First Time in Mexico City — A Memoir of Going Alone and Coming Back Someone Else

Jacarandas, tacos, Lucha Libre, and a city that rearranged something in me I didn't know was out of place.

Floating over Teotihuacán

Lucha Libre and the loudest night of my life

The Zócalo and the smoke of five hundred years

Nopales, a friend, and a dad who assumed too much

Frida, Finally

Bienvenidos a la Ciudad de México.

The first thing I read as I walked toward the exit. White letters on a green sign, hanging overhead. It's something you see in almost every airport, but it made me grin like a golden retriever. Me? In Mexico City? Alone? Very eat-pray-love of me!

The doors opened and the air swallowed me whole. Warm and thick, with something almost sweet underneath. Within seconds, my shirt was clinging to my back. I felt a slow bead of sweat tracing down the back of my knee and my hair collapsing against my neck like a wet curtain. I stood there, suitcase beside me, the heat and smell of Mexico City pressing itself against my skin all at once. Exhaust. Something fried. Something floral. A city introducing itself the only way it knew how.

I pulled out my phone.

Estoy aquí, I texted Deni. I'm here.

Deni. My language partner. For a year, he was nothing more than a voice drifting through my earphones late at night like a radio signal from somewhere far away. He had corrected my terrible Spanish. I had corrected his English. We had laughed at each other's mistakes across time zones, across languages, across the quiet of nights when the rest of the world was already asleep.

My phone buzzed against my palm.

Te espero aquí.

I'm right here.

I looked up. He came running.

We hugged. The clumsy, laughing kind where you squeeze too hard and pull away beaming like kids. We tried to talk. Me reaching for every Spanish word I'd ever memorized, him stitching English words together like he was building something with his hands. I was barely A1. Half of what I said made no sense. But we kept going. Wild hand movements, laughter, and the stubbornness of two people who had already decided they were friends.

The city streamed past the car window like someone flipping through pages of a book. Buildings stacked against buildings. Laundry strung between windows. Murals bleeding color across entire walls. On the radio, a DJ was speaking Spanish too fast and too fluid for me to catch, so I stopped trying and just let the words wash over me like music.

Then we turned a corner and the street opened up into something I wasn't prepared for.

The jacarandas. God, the jacarandas.

Imagine a tree covered in purple. Not a soft purple. A purple so vivid it doesn't look like it belongs in nature. Entire streets lined with them on both sides, like the city had put on its best dress and was waiting to be noticed. Their petals were everywhere, drifting slowly through the air, covering the sidewalks. I watched them, eyes full of wonder, and thought, I am so far from home. From my language. From my comfort zone. From every safe, familiar thing I'd ever known.

And none of it scared me.

After dropping my luggage at my Airbnb in Roma Norte, Deni and I headed to a taquería for my first real tacos on Mexican soil. And as we walked, I looked around and knew right away I picked the right neighborhood.

Green everywhere. Trees lining every street, plants spilling over balconies, the whole area breathing. Strangers smiled and said hello like we'd always been neighbors. And every few blocks, the smell of grilled meat or fresh tortillas or cinnamon from a café de olla cart would drift over and pull me by the nose.

We sat down to eat. I looked at the menu and the menu looked back at me with zero mercy. I turned to Deni for help and what came out of my mouth was Spanglish. He understood anyway. Or pretended to. Either way, God bless that man.

The tacos came and I owed Mexico an apology for every taco I'd ever eaten before.

Listen. Tacos in Mexico are on a completely different level. I've had tacos in Asia. I've had tacos in Europe. I've had tacos that called themselves tacos but had no business using the word. Nothing comes close. Not even in the same universe. Fine, maybe San Diego got close, but that's because San Diego is practically sitting on Mexico's doorstep.

But this. Smoky, rich, with something underneath I couldn't name.

Before I even picked one, the smell was already in my face. The tortillas were warm and doubled up, slightly charred at the edges. And the sauces, lined up like a dare. White, red, green, something darker that looked like it had a personal vendetta. I tried all of them.

It was messy. Salsa dripping down my wrists, chicharrón crumbling everywhere, trompo juices running past my fingers. I didn't care. I was having the time of my life. And Deni just sat there, eating like a normal person, not once judging the disaster happening across the table.

I woke up at 3:30 AM. By choice. Which is not something I say often. Or ever.

I sleep easily, I sleep deeply, and I sleep anywhere. Give me a surface and a pillow and I'm gone. Some people need white noise, blackout curtains, the right temperature. I need nothing. I slept alone in my Airbnb that night like a child who'd been promised Disneyland in the morning, which, honestly, wasn't far off.

The tour picked me up and we drove toward Teotihuacán. Two American families and me, the only Filipina in the van.

When the tour guide asked if anyone couldn't understand English, every single head turned toward me.

Wow. I've been speaking English since before some of those teenagers were born, but sureeeee.

The balloons were being prepared when we arrived. Massive, colorful, rising from the ground like giant flowers opening for the first time.

