attention to a video art piece longer than ten minutes. So I figured it made sense to provide the audience with an activity as part of the artwork itself—to entertain them for the four hours of the video. 

So, we played cards in the gallery for nearly five hours, while curious visitors or bathroom-goers would occasionally pass through the screening room to check the progress of the sunset in Guadalajara, with the Riu Plaza Hotel—the tallest building in the city—as its focal point.

6.

Even though the weekend was hectic, I want to explore the city a bit more on my own. I take the BART train from 24th and Mission station, heading downtown. I get off at Civic Center and catch a bus along Market Street that takes me to Haight Street. I don’t have a specific destination, but when I see the sign for Amoeba Records, I know I have to go in—if only out of curiosity. 

It’s been years since I bought vinyl records, and I know they’re a hassle to transport. I end up walking out with a copy of Speaking in Tongues by Talking Heads, Rio by Duran Duran, a very New Wave–styled magazine from the 1980s, and a single from the proto-punk band Death. I stop by a surplus store, but everything I like would make me go over the baggage limit for my return flights to Mexico, so I don’t buy anything. I check out a couple of vintage shops, but the prices scare me off.

I’m heading to visit Morgan Corbitt’s studio, so I text her asking for the best route from where I am. She suggests taking the 7 bus back downtown and walking from there. While I wait, I call my friend Mateo Miranda in Guadalajara, who co-owns a second-hand store. Over the phone, we talk about some ideas I’ve had for his business based on what I’ve seen in San Francisco’s shops. I also ask him how his paintings are going and how everyone is doing back home. The bus arrives, and I head downtown once more.

I walk a few blocks among leather enthusiasts, software developers, and hustlers selling a bit of everything. I arrive at a small warehouse marked by signs advertising pole dance, pilates, and other classes. I text Morgan, who comes down to meet me, and we go up to her studio. She shows me some pieces I’d already seen virtually while we were preparing the show—juxtaposed objects in a kind of “metaphysical” setting, using that distinctive black background from this first series. 

“I like that in your image-search process, there are hints of the readymade” I tell her. She had previously mentioned she regularly searches for images on Amazon and other online marketplaces. I realize she harnesses the visuality of these objects without ever owning them—because she doesn’t necessarily buy them.

I then tell Morgan about my interview project, which is basically a bootleg version of what Hans Ulrich Obrist does in every city he visits. I ask if I can interview her, and she agrees. For about an hour, she talks about her career, the shift from painting in her bedroom to working in a professional studio, and the concerns that inform her painting practice. It seems like working in the Bay Area has allowed Morgan to develop a painting practice that feels personal, but still relevant to a foreign eye and without the feeling that is being catered to a specific public.

We say our goodbyes, and I head back to the house in Mission. As a kind of farewell, I interview Angélique in the car on the way to The Bix, where Nicolás is taking us for a final outing—she’s flying back to Paris the next day.

7.

I’m thinking about what I could write once I return to Mexico—something with a noir feel, inspired by this trip—but today is just too bright. The fog has cleared, there’s no mystery to solve, I’m not clinically depressed, and I’ve replaced my chain-smoking habit with nicotine pouches. All I’ve got is a black trench coat. Fine. I turn off the shower after rinsing and interrupt my train of thought to dry off and get dressed.

We have breakfast with Keith Boadwee at Mission’s Kitchen. As we eat, I keep insisting that Angélique, Nicolás, and Keith should come visit me in Mexico. Angélique says I should finally go to Paris, since I’ve never crossed the Atlantic. This breakfast is a strangely fitting conclusion to a time-space crossover sparked by Keith, Angélique, and me. It’s all different perspectives, one coming from more than forty years of artistic practice in the case of Keith and one from another continent, in Angélique’s case. Anyways I feel closer to them through artistic practice than to a lot of people I hang out with in back in my country. Her Uber arrives, and she heads to the airport. We say goodbye to Keith outside the restaurant.

Nicolás and I head downtown to meet with an artist whose name I won’t mention—she’ll appreciate the discretion. She came to the video screening we held on Sunday and completely destroyed us all at cards. I reached out to learn more about her work, since, besides being a visual artist, she’s also a fantastic writer. She invites us to meet her at a place called David’s Delicatessen and Diner. She tells me she can see us during her lunch break. “A rare chance to see a totally random and undesirable part of the city,” she says, proposing the meeting spot.

