As I sit down and think about a memorable moment in my life, it’s hard to narrow it down to one. I’ve lived through many experiences in my short 24 years of life, and each and every one of them has impacted me in an entirely different way. Whether it was moving out from my parents’ house, struggling to keep up with my bills because of my low-income job or falling in love for the first time, I learned a valuable lesson from all. However, at least for now, nothing can compare in terms of memorability as my first trip to Mexico just two years ago.

It was the summer of 2014 when I decided I wanted to take a trip to Mexico City. I’ve been interested in the food, culture and people of Mexico for many years, and I finally had the opportunity to travel there on my own. Although it was a short-lived – slightly over a month – I learned something new every day that I was there, never ceasing the opportunity for an experience.

When I arrived that early Sunday morning there was already a car waiting. A friend of mine from where I worked at the time had a friend in Mexico City that was nice enough to pick me up at the airport and drop me off at where I would be staying. Without even knowing me, this man was generous and kind enough to take time away from work to pick me up. From the beginning, without even having left the airport, I was already amazed by the generosity.

It wasn’t long before I arrived at my host family’s home – again possible only because of my friend from work – that I had the opportunity to meet everyone in the family – a wonderful woman in her seventies, her son and his two daughters. All living under one roof and willing to accept a stranger in their home. They fed me, sheltered me and hosted me graciously, something that I will never forget. They were willing to share the little that they had to improve the experience of a young, curious traveler.

After spending my early mornings and days traveling around the city, which was just about an hour away from the small town I was staying in, I came back to their home to tell them about my experiences seeing El Castillo de Chapultepec, Casa Azul, Museo Nacional de Antropología and Los Giradores – men and women dressed in traditional clothing who, tied by their ankles to the top of a post, jump off and spin in circles down the post while playing ancient, traditional music from their wooden flutes. All things they had seen before, and could talk about for hours, but that were all new to me. I enjoyed listening to their stories and experiences of their daily lives in small-town Mexico. They were all eye opening to me, as it was hard for me to relate to their experiences having grown up in America. As they heard my stories about my life here in the States, they were just as amazed. The way of life is vastly different between the two countries, and it was hard for all of us to understand those differences. From waking up in the morning to the crazy-long workweeks, it seemed as though they way of life there was slower, more calm.

Perhaps more memorable than anything else on this trip, was my drive to Teotihuacán – an ancient Mesoamerican city home to the Pyramid of the Sun and Pyramid of the Moon. No, it wasn’t having the opportunity to climb both pyramids that was the most memorable. It was the road to get there that really made me think about things. As we were arriving, I was informed by one of the passengers on the minivan-turned taxi that the area we were in was completely controlled and run by organized crime. The man who told me was hesitant to raise his voice, concerned about who could be listening. The town appeared normal to me – the people shopped, cars drew dirt as they sped on the narrow roads and kids played in the street. All a façade for what the man said was actually taking place. I couldn’t help but wonder about how that was even possible. How could an organize crime syndicate take over a town in a free, democratic nation? Was it corruption? Or could it have been intimidation? Perhaps a little of both, was my conclusion. It was all of these questions that I couldn’t stop asking myself and others that made me realize why I want to be a journalist. It was that very moment that I realized how important it is to be informed, to tell the stories of others who otherwise would never have the chance or opportunity to speak.