Sun was already up, painting that first golden stripe across the sky. Air had that crisp, early morning bite you only earn by getting out of bed before the world does. Everyone else would catch up eventually, but for now, this was ours.

Then I saw the basket. No door. No step. Just a wall I had to climb over. And I'm five foot nothing.

I stood there doing the math. The math wasn't mathing.

Two lovely older British women stepped in to help, hands already reaching out. But something in me needed to do it alone. I grabbed the edge, threw one leg over, and hauled myself in with zero elegance and maximum effort. But I made it.

One of them clapped me on the back and said, "Well done, love. You did that all on your own."

Two sentences from a stranger. But for someone who spent most of her life needing to prove she could manage on her own, those words meant more than she'll ever know. I smiled. Not politely. For real.

And then we lifted.

Slowly at first. The ground pulling away beneath us, the noise of the world fading, the air getting cooler and softer.

The pyramids stretched out below me. The Pyramid of the Sun. The Pyramid of the Moon. The Avenue of the Dead cutting through the earth in a perfect, ancient line. I'd seen them a hundred times on screens, in textbooks, in documentaries narrated by men with deep voices, tracing their outlines with my eyes and wondering what it felt like to stand near them. And now I wasn't standing near them. I was floating above them.

My brain couldn't hold it. The distance between who I was then and who I was now: a girl from the Philippines, alone in Mexico, suspended in the sky over ruins that were old before my country had a name. It didn't feel real. But the wind on my face said otherwise.

Somewhere behind me, a woman whispered, "This view makes it hard not to be grateful."

I didn't turn around. I just nodded. Because she was right.

I decided to watch Lucha Libre that night. I knew it was a thing in Mexico, but I didn't know it was THE thing.

The crowd outside the arena was already a spectacle. Hundreds of people pouring in from every direction, vendors selling masks on the sidewalk, kids on their dads' shoulders, the energy building before we even got through the doors. I couldn't see where I was going. Just necks and shoulders and the backs of heads, all of us pressing forward like one enormous animal funneling toward the light.

Inside was madness. The arena was packed to the ceiling. And the noise. Not cheering, not clapping. Screaming. Full-throated, veins-popping-out-of-necks screaming.

I had never in my life heard people insult each other with this much joy. Spanish was flying from every direction. Fast, filthy, and absolutely fearless. Grown men standing on their seats yelling things at the luchadores that would get you fired from any job on earth. Kids joining in like it was a family activity. Which, apparently, it is.

I understood maybe five percent. And honestly, that five percent was enough to know I was better off not understanding the rest.

But the real show was in the ring. Spandex, masks, capes flying. Bodies launching off ropes, crashing into the mat, bouncing back up like nothing happened. Every slam echoed through the arena and the crowd lost their minds like they hadn't been watching this their entire lives.

In the middle of the chaos, I got my hands on a michelada. Cold, spicy, limey, salted rim. I took a sip. Then another. Then I was on my feet yelling things. I don't know what I said. It was probably not a real language. Nobody noticed. Nobody cared.

I sat there. Sweating, laughing, drink in hand, understanding absolutely nothing and feeling absolutely everything.

The next day, I took a DiDi to Buenavista neighborhood. Traffic was insane. Nearly nine million people live in this city and I'm pretty sure all of them were on the road that day.

We weren't moving. Hadn't moved in what felt like fifteen minutes. Out of nowhere, my mouth decided to start singing Lambada. Full volume. A Brazilian song, in a Spanish-speaking city, in the back of a stranger's car. Make it make sense because I can't.

The driver looked at me through the mirror. I looked at him. We both knew this was ridiculous. And then he just burst out laughing. Loud, uncontrollable, zero holding back. And so did I. Because what else do you do when you've just serenaded a Mexican man with a song from Brazil and neither of you saw it coming?

I don't know what this city does to people. But I came here speaking the wrong language, singing the wrong song in the back of a stranger's car, and somehow, nothing about me felt wrong.

The Zócalo is one of the largest squares in the world. And it felt like it.

I lingered, taking it in. People moving in every direction. Tourists, vendors, families, performers, like the square had its own heartbeat and everyone was just blood flowing through it. A massive Mexican flag hung in the center, swaying slowly in the warm air. The scale of it made me feel like a comma in a very long sentence.

And then the smoke caught my eye.

Shamans. They had feathers in their hands, conch shells at their sides, moving around the people who'd come to be cleansed. Limpias. Spiritual cleansings meant to sweep away bad energy, bad spirits, whatever you carried in with you that didn't belong. People stood with their eyes closed while the smoke wrapped around them and the shamans whispered things I'll never know.

I didn't need my own limpia. Five days in this city and whatever I'd been carrying had already loosened its grip, slipped off my shoulders, and dissolved somewhere between the noise and the ancient stones beneath my feet.

I met up with Rolando that night. Another friend I'd made through language exchange. Mexican, lives in Puebla, and treats food like it's a matter of national pride.

