I thought I’d share a bit of non-fiction today, and I confess I’ve debated posting this for a long time! I read a craft book recently that said, “Nobody wants to hear your travel stories and how much fun you had on your vacation,” and I think that deterred me from sharing this… But, the same book also said that people want to hear the stories that change you, and where they can take a journey with you. When I visited Mexico City in October, it may have been a vacation, and yes, it’s a travel story. Yes, it was fun. But for so many reasons, I also think it was a significant milestone in my life! It taught me to see the world differently, and it unlocked pieces of myself that I’ve leaned on since then.
So, for those who want to hear a travel story that’s really a little more, in the style of Avatar: The Last Airbender… join me, won’t you? 🙂
LA CIUDAD DE LOS ELEMENTOS
FUEGO
Landing in Mexico City for the first time gave me that New York feeling—sizzling, sensory overload. A blaze of color and sound.
Ignition.
While I may have been a solo traveler, I was never lonely. Mexico blankets you in community from the very first step.
Feet away from the Benito Juarez Airport, murals and graffiti boldly sing you Mexico’s stories on every wall. There are beautiful brown faces, dark raven hair, fists raised high. We’re proud here, they say in color and motion. They call for the liberation of Palestine, the death of fascism, and the joy of living freely. The art pops on every corner, bold and unafraid.
Frida Kahlo . . .
Man, she painted here. She fell in love here. She lived here. By the end of my trip, I’d trace her steps through Casa Azul, imagining her joy. Her pride. Her pain.
Viva la vida.
The Uber driver asked what I had planned for the week. His tone was friendly, easy, and casual, though he must have mashed his horn about five times. Out of all the Ubers I took, five honks weren’t even the record. The traffic moves like art . . . chaotic, colorful, and alive. The driver told me that it wasn’t his favorite thing, but he lived in the city all his life and he loved it with all his heart, smog and all.
At a red light, a street performer ran into the intersection, spun a basketball on the tip of an umbrella, and stuck the handle in his mouth . . . while juggling three scimitars. I knew I was never going to be bored. I’m not positive that was the most interesting thing I saw in the streets. A friend had told me to count all the dogs I saw—a quest I failed as early as Hermosillo. From the top of the Torre Latinoamericano, I witnessed a great protest by the streets of the Zocalo. Another day, I saw a Storm Trooper marching down the road to Xochimilco. The bus driver and my tour guides didn’t look twice. For them, it was just Sunday.
For me, fire was catching again. But I wondered what it would be like . . . how fast the awe would wear off if I were exposed to this much stimulation every day of my life. To walk by the Palacio de Bellas Artes on the way to the bank, or to work a few blocks away from the president’s office.
I considered the Casa de los Azulejos—The House of Tiles. Once upon a time, tiles were a symbol of wealth and status. I had a good laugh about the count whose father told him, “You will never build a house of tiles.” The count did it anyway. The ultimate “look at me now” move. A feat of architecture and defiance. And now, one can buy tiles for 15 pesos each, or less than a dollar.
It seemed that every time I turned a corner in Mexico City, I beheld another monument, a fascinating piece of history, and an ember of pride. There was the grandiose kind—the buildings, the dancers, the epic murals of Diego Rivera saying, “This is us.” There was everyday pride—the hiss of knives diving through fresh fruit. The cry of the street vendors advertising their tacos, pambazos, refrescos, and so much more. The food always warms from within—often spicy, fresh off a grill, and comforting.
That pride roars through every aspect of the city, such as the rainbow flags, benches, and crosswalks—not just confined to the LGBTQ-centric Zona Rosa, but sprinkled liberally throughout the area. Their embers keep the city warm. Queer couples stroll the Paseo de la Reforma hand in hand, sharing umbrellas, pastries, and new memories.
On my first full day, I was lucky to take a one-on-one tour of the Centro Histórico from a local: Ricardo Rojas, AKA the Chilango Insider. To explore the heart of the city through his eyes was to imagine its vivid history and vibrant present—the large-scale monuments and the hidden gems.
We marveled at the city from above, appreciating the drama of iron storm clouds over the cathedrals, the golden sun shining on Bellas Artes, and the simple joy of having coffee on a rooftop. I was also astonished from the up ground, staring up at glass ceilings and pointing out the slant in certain buildings. The House of Tiles, for example, is crooked.
I constantly had to remind myself, this beautiful city is sinking, and it’s prone to earthquakes.
A simple lion sculpture adorns one of the Centro’s corners, marking a great flood that happened many years ago. And the chilangos practice a drill every year—reinforced by signage in every building—to prepare for earthquakes.
