After a solid few days eating around Mexico City, it was time for a street tamale, and to catch a plane to Zihuatenejo.

Dear Red. If you’re reading this, you’ve gotten out. And if you’ve come this far, maybe you’re willing to come a little further. You remember the name of the town, don’t you?

Zihuatanejo.

Do you know what the Mexicans say about the Pacific? They say it has no memory. That’s where I want to live the rest of my life, a warm place with no memory.