There’s an old song from the thirties I’ve always loved, maybe because I love origin stories. It begins, “I was born under a silvery moon, with a pirate’s heart.” Written by Agustin Lara, a troubadour who played piano in nightclubs when he was only twelve years old, it’s an ode to Veracruz, a city on the Gulf of Mexico where Hernan Cortés’ Spanish flotilla first collided with Huastec, Otomí, Totonac and Olmec civilization. Five hundred years later, Veracruzanos are dark-skinned, fair-skinned, freckled, tall, short. They may have black almond eyes or large green eyes, hooked noses or aquiline profiles… “Jarochos”, as people from the port city are affectionately called, are fond of nicknaming their friends and neighbours by their most obvious physical trait. Chubby? You’re “gordo”. Skinny? They’ll call you “flaco”. No tan? Güero. It’s the end of July, and I’m sitting by the water in my hometown, calling my “other” home, Veracruz, to wish Martha –my Mexican mama– a “Happy Birthday”, humming the old familiar tune until she picks up.

“Hola Güerita,” she answers, in her sing song accent.

“I found tickets to come see you in December!” I tell her excitedly, never imagining a few days later the cost of our reunion will break my heart.

“Excellente, mi hija,” she replies. Now tell me how you’ve been…