After hours—days, even—of ruthless campaigning, only to lose by a slim 99.8% margin, it’s only natural you’re renouncing your citizenship and heading to Canada.
But there’s a better way.
A warmer, sunnier way.
With better tequila.
Head in the exact opposite direction to Downtown Mexico, a little 17-room pleasure palace in Mexico City’s Centro Histórico, taking reservations/self-imposed exiles now.
“Palatial” is not a term used figuratively here: back in the 1600s, it was Montezuma’s grandkids’ palace. So if you find yourself tormented at night by some Nahuatl-speaking apparitions, that’s why. (Or you drank too much tap water.)
But forget all that. Waltz through the unreasonably large doors and find the original antique elevator. Nice—it still works. Now, find your room. It should be the one with the volcanic rock walls, hand-laid cement tile and king-size bed that looks plucked from an Aztec-era Ikea catalog. Because you love that post-colonial bohemian minimalist look... and, well, because they’re standard in every room.
So that’s great. Running water and everything. Now you’re finally ready to greet the New New World—so make a beeline for the grand staircase and slide gleefully down the rails like a little Hernán Cortés Jr. on Christmas Day.
Or just walk. Those rails are pretty old.