WHEN IN MEXICO | JANUARY 26, 2026
4 MIN READ | WORDS by Jona Montoya
I Wasn’t Looking for a Luxury Hotel — I Was Looking for a Place That Would Leave Me Alone.
I’ve slept in places that cost more per night than my first surgery and others where the shower felt like a moral test. Neither has taught me much about anything of importance. What they have taught me is how people behave when comfort is assumed, when nothing needs proving. That’s where Casa Polanco lives.
It doesn’t show off. It doesn’t need to. It knows what it is and gets on with the job—quietly, competently, without the theatre. This is a house designed for rest. Rooms are calm, properly proportioned, insulated from the usual hotel nonsense. Sleep comes easily—deep, uninterrupted—the kind that suggests you’re staying in someone’s actual home rather than a mood board monetised by committee.
The design helps. Elegant without chill. Warm without charm offensive. Nothing screams. Nothing begs. One of those rare places where good taste feels unselfconscious. The complimentary minibar—artisanal snacks, decent drinks—sounds trivial until you realise how many hotels have forgotten generosity as a concept. Here it’s handled lightly, like good manners.
The house is immaculate. Not “hotel clean,” but reassuringly so. Bathrooms spotless without the olfactory assault of industrial chemicals. Someone here has standards. They’re enforced quietly, which is how standards should be enforced.
Step outside and the location does the rest of the talking. Park across the street. Masaryk within easy reach. You can walk, eat exceptionally well, disappear for hours, return without strategy or spreadsheets. Mexico City rewards that kind of looseness.
Then there’s the human layer, which is where most places collapse. Octavio Aguilar, the owner, is often around—not hovering, not branding himself, just present. It matters. You feel the difference between a “boutique concept” and a house that still has fingerprints on it. The staff follow suit: attentive without fuss, sharp enough to know when to appear and when to vanish. Heading to Chapultepec Park, I was handed water and a bag—no flourish, no script. Practical needs anticipated, not announced.
Drinks arrive when they should. Food is where the place hesitates. In a city like this, hesitation counts. Breakfast and in-house meals aren’t bad; they’re simply outpaced by the city outside the door. Fortunately, that door opens onto some of the best eating on the continent, so the flaw barely lands. Do not leave the city without trying tacos de canasta.
What truly separates Casa Polanco is the quiet. No lobby opera. A small terrace. Few rooms. Even full, it never feels busy. Silence here isn’t a gimmick; it’s a policy.
When in Mexico City, stay there. It favours discretion over display, and calm over performance. For people who’ve lived a little—and paid attention—that’s not a lack of spectacle. It’s the whole point. ■
Jona Montoya Loves México22 QUESTIONS | JANUARY 12, 2026
“Pleasure is not something you apologize for.”
A reflective interview on sex, self-control, living well in Mexico City and the pleasures that survive once you stop trying to outrun yourself.
Jona Montoya, Copywriter.
Your favorite pornstar — first name that comes to mind. Hmmm… Kayden Gray. What turns you off? Sexual-stinginess a.k.a fucking someone who never seems curious about what you like, never adapts, never checks in, never reciprocates. That’s the ultimate boner-killer. Something you tried once and would not repeat. Walking around the world. I quit nine months and 2,000 miles in—broke, homeless, and with serious back-pain. I learned exhaustion is not enlightenment. Which work by a gay artist would you want at home, and why? Paul Cadmus’s Y.M.C.A. Locker Room. — My dream is to own a bathhouse, and this is the painting I’d hang at the entrance, as a reminder that desire has always been communal, awkward, physical, and a little messy. What is your happiest memory? An LSD trip, back in 2022. My brain peeled itself open. I remember it now as my happiest memory because once you’ve seen “that”, what lingers afterward is a sort of clarity words can’t fully describe. What are you actually looking for right now? God, in everything and everyone. What is considered normal in Mexico that outsiders consistently misunderstand? Time bends here because people come first. Family, friendship and faith, not machines. The gag is: I’m always on time. I blame my mother for that. What do you now know about Mexico that guidebooks never bothered to mention? Mexico City runs on overlapping rhythms. If you’re rushing, you’re already out of sync. What quietly excellent thing have most visitors missed entirely? For the most part Mexicans shrug at your life story and that shrug is a form of grace. Almost no one here wants to police your desire, your identity, your sex life, your relationship structure, your eccentricities. Visitors miss it because they’re too busy projecting their own self-importance and drama onto a place that has already seen everything. What daily ritual anchors you when you’re far from home? Blasting rock and heavy metal through my headphones. Where is home for you now—and where do you go when you don’t want to be seen, but don’t want to be alone? Home is the bed I share with my boyfriend in Mexico City. I go there. When have you behaved badly abroad—and what did you learn from it? I’ve behaved badly everywhere I’ve gone. I take advantage of anonymity, bend agreements, internal and external, and assume I’ll deal with the consequences later. I’m alive less because I’m careful than because I’m fortunate. Luck is a terrible thing to build a life on. What pleasure do you defend without apology? Oh, several… Privacy. Changing your mind. Boundaries that disappoint people. Sex with someone you don’t particularly like. If no one is being lied to, coerced, or misled, pleasure is not something you apologise for. What fantasy of yours should stay a fantasy? That more still equals better. It isn't. Monogamy is now the risk worth taking. What boundary did you learn to enforce in Mexico—and why? Leaving while the night is still good. In Mexico, hospitality is generous to the point of endurance. It’s a culture that gives and gives, and knowing when to stop receiving is not ingratitude. It’s self-respect. What do you want more of in bed—and what are you doing about it? Hours of sleep and sex that matches the man I am now. I say what I want, plainly, and I listen when the answer isn’t yes. Asking reveals appetite. Silence gets you nothing. What is the most adult decision you’ve ever made? Wanting less, on purpose. One lover, fewer opinions, fewer exits. Better quality of everything. What has Mexico given you that you didn’t ask for? Street smarts. And a tolerance for closeness. What has it taken from you that you no longer needed? Fear. Mostly the unnecessary kind. What should newcomers learn quickly—or suffer for ignoring it? Ahorita is not a time. It can mean in five minutes, in an hour, later today, tomorrow, or in a future so abstract it has no measurable relationship to your lifespan. If it matters, insist gently on a time—or die waiting. If you had to explain Mexico to someone you love, what would you say? Nothing works the way you expect. And almost everything works anyway. Especially people. If this chapter of your life were a footnote, what would it read? Came back to Mexico City expecting repair. Got clarity instead. Learned which fantasies to retire—and when to leave the party with my clothes still on. ■
Paul Cadmus, Y.M.C.A. Locker Room, 1934
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