On the way, Nico tells me, “You have to see this place.” We turn a corner deep in the downtown area, where century-old high-rises mix with nondescript buildings from more recent decades. We arrive at a restaurant called John’s Grill—it’s like a time capsule: wood moldings, carpeted floors, and tables with long white tablecloths. The hostess asks how many in our party. Nicolás replies that we want to see the upstairs. She lets us pass, and we head up.

The second floor is similar to the first, but dimly lit. Three people are seated at a table speaking Spanish, and I greet them with a “Buenas tardes.” “Buenas tardes,” they reply. We climb one more floor and find a spacious room with a high ceiling, wallpaper, and long windows overlooking the street. At the back is a small alcove with a figurine of a falcon and an Emmy award. I step closer and see a display case full of memorabilia from The Maltese Falcon and other novels by Dashiell Hammett. My grandmother once told me she saw Humphrey Bogart play detective Sam Spade in a movie theater in Tepito, a neighborhood in Mexico City, back in the 1940s when she was a child.

We walk a few more blocks and arrive at David’s, where we meet up with the artist. We order French fries and chat with the waiter, who tells us openly that they’re out of several menu items. At the front, there’s a space that clearly used to be a bakery display. We ask the waiter, and he confirms that they used to sell desserts there, but the pandemic forced them to downsize their menu. The fries come with coffee. This place has more character than any so-called specialty café. I think about the decades of customers—office workers and travelers (due to the hotel upstairs)—who’ve sat at this long counter.

The artist then asks if I’ve seen Ruth Asawa’s sculpture a few blocks away. “Honestly, no,” I reply. 

When we arrive at the monolith, both she and Nicolás explain Ruth Asawa’s importance in San Francisco’s art scene. The piece reminds me of the Mexica sacrificial stone in the main hall of the National Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City. Like the pre-Hispanic sculpture, Asawa’s work features reliefs made by children from the city, depicting episodes and key places from its history. We say goodbye to the artist—she has to get back to work—and head to a light rail station in Chinatown to travel to the Dogpatch district and visit the Minnesota Street Project.

The light rail moves slowly, and I realize my days in San Francisco are coming to an end. I never did manage to buy a Giants cap. At one point, a cap from that team triggered the butterfly effect that moved me from Mexico City to Guadalajara—but that’s a story for another time.

We arrive a bit early for our meeting at the Minnesota Street Project complex, so we walk to a store to grab drinks and kill some time. We reach the end of a street where you have to descend a staircase, and the road begins again at a cul-de-sac. To my right, I see a warehouse with a porch and a garage. On a balcony, a woman in sunglasses is smoking a cigarette, and next to her on the wall is the Hell’s Angels M.C. logo, complete with a winged skull wearing a helmet. Naturally, I don’t take any pictures while walking past the blacked-out Suburbans parked outside.

We return to the gallery complex a few minutes before our appointment and run into Chris Grunder on the stairs with his dog. Nicolás introduces us, and Chris offers to show us his space, Bass & Reiner. 

“You don’t have to buy a piece just because I’m here, okay?” he says as I hand over twenty dollars and grab a piece off the wall. 

“No, seriously, I really liked this photo,” I reply. 

The room has strings like clotheslines holding various small works, all priced at twenty dollars. At the back of the gallery, there’s an ATM and a sign letting you know you’re on camera. It’s a mail art show with a never-ending list of artists who mailed their pieces to the gallery. The show is part of the “Pyramid Scheme” project, which as I recall, involved inviting three artists, who each invited three more, and so on until the number of participants became unmanageable.

At the door, we meet Daisy Nam and go for a coffee with her and some members of the Wattis Institute team. It turns out Daisy was in Guadalajara during art week, so we talk a bit about the city and Mexico in general. Jeanne Gerrity and Diego Villalobos join us too. Diego tells me he’s from Cuernavaca, Morelos—a city near Mexico City—and we all have a great conversation.

