Two Types of Americans Tell Us "You Don't Know Anything About Living in Mexico!!!

Cesar threw one of the BEST parties we've ever been to! And who knew Miguel could sing like that? Then again, who knew Cesar could? Or Jose Luis, Jonathan, Carlos & Marianna or well.... everybody!

August 31, 2025.

Eight months in Mexico and I still wake up every morning thinking, “We did this! We actually live here!” The honeymoon phase hasn’t faded. The warm, welcoming people - many of whom became closer friends in months than anyone we met in San Antonio after years, are what make this place magical. It’s the kind of genuine kindness that makes you wonder “What the hell is wrong with Americans?”

Here, if your Spanish is bad (mine has improved from “catastrophic” to “marginally intelligible”), people don’t mock you. No racist rants, no side-eye, no Karens at a baseball game threatening to call ICE. Just smiles, patience, and sometimes even applause for effort. Imagine that!

Now let’s talk tennis. Back in the States, “country club” was code for “class warfare with racquets.” The 4.0s (advanced players) wouldn’t relegate themselves to playing with 3.5 (intermediate) or 3.0s, (beginner)and if they did, it was only to crush them like overripe

grapes. Here, everyone plays with everyone. No elitist nonsense. Jorge and Beto, both born with racquets in hand and forehands of fire, could annihilate us without breaking a sweat. But instead, they slow it down, add a little spin, and make it fun. That’s called class. And humility. Two commodities that are more than a sober Kardashian in US clubs.

Now, the women. My God. The men play with smiles. The women? They play like gladiators. Irene screams at herself with the intensity of a Shakespearean actor in a tragedy. Lucy “Tennis Barbie,” Suzeth, and Marianna all unleash primal roars when they hit a “Ramon” - our club term for missing an easy shot at the net. They’ll apologize to no one, but will absolutely berate themselves like they just lost Wimbledon. Then there’s Dany “Sharapova,” whose serve could dent steel and whose pre-serve “Check the grip five times”  ritual makes Nadal look efficient. Every match feels like she’s auditioning for a Nike commercial. And yet, through it all, there’s laughter, sportsmanship, and zero drama. USTA players could take notes… and maybe a Xanax.

Now let’s discuss what Mexico really excels at: parties. I spent fifteen years in Las Vegas, and I’m telling you, Mexican fifty-year-olds could party circles around Vegas twenty-one-year-olds. The last three fiestas lasted over TEN HOURS each. Gourmet food. Premium liquor (yes, they stocked Scotch for this gringo). Lighted dance floors. Three mariachi bands. A DJ.

Ten women singing like angels on tequila. And half the guests were professional-level vocalists. When Mexicans throw a party, it’s not a social event, it’s an endurance sport.

I tried to keep up, I really did. My wife and her gorgeous Mexican amigas sang, danced, and even rapped (badly, but passionately) until 3 a.m. Meanwhile, I was quietly contemplating whether my body could survive another verse of “Caballo Dorado.” These women don’t age, either. Apparently, salsa and good genetics beat Botox every time.

The food? Heavenly. The fruits and veggies look like nature intended i.e. imperfect, irregular, and infinitely fresher than anything at Whole Foods. I’ve eaten street tacos that brought tears to my eyes, French cuisine that rivaled Paris, sushi that humbled Tokyo, and barbecue that would make a Texan weep. My brothers José and Jesús (yes, really) are now teaching me the sacred art of distinguishing tequila from mezcal. Did you know tequila is actually the healthiest alcoholic beverage on Earth? Zero sugar, minimal hangovers, and it barely touches your insulin levels. But don’t worry, my whiskey collection still gets plenty of love.

Our home? A modern penthouse with marble floors, 24/7 security, fingerprint access, and ceilings so high I could launch a drone indoors. We’ve got hot water for days and AC that could turn Hades into Helsinki. I take scalding hot 20-minute showers because I can. Every night we sleep in a slightly chilly room that feels like a five-star hotel.

And yet, apparently, we “don’t know how to live in Mexico.” I hear this all the time on expat Facebook groups. Usually from one of two types of geniuses.

First, the MAGA moron in the Midwest. You know the type. Unemployed, untraveled, and unhinged. One guy tried to tell me San Luis Potosí isn’t safe because it’s “right next to Sinaloa.” That’s like saying Chicago is dangerous because it’s near Cuba. These are the same people who think Mexico is one big cartel movie set. For the record, San Luis Potosí is the safest city I’ve ever lived in and that includes Vegas and ALL of Texas.

The second type is the bitter expat who moved here because they couldn’t afford rent back home. They live in a tiny casita with no AC and claim that is the “real Mexico.” Apparently, if you have hot water, marble floors, or more than one bathroom, you’re “not authentic.” Please. That’s like saying you can’t be a real American unless you live in a trailer park. There is no “real Mexico.” Just millions of real Mexicans, living their real lives.

Our friends here worked hard, built beautiful lives, and still put family and health before work. They’re gracious, grounded, and generous. If the haters met them, they’d quickly realize these are the real Mexicans and they know a hell of a lot more about living in Mexico than any cranky gringo with a keyboard.

So after eight months? I’m convinced. This place isn’t just home. It’s heaven with better tacos.

Just some of the doctors, entrepreneurs and other successful friends who have lived here their WHOLE LIVES here, but according to American whackjobs "Don't know anything about living in Mexico!"