Ricardo taught me about the resilience of the chilangos and how they come together to help each other in times of hardship . . . how they formed human chains to remove debris after the most recent earthquake less than a decade ago. In teaching me this, Ricardo offered me something vital: a recognition of home and heritage. On the way to the bus station, my uncle had told me, “In a way, visiting Mexico means you’re visiting home.” I thought I’d been trying to reclaim something I’d lost, but I realized it’s inherent.
Latino culture is alive with a vibrant, community feel and the spirit of family. It’s not just the human chains. It’s the strangers that call you mijo, chico, amigo, or joven, inviting you to “make yourself a plate,” “siéntese por favor,” and offering all their kindness.
This feeling burns on full display in Parque Alameda, where I beheld a marvelous crowd salsa dancing in the park. Couples twirled their partners around the glistening water fountains, their passion sweet and spicy at the same time. I wondered if it was a special occasion. What were they celebrating?
By the time I left, I’d know the truth: It wasn’t a holiday. It was just life.
People simply dance in the park every night because they can.
Before I crossed the Nogales border on a Tufesa bus, I carried worries that were heavier than my suitcase. Watching the crowd dance like that, feeling my belly being warmed by a pambazo, my shoulders released all their tension like a great sigh.
Be loose, the music said. Be warm. Welcome to Mexico City.
That fire is radiant in Parque Alameda. Over the music, one can hear the fountains splashing like rain. If the flames burned my worries away, the waters washed them clean.
AGUA
I confess, I hadn’t known Mexico City was built on lakes.
I couldn’t stop thinking about this wherever I walked—about that lion in Centro Histórico and how it marked the great floods. About the tilt in the House of Tiles, and how the city sinks ten centimeters every year.
A thorough planner to my core, I had checked the weather forecast and braced for nonstop rain. I waterproofed a favorite pair of leather boots—patched up and infused with added character from a local cobbler. A windbreaker would be enough.
I thought of a song I’d grown to love by The Black Keys.
No rain, no flowers, they said. No pain, no power.
Flash forward to my final night in the city, when I’d find myself carrying a single orange rose to the neighborhood of Roma Norte. Overconfident from the light drizzle, I passed up the chance to buy an umbrella from a woman on a street corner—estoy bien, gracias. Then I returned about five minutes later when the skies opened up and drenched me to the bone. Go figure, that woman was standing by the Angel de la Independencia, a beacon of divine blue light bringing great tidings of being dry. Hallelujah.
The thunder that night rattled my bones, adding a little extra bass to the music of The Killers. I didn’t expect to hear my favorite band in Mexico City, but when I arrived at a little bar called La Chica, they were singing my soundtrack. My boots were soaked and my hair was dripping, but I was coming out of my cage and doing just fine. I would make the journey all over again for that Mexican beer, flor de calabaza, and a great conversation.
No rain, no flowers.
Thankfully, the weather never canceled any of my major plans. Someone—perhaps the Angel Statue, or maybe even Tlaloc, the god of rain, deserved thanks for the luck I had.
Water is temperamental. It drowns, destroys, and carves veins into the earth. Yet it also nourishes, cleanses, and offers rebirth.
In the smallest pocket of my travel pack, I carry a little clay Sonorok, or a “Sonoran Korok.” The creation is one of a kind, inspired by Tucson and the endearing plant spirits from The Legend of Zelda. The artist sculpted and painted it to look like a tiny tree stump with a glossy ceramic nopal mask. For a year I’ve kept him on my writing desk for inspiration. Later I decided that he would also travel with me as a symbol of home, adventure, creativity, and calm, and he would become a vessel to soak up the energy of every wonderful place I experienced.
One of his favorite photos was taken in the lakes of Xochimilco.
I left a piece of my heart in Xochimilco, where I learned to find calm in a little chaos. We boarded a bold yellow trajinera with a feisty name: La Toxica. She was one of countless brightly colored boats going the same direction that day.
Evidently, you never escape traffic jams in Mexico City—even on water.
But the boats don’t honk. They just crash. We learned this three times.
“Nos chocamos!” Ernesto, the trajinero, cried dramatically. He grinned as he jammed his comically large oar into the water and heaved us around, trying to free us from the embotellamiento. WHAM! “Otra vez!” Some people on my tour looked mortified. Disillusioned. I just laughed and laughed at the controlled chaos, knowing it was part of the experience. The water was calm. It would have our backs, and Ernesto would, too. I asked him, “es cansador para tus brazos?” He mopped his brow with the sleeve of his hoodie, Cookie Monster-blue, and told me that it was buen ejercicio.
