Homecoming

A Mosaic of Narratives and themes

I roll my window down in an attempt to wake myself up this Sunday morning. It rained last night, and I can smell the comforting mix of wet dirt and zacate. We weave our way through a valley of mountains, where a small oasis of desert rests on the far east of Ensenada. Known to many as Ruta del Vino (Wine Route), the ever-expanding Valle de Guadalupe is Mexico’s “Napa Valley” with sweeping views of vines and wineries. We arrive during the off-season — when the grapevines are dormant, roads are empty, and the vast surrounding of desert and mountains make the valley look like a ghost town. Toward the tail end of the Valle, passing the windy montañas, off the main via rapida, we see the sign: Casa Urbina, which translates to House Urbina. Guarded by rows of rosemary and lavender bushes, small cabins line the perimeter of the vineyard. Locally sourced rocks and varieties of cacti, popping against the dark brown wood, surround the ebony cabins.

We feel welcomed here, away from the bustle of the cities. After roaming through the maze of vines and frolicking in a field of daisies, a rumble erupts from the sky, forming puffs of gray above us. A bit frazzled, we head toward the winery restaurant Pacifera. This place used to be a cement carcass, when the architect bailed on construction midway. Now, the bare bones are dressed in deep emerald green, and gold accents. There’s no one here, just us. We only hear our echoes bounce off the walls, with sporadic bursts of pause and laughter. The air is filled with the sweet smell of wine and carne asada, which the owner of the vineyard, Roberto Urbina, warming up on the grill.

His presence feels inviting, maybe it's the lines in the corners of his smile, or the warmth in his eyes. I’m curious to know what makes someone start a vineyard in the middle of nowhere. We learn Roberto, once a successful businessman in the exports business of Mexico, decided to sell his share of the company he had built with his cousin to fulfill this lifelong passion. A field of terracotta dirt and untamed ferocious weeds has now become a wine resort. The road to this dream was not an easy one, but despite the concerns and discouragement, Roberto held his dream with a tight fist and started building.

I ask about the meaning behind the vineyard's name, Casa Urbina. Expecting a profound answer, I am met with an erupting laugh from Roberto. “It's pretty literal, it means this is our home, a place where we celebrate, rest and escape.” He adds on "But not just for our family, for every family” there's the profound monologue I was expecting. I learned the vineyard is not only a place for Roberto to provide guests with amazing hospitality, but also where he and his older brother rekindle their relationship. Their relationship naturally wilted over the years as they both went their separate ways, one staying in Tijuana, the other moving to California with his family.

The turning point was in 2012, when their father passed away, and everything changed. Death does a number on people, a wake-up call from the dead. It puts everything into perspective, to realize that there is a silent timer that goes off on everyone, unannounced and unanticipated. The brothers started to bond over their hobbies, Roberto’s cooking and winemaking, and Armando’s brewing. They started collaborating on crossovers between Casa Urbina and Palmas Brewery, supporting each other with Armando helping in the funding and construction of the very restaurant we are eating at right now. Casa Urbina was their new home, a home they built together.

We drive back to the Airbnb after our dinner at Pacifera, and my mind starts to wander as the rolling views of blue and green hypnotize me. I hadn’t released how much things had changed since I’d last visited six months ago. The cactus was taller, the rooms a different color. But most noticeably, the symptoms of the chemotherapy were starting to show. Less hair, no hair. It was ironic; for a person who I’d known for giving, he was poisoned with something that only takes. I now feel guilt for judging my uncle for trying to outrun the clock.

I remember when I first heard about my uncle wanting to start the vineyard. I thought maybe the aging thing was getting to him, and this was him going through his “mid-life crisis.” I was a lot more pessimistic back then. But my very adamant concerns weren’t nearly enough to cause him to shy him away; nothing could at this point. Slowly but surely, he started planting little grape vines small enough to fit into an orange juice carton. Every time he would talk about this place, I could see how much he was enjoying it. The small details of layouts, the architecture of the cabins, the hidden orchard, the lavender bushes at the start of every vine.

I like to think he would be happy to see what he created. Yes, the wine is great and so is the food. But it was his ability to create a place that brought people together, made us laugh, made us bond, made us family. I think that was his greatest creation, his greatest gift.

It was family.

This trip has been a little weird for me. I put this unrealistic pressure on myself to be the expert on everything related to Mexico. A trip I had championed for so long had at last come to fruition. But I think the reason why I was so disconcerted on this trip was that there was once a time when I wanted nothing more than to not be Mexican. A trip where I should be beaming with the most pride and warmth in my heart felt neglected, forgotten — waiting.

This was supposed to be my homecoming. Yet when I see the people in my car notice the poverty — the houses made of cardboard, the skinny kids with signs begging for spare change, the dogs on the street. I would justify it or apologize for it, like when visitors come into your home, and you say, “Sorry for the mess, it's usually cleaner, prettier,” but there is no photoshopped postcard I can hide behind now.

This is Mexico.

Words: Monserrat Urbina

Photos: Christina Kan, Monserrat Urbina, Niko Frost

Design: Hannah Zhuang