Belonging

I watched Mexico open the World Cup from inside one of Celaya’s cantina bars.

My architect, Francisco, and I went to La Castreña, a place established in 1969, or at least remembered that way by the people who know it. It is the kind of place that does not need to explain itself. You sit down, order a Dos Equis, and as long as you stay, the food keeps coming.

First came the chips and salsa. Then carne apache, raw beef mixed with tomato, onion, chile, lime, and heat. It woke up my mouth before I was even sure what I was eating. Then came guisado de carne de puerco en salsa roja, with beans, rice, and homemade tortillas. Nothing fancy. Nothing staged. Just real cantina food: warm, spicy, generous, and familiar.

Between plays, Francisco and I talked about the building. We talked about the progress the team had already made, the decisions still ahead, and the quiet satisfaction of being part of a commercial building’s transformation from office space into apartments. I could feel myself learning to trust the rhythm of that transition: one conversation, one design choice, one trade-off, one step at a time.

It felt fitting. On the screen, Mexico was trying to find its rhythm. A few blocks away, a commercial building was in its own kind of metamorphosis.

By halftime, more people had poured in. The room got louder. Chairs moved. Bottles clinked. People leaned toward the screen. You could feel the old gears of that establishment turning. The owner looked to be well over 70. He walked by with the ease of someone who has seen thousands of afternoons like this. He smiled, talked about the game, and simply belonged to the room.

And there I was, in Celaya, wearing my Mexico jersey, watching our Patria play South Africa in the opening match of the World Cup. There were hard tackles, cards, interruptions, and edge. It was not clean, but it kept moving. Mexico scored, then Mexico scored again, and the room felt it.

That alone would have been enough. But then there was Érik Lira. Same last name. Mexican. Midfielder. Wearing the green. Part of the moment. I do not know him, of course, but sometimes a name, a jersey, a cantina, a plate of food, and a room full of people watching the same screen can make you feel connected to something larger.

I was not watching Mexico from a distance. I was watching Mexico in Mexico, in an old bar in Celaya, with beer, salsa, carne apache, pork stew, tortillas, noise, history, apartment plans, and a room that knew exactly what this meant.

And maybe that is what stayed with me most. The building. The team. The bar. The food. The game. The name on the field. The country around me. All of it seemed to be about belonging, not as an idea, but as something you feel in your body when you stop rushing past the moment.

Sometimes the work is not to become someone new. Sometimes the work is to become present enough to recognize where you already belong, and steady enough to care for what has been placed in your hands.

My Auténtico Self™