Soon, other trajineros rowed up to us to offer up their goods. It was that Wizard of Oz scene, when Dorothy’s house is in the tornado and all the visitors pass by her window. The knitting lady in her rocking chair. Thankfully no wicked witch, though we’d hear a famous story about one later.
Instead there were eloteros offering delicious corn with all the works.
There were floreros offering crowns, woven with care. It was on that lake that I glimpsed a field of endless cempasuchils—the marigolds that guide the dead back to the land of the living for Dia de los Muertos. What beautiful timing for us to hear a mariachi playing Remember Me from Coco. The trumpet line was smooth, schmaltzy, and flowing.
By the time I ordered a giant pulque—my first one ever—I relaxed deeply in a painted wicker chair, every muscle loose and free like the waters that carried us. I had been told the fermented smell would bother me and that it would be an acquired taste. While I still prefer a good beer or sangria, that pulque made me feel like one of the native axolotls, with their permanent little smiles.
Meanwhile Mario, our tour guide for the day, told us stories. There was the tale of Don Julian and his cursed Island of Dolls, which wasn’t too far away. That story didn’t end well. And of course there was La llorona. I knew that story well—she terrified me every time a monsoon wind threw the screen door open at my grandma’s house. For such a serene, beautiful place—the literal “Garden of the Flowers” by name—the local legends were dark. Del Toro-esque. Dreamlike, somehow, in their juxtaposition with the marigolds and micheladas.
So I wonder if my tipsy brain invented the guy with the monstrous hawk that was on our boat for about a minute. I never saw him board, or leave for that matter.
Or maybe I dreamed up the quartet of handsome vaqueros dressed in silver and black, playing their ranchero music on one of the banks.
Then there was the young girl with the colossal yellow snake draped over her shoulders. It was longer than she was tall, and both stared out at us with the most gentle, mysterious smiles.
But I didn’t dream up the mariachi that boarded our boat and serenaded the group.
I clapped, and I sang along when they got to the parts I knew. Baaaamba, bamba! And Caaaanta y no llores!
I can’t remember which of the songs they were playing when another mariachi boat pulled up next to us. They both played louder, each dueling to be heard. They were like waves colliding, each feeding the other’s momentum.
“Battle of the Mariachis,” one of the passengers said.
By the end, when we were absorbed into another traffic jam, I had decided that Xochimilco was chaos. Beautiful, colorful, musical chaos, where dreams and nightmares shared the lakes.
And yet it brought me peace.
That’s the strange duality of water, I suppose. Chaos and peace. Destruction and rebirth.
After our fiesta on the water, I sought a little quiet.
I took my little Sonorok to the Basilica de Guadalupe. The Uber driver could only get me so far, for pilgrims had arrived in droves, even for a Monday. They attended mass, lit candles, and pondered the holy mysteries.
Me? I mostly wanted to marvel at the architecture and listen to the waterfalls in the garden.
I felt there wouldn’t be any harm in stopping at the gate marked benediciones.
The priest stood on an altar with a vibrant red rose in his hand. He said some words to the crowds that gathered around his gate—endless waves of fifteen to twenty people. Then he dunked the rose in holy water and took aim. When he slung the holy water into the crowd and blessed our journey, he reminded me of an anime swordsman. Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
Most people held up images of Mary. Holy trinkets.
I held up my Sonorok, for it represented so much.
We both welcomed a refreshing spritz of water in the Mexican sunlight. I basked in the peaceful feeling—the same kind I get at the San Xavier Mission, but amplified.
My relationship with religion wasn’t entirely simple, but standing there feeling the rain—the holy water and the gentle winds on my face, I figured I was probably in good hands.
AIRE
Each day of my trip had a purpose, and I’d planned it weeks in advance.
From the staggering shelves of Biblioteca Vasconcelos to churros at El Moro, I planned my trip to a T.
Yet before leaving, I often asked myself, did I prepare well enough for this?
Would my Duolingo streak, text conversations, and watching Shrek in Spanish really be enough to thrive—or survive—a thousand miles from home?
Did I save enough pesos and prepare for the altitude, weather, and street food?
What had I forgotten?
It turned out I only needed one reminder:
Let go.
Try not to plan every minute of the day.
Leave some room to follow the wind, and let it take you where it wills you.
There are “quests” I didn’t manage to complete. I still have to try chapulines, and many of the cafes. I never made it out to Garibaldi Square, or to the town of Puebla.
But I never expected the hidden gems. A late night pan de muerto adventure in Coyoacán—the place of the coyote. Gazing at the mosaics of UNAM. Drinking some of the best hot chocolate of my life, smooth and tinged with cinnamon.
