“Fools Rush In” Lots of People Have Seen It. I Live It!

When I lived in Tijuana, one of my Mexican surf brah’s (yes, Mexicans surf!) invited me to his house for dinner. When I walked in, I thought I’d accidentally stumbled into a quinceanera, a wedding, and a family reunion all at once. I swear there were a hundred people there. Everyone was smiling, laughing, hugging, and feeding me as if I were some long-lost cousin who just returned from war. The food was glorious. The cerveza flowed like a river of friendship. I was blown away. It only got better as we all got to know each other.

Back in the USA, “family time” usually means six to ten people sitting around awkwardly discussing politics, dad’s refusal to take his blood pressure medicine and cut down on salt, and who’s going to help Mom with the Wi-Fi (again!). Once the adult kids move out, most families talk on the phone once or twice a week -if someone isn’t “too busy.”

In Mexico, though? Three or four generations get together every weekend. Every. Single. One. It’s not a “family dinner.” It’s a full-scale familial fiesta. Abuelita, the babies, the teenagers, the tías, the compadres, and at least one person no one can quite identify, but who everyone swears is “primo de alguien.”

As they got to know me better and realized I wasn’t just another sunburned surf bum but an actual working “guero,” my stock shot up faster than NVidia. Suddenly I was a positive influence on Carlos - who at 25 was still “finding himself” (translation: hadn’t found a job). With that newfound approval came more hugs, more kisses, more food, and more tequila than any liver should legally endure.

When I missed a weekend, Tía Rosa scolded me like a child who had emptied out the pinata before the birthday girl took a swing at it.

Years later, when Fools Rush In came out, I laughed. That movie was my previous life, minus Salma Hayek’s cheekbones and the Hollywood soundtrack.

And now, here in San Luis Potosí, I’m living it again.

Last night my niece turned ten. Because we had a couple of relatives visiting from the

A "Small Family Get Together" is about double the number of people we had at Thanksgiving.

States, the family decided to have a small party on the rooftop at our place. A dozen people, they said. Which, in Mexico, means 6 kilograms of steak, 3 kilograms of guacamole, 4 kilograms of rice, and enough tortillas to shingle a roof.

In a break from tradition, I opened samples from my whiskey bar - offering a tasting from Japanese Hibiki to Macallan 25. My relatives’ eyes widened. Abuelita’s too. By the third round she was ready to salsa with the sofa.

After the presents were opened and the birthday girl’s face was ceremoniously shoved into her cake (a cherished national pastime), it was time for “adult time.” Which, in Mexico, simply means the same party… but louder, drunker, and with more questionable dance moves.

See, when Mexicans throw a party for the kids, it’s really a party for the adults disguised as one for the kids. These fiestas don’t last an hour or two. The shortest one we’ve attended was four hours. The longest went ten. And that’s just counting until the music stopped.

We’re from Vegas. We thought we knew how to party. We were amateurs. Abuelita on tequila makes Pitbull look like a Presbyterian.

And when it’s finally time to leave, you can forget about Irish goodbyes. You’re looking at ninety minutes of heartfelt hugs, kisses, and “cuídate mucho” on repeat. Every person says goodbye to every other person. Twice.

And you know what? I love it. Every chaotic, beer-buzzed, guacamole-smeared minute of it.

Fools rush in, the movie said.

Not only am I rushing back in, I’m staying put! Viva Mexico!