We catch the light rail again, taking the long way back to the Mission District. We make one last stop at a place called Sam’s to grab a burger. When I turn around, I notice a photo of Anthony Bourdain with the owner, hanging behind the counter. We return home and finally go to sleep.

8.

I’m in the car with Nicolás, heading to Oakland to pick up a painting from Keith Boadwee’s house in Emeryville, on the other side of the Bay. We chat over coffee as a way of saying goodbye, while the artist shows me numerous pieces—his own and those of friends—spread throughout his home, a beautiful 1920s house surrounded by plants and a couple of large trees. We say our goodbyes and head back to San Francisco.

I have nothing left to do except pack and say farewell to the city. While Nicolás takes care of gallery matters, I decide to walk over and visit Mission Dolores. The complex is made up of two buildings: one original from the 18th century, and the basilica built in the last century after the previous one collapsed in an earthquake. I pay a couple of dollars and they hand me a pamphlet with instructions for the tour. “Hey, this is the cemetery from the movie Vertigo, right?” I ask the man at the entrance. “That’s right,” he replies.

I go into the mission first, and it makes me feel like I’m in Mexico. Well, two hundred years ago, I would have been in Mexico. I stop to look at some of the paintings and saint figures—many of which were made in Mexico City’s artist workshops and sent to Alta  California from the capital of the viceroyalty during New Spain. Which workshops, exactly? No idea. The truth is I never finished my thesis because I lost my scholarship and had to drop out of my art history program.

I enter the basilica next. I buy and light a candle, but instead of asking for something, I do what my grandma taught me and give thanks—for allowing me to see such beautiful places, things, and meet such interesting people. I say an Our Father and a Hail Mary, then head over to the cemetery. I find the tomb of Don Luis Antonio Argüello, who was governor of Alta California and was born in San Francisco when it was still Mexican territory—after our independence from Spain in 1821. “Mejicano,” his epitaph reads.

Walking back toward the gallery, I come across a comic book store. The truth is, my dark past—having no friends, listening to ’90s hip-hop, and reading comics—still follows me around. I see they’ve released a compact edition of Watchmen, so I decide to buy it since the regular-sized one takes up too much room in my backpack. I walk back to the gallery, and we spend the rest of the day talking about the show and future plans for Climate Control.

“We’re going to see the best view of the city,” Nicolás tells me. We hop in his truck and drive to Treasure Island. We cross the Bay Bridge one last time, but instead we take the exit before crossing into Oakland. The road on the island winds through new housing developments, bushes, dirt, and rocks. We reach a 1920s building with a large parking lot and stop there.

We get out of the car and walk to the edge of the water, where we can see the flickering reflections of San Francisco’s city lights. In the distance, we hear the hum of cars speeding across the bridge, but overall the mood is peaceful. At first glance, it seems we’re completely alone—but then you start to hear giggles from behind the rocks, or a car pulls up and a group of young people get out, smoking weed and coming to see the bay and the clusters of skyscraper lights.

“We used to come here and do the same thing when I was in high school,” Nico tells me. The city of the future, neighbor to Silicon Valley, doesn’t really change. We get back in the car and follow the winding road to the highest point of the island, where the weed gets replaced by glass pipes, and Camaros and Mustangs with open trunks. But the atmosphere is just as chill. Nobody’s there to cause trouble or hustle—it’s all about gazing at the city and the body of water between the island and the skyline. I realize this is one of those places untouched by both tourists and tech developers. I’m glad I get to leave before ruining it.

Epilogue

We’ve been flying for six hours. I’ve just woken up from the jolts and turbulence typical when landing. Before returning to Mexico, I’ll make a short stop in New York, a city I haven’t visited in over ten years. I fell asleep reading The Maltese Falcon, reliving my walks through downtown San Francisco. Who knows if I’ll ever return to this country—or these cities. And if I do, they won’t be the same ones I encountered during this summer of 2025.

I look out the window and I’m surprised not to see the Atlantic Ocean or a dense urban sprawl. Instead, I see a sea of trees that doesn’t look anything like New York (the city). The plane starts to touch down, bounces a couple of times, then glides smoothly on the runway. Out the window, I spot a tiny airport—more like a bus terminal. There’s a big sign on top of the building in Walgreens font that, to my great confusion, reads: “Syracuse.”