I also didn’t expect to order from the “Lady Tacos de Canasta,” whose deep voice boomed from the streets of the Centro Histórico to the balconies of the House of Tiles. Ricardo and I came down to take a snack break. People swarmed the famous taco lady to take selfies with her. When I ordered my own tacos with beans and potatoes, Ricardo was so stunned he dropped an F-bomb.
I hadn’t realized he planned to translate for me.
And that simple moment was a turning point. I thought back to a night I’d had in Hermosillo about a year before. My dear friend, who had largely been using Spanglish with me, had clapped a steady hand on my shoulder and joked, “Are you all grown up now?” before we split up to order from separate food trucks. I’d accomplished my mission, but secretly harbored a fear of offending the server, or ordering a chair instead of a quesabirria.
I thought about this moment while I chowed down on those tender tacos. I didn’t know when the transition had happened, but it had become second nature to practice my Spanish. To order food without second-guessing myself or having a sweaty, out-of-body experience. I had more than enough pesos in my pocket. My stomach never complained.
“Yeah, man,” I thought. “Damn right I’m all grown up now!”
If I hadn’t practiced letting go and following the wind a little, I might not have ended up in Mexico in the first place. Coming to the city was an act of trust—in the universe and in myself.
And the greatest act of trust was on a Saturday, when I crawled into a van at 4:15 in the morning and allowed it to drive me about an hour outside of the city.
My eyes drooped and my knee was bouncing. As I signed a death waiver, I wondered how I ever talked myself into doing what I was about to do.
A great fire roared in front of me—cutting through the morning dusk and the nippy weather. I’m up before the sun, I thought. The fire looks hellish. I haven’t had my coffee. It turned out the adrenaline was sufficient. I was in no danger of falling asleep.
Then I climbed into a basket with 25 strangers, and a photographer took my photo. When I look at it now, I wonder how she managed to catch me with such a calm expression on my face. I suppose it was pride. Happiness.
There was a whole cocktail of emotions brewing.
And all of them soared as the crew untied the hot air balloon, releasing us into the skies of Teotihuacán.
Just as the Mexican border released the tension in my shoulders, the takeoff released a breath in my lungs. Maybe it was nervous laughter. Maybe it was “letting go.” Maybe it was joy.
I had always sworn I would never get in a balloon. I didn’t trust heights, especially when you added fire and a basket to the equation.
But this time, I simply had to.
I was weightless, bound to the mercy of the wind and the pilot.
I looked straight ahead and saw over fifty other balloons in the air with us. Rainbows and smiley faces bobbed in the clouds. The twenty-five of us strangers? We were a golden phoenix on a bright red globe. Some of us were siblings. Some were celebrating engagement. Others traveled solo like me. I wonder if everyone else in that basket was rising from the ashes in some way, climbing with the sunrise. The morning rays weren’t visible behind the clouds, but we knew they were there.
I looked down and saw the pyramids, peaks of earth towering above the town.
The Place of the Goddess, and I could fit it all in my palm.
I could squish the Pyramid of the Sun with my fingers—but it didn’t make me feel large. As the astronaut Neil Armstrong said about viewing the earth from space, it made me feel very, very small.
But I also felt bold, free, and joyful, breathing with the wind.
Aire is courage and aire is freedom, and the two hold hands. They work together and reward you for stepping out of your comfort zone.
Sometimes that’s by traveling solo to a country you barely know.
Sometimes it’s soaring in a hot air balloon.
Sometimes, it’s simply buying flowers after you come back to earth.
TIERRA
My aunt had given me a quest I now swear by for language learners: Buy yourself some fresh flowers. Hand a florero a small bill of the local currency, and tell them to surprise you.
As a result, I kept five fresh roses in my hotel room—little bits of tierra, filling my room with a fresh, clean aroma.
Big cities are a symphony of smells.
Take one step, and the air smells like the bakery around the corner—coffee and pan dulce of every kind: conchas, puerquitos, the horn thingies, and wow, it’s pan de muerto season!
Take another step, and . . . whew. Garbage. Where’s the nearest trash can?
But oh, that elote is teasing me. That vendor has everything—limes, queso, chile, mayonesa . . .
Hmm, someone’s cologne smells really good. Is that cedarwood?
Is it about to rain again?
Here’s another one of those marijuana permit zones.
Flowers.
So many smells, all grounding me to the earth.
How beautiful is it to think that those flowers came from the same earth where the trees of Parque Alameda grow, and the saguaros of Tucson, and the agave that gives us pulque and mezcal and soft cactus fiber blankets?
The same earth on which Teotihuacán was built?
