Going to another country really is a life changing experience. No I’m not talking about the resort you go to in St. Thomas or Costa Rica where the locals smile, speak English, offer you drinks on the house, and wont plot to rob you blind as you sleep. There’s an entirely different world outside of the walled in and heavily patrolled resort towns, and it was that kind of world that my parents wanted to experience one night in the inner cities of Mexico.

It was our fourth day into our excursion in Cancun, and my parent had tired of the same old beach, buffet, and craft making that the resort offered. My father decided to charter a bus into the actual town of Cancun, and find the most authentic Mexican restaurant he could find in the whole city. Of course seeing as there was very little of Cancun that was actually Mexican, we rode on a bus for an hour and a half to get to this tiny little hole in the wall called La Cantina Revolucionaria, which in English translates roughly too “White people eat at their own risk”

Out of the tiny hovel-restaurants that dot Cancun, this was by far the tiniest and decrepit of them all. The walls were adorned great murals filled with what appeared to be real bullet holes, and the floor was simply dirt. There were five tables visible by the door, with what looked like three more tables in the back corner. It was only me, my parents, and my brother in the entire restaurant, which made me feel even more awkward and uncomfortable. I sat there sweating and sort of staring at the menu (which as my mother cheerily pointed out, as entirely in Spanish), until our waiter came. He stood no more than three feet tall, barley able to reach the head of the table. He walked up to us and smiled sheepishly, saying in pretty good English, “Sorry about my height folks, I guess I’ll have to serve you with the tip of my head.” That made everyone laugh, and I right then I immediately felt at home in that strange Mexican cantina.

We ordered our food, and it came in less than five minutes, with our tiny waiter coming periodically to check up on us (always having to stand on the tips of his toes to do so). Everything went pretty well until I asked him possibly the worst question any foreigner could ask: “So what’s life in Mexico like?”

Immediately, his smile faded away, and he looked straight into my eyes. My parents tried to shush me, saying I was being embarrassing, but it was too late; our waiter had someone interested in his story, and he was determined to tell it. “It’s very hard,” he said, “Very, very hard to live in Mexico. Unless you are in the drugs, or in the hotel business, you are nothing. The police protect the gangs from the people, and the people, we only have each other to look too. It’s just very hard.”

For the rest of the meal, my dad would occasionally give me dirty looks, like I had said something wrong.

Later as we went to leave, he turned to my dad and said, “You know, I see more than a few Gringo’s in this place. Rarely do any of them care what life is like for us here. Thank you, seniors and senioras, and have a nice night.

And I swear that even as we left, there were tears in that tiny little man’s eyes that refused to fall, as if they knew that streaking down his cheeks was a useless gesture anyway. Right there I knew I had just gained more wisdom in an hour and a half dinner than I had than decades worth of teachers and tutors.

Not to mention a newfound taste for Mexican food.