Feeling freed by the winds, the champagne toast, and liberal samples of tequila and mezcal, we were released into the Place of the Goddess . . . the archeological zone where those pyramids have stood for nearly two thousand years.
I walked the Avenue of the Dead slowly and reverently, with my hands behind my back. Even the vendors didn’t approach me with their silver and technicolor wares—animal whistles, ponchos, ceramic skulls, and alebrijes. They must have known I was in my own little world, wondering how many people had walked the avenue before me. Pondering the Pyramid of the Moon rising at the north end. I certainly couldn’t pinch it between my fingers anymore. Its height was staggering.
Here’s a morning walk I don’t take every day, I thought, so accustomed to my campus coffee runs. In the mornings I put on music to spice up the walk and pump me up for work. But in Teotihuacan, the only music I needed was the crunch of the dirt under my feet. The wind was still breathing with me.
Climbing the pyramid, the collective song would be from all of us who were losing our breath. Only 47 steps, and it was the ultimate Stairmaster, every step tall and narrow. Most people opted for support from the cables in the middle. Me? I was one of the guys using my hands and knees. I felt a bit like a monkey, and all those morning mezcal samples didn’t help me climb. Stairs added an amusing new layer to our Mexican toasts: arriba, abajo, and so on.
But the wind rewarded me for reaching el centro—the farthest we could go. There was a gentle breeze, a warm sun, and a beautiful view of the Pyramid of the Sun on the other end of the avenida.
I spent about 45 minutes on the Pyramid of the Moon. I even sat on the edge, sipped some water, and let my feet dangle over the earth. Where had my fear of heights gone? I was sure I hadn’t left it in the balloon. I may have done something brave, but the actual fear wasn’t going anywhere.
Then a park official told me to please scoot back for my seguridad, caballero. I loved that word. Caballero. Like Zorro or some brave cowboy. El valiente from the Loteria cards.
I thanked the official for his concern and obeyed his command.
That was how I knew how far my journey had taken me. I’d started at the Tucson Tufesa station, tense and distracted. Suddenly I’d been just a little too free, many miles away and many feet above the ground.
What an honor to be scolded on the Pyramid of the Moon.
I took off my windbreaker, sat crisscross applesauce, and closed my eyes.
The earth was still, and so was I.
Ricardo had told me stories of how the earth shakes sometimes, but I felt supported by the ground in every step I took.
Into the cave where I ate chilaquiles and drank delicious cafe de olla.
On those ancient pyramids and the avenue between them.
Onto the patterned tile of Castillo Chapultepec, where I stood on the balcony on my final day and saw everything. Acres of green earth. Boats cruising the lakes. The city skyline, including the Torre Latinoamericano where I started this whole journey. Huge yellow butterflies lingered for my photos. I smelled the flowers and trees, cultivated with care over countless years. I heard a symphony of languages, distant horns and sirens, and the echo of the street food vendors. Later I’d tell a friend that my eyes prickled up there, and he’d joke, “Was it the smog?”
In a way, I can’t rule that out. Because what really struck me was that in my last few hours, the view from the castle wove a beautiful tapestry of every thread I had come to love about the city. It felt not like a goodbye, but a “see you again.” It felt like an echo of the note my camarista had left in my hotel room, promising that one day the city would welcome me back with brazos abiertos.
And that note was a reminder that even if the earth shakes sometimes, tierra is people and community—the kind that comes together to dig through the rubble. I’d crossed the border reeling from the aftershocks of my own earthquakes. Some had cracked my branches. Some had shaken my roots.
But Mexico provided fire that warmed me.
It provided water to cleanse me.
It put wind in my lungs.
And tierra grounded me, asked me to grow, and reminded me that I still had strong branches and roots.Some of those were in Hermosillo, where I had three “Sonoran brothers” to start and end my journey with me. The first welcomed me in and gave me a set of keys to his house, to visit any time I wanted. The second offered words of caution and advice, and sent me to the city with a promise that they would all be waiting if I needed them. The third shared coffee and chisme with me and sent me back to Tucson with a bone-crushing abrazote.
So I circle back to my tio’s words—his declaration that in a way, I was visiting home. It felt like a fundamental truth. Yet I returned norte. The desert air was thinner and quieter. My uncle picked me up from the Tufesa station, drove me through Nico’s Taco Shop, and sent me back to my little apartment dreaming of my next adventure. My muscles were still loose. I thought, No me quejo por nada. Hoy, todo está bien.
I still think of the Ciudad de los Elementos every day. I continue to see ancient earth in the saguaros. Creative fire in the downtown murals and the frybread at San Xavier. Cleansing waters in the Tucson monsoons. Gentle winds between the storms . . .
After all, home has its perks, too.