He ordered for me. Nopales con queso, grilled cactus paddles with melted cheese on top. It sounds like something you'd eat on a dare, but it was incredible. Then came the costra de queso, no tortilla. Just melted cheese doing all the work. I didn't ask questions. I just ate while Rolando sat across from me, casually commenting that CDMX is slowly turning into LA.

Out of nowhere, someone called out: "You look pretty!"

Could've been for anyone. I looked up anyway. I know. No shame.

It turned out she was the daughter from the American family. The same one from Teotihuacán.

Of course it was for me. Of all the streets in this city and of all the taquerías on all the sidewalks, they were walking past mine. The universe was clearly bored that night.

Fair comment, though. The last time she saw me I was in cargo pants and a bucket hat, climbing into a hot air balloon basket like a penguin. Tonight I had lipstick on and a dress that suggested I had my life together.

I smiled, said thank you, and introduced Rolando.

Enter the dad, the same man I'd shared a breakfast table with during the tour, who I'd trusted with my thoughts on Philippine politics like we were old friends. He looked at Rolando. Looked at me. Looked at Rolando again. And with the confidence of a man who has never once been wrong in his life, said:

"Oh yeah, we heard a lot about you during the tour."

HUH?

The confusion was written all over my face. Food went down the wrong pipe and so did my dignity.

Sir. At no point during that breakfast, at NO point, did I mention Rolando. We didn't even talk about my personal life. And now you're on a random sidewalk turning my dinner with a friend into something it never was?

Rolando, to his credit, just smiled politely. The universal Mexican response to whatever the hell is happening right now.

But I saw the look in his eyes. That was the look of a man who was absolutely going to tell this story in Puebla.

On my last day, I entered Casa Azul like I would meet an old friend.

And in a way, I was.

I'd consumed all of Frida Kahlo long before I ever set foot in Mexico. The documentaries, the books, the Salma Hayek film I'd watched more times than I'd admit. I knew her face before I knew most capital cities. The unibrow she refused to pluck. The flowers she wore like armor. The way she turned a body that had been broken, literally, in 32 places, into the most honest art the world had ever seen.

She painted her miscarriages. Her heartbreak. Her spine held together with a steel column. She looked at everything life had done to her and said, fine, but I'm going to make it beautiful on my terms. She made art that was so raw, so deeply her.

And she did all of it from this house.

The cobalt blue walls. The courtyard full of plants. The kitchen with its bright yellow tiles and clay pots. I saw her paintings up close, smaller than I expected, louder than I imagined. The wheelchair. The corsets. The bed that was both her prison and her studio.

I walked out into the Mexican sun and thought, if Frida could turn all of that into something beautiful, what's my excuse?

There are things that happened in Mexico City that will never make it into this blog. Some too personal to share. Some too beautiful to put into words. Others too heavy to hold, even now.

But this city rearranged something in me I didn't know was out of place.

When I got back to Dubai, I enrolled in a Spanish school. Studied like my life depended on it. Aced my exams. Top of my class. The same girl who stood at a taquería counter stitching Spanglish together now speaks in full sentences, full thoughts, full conversations. Deni would barely recognize me.

I fell so in love with the jacarandas that I had one inked into my skin, right there on my right arm, where I could see it every day. And underneath it, two words: pura vida. Because some places leave marks that memory alone can't hold. So you let them live on your skin.

I started cooking Mexican dishes at home. Not as good. Nowhere close. But every time the kitchen fills with the smell of something smoky and warm, I'm back in Roma Norte.

People ask me what my favorite city in the world is. I have a list. Mexico City sits near the very top. It was not the most beautiful place I've ever seen, but it's where I became the most beautiful version of myself.

And I don't mean the lipstick and the dress.

I mean the girl who got on a plane alone, landed in a country where she couldn't speak the language, and somehow found the courage to let it change her.

That girl walked through an airport exit, read six white letters on a green sign, and smiled.

She's still smiling.

I am here. I am grateful.

If you have a US tourist visa (B1/B2), you can enter Mexico with it even if you've never used it before. One less thing to worry about.

For getting around, Uber and DiDi are your best friends. I used DiDi more; it's cheaper than Uber and works just as well.

If it's your first time in CDMX, stay in Roma Norte, Condesa, or Polanco. They're close to each other, walkable, and each has its own personality. Roma Norte is artsy and full of cafés, Condesa is leafy and relaxed, Polanco is polished and upscale. You can't go wrong with any of them.

Centro Histórico is another popular choice. It's where most of the major spots are. But fair warning: it's massive and crowded, and for a first-time visitor, it can be a lot to take in all at once.

Book Frida Kahlo Museum tickets online ahead of time. The museum caps how many people can enter each day, and it's one of the most visited spots in the city, so on-site tickets sell out fast.

I didn't expect to feel so small and so alive at the same time.

Taquería Orinoco.

Roma Norte didn't hold back on color.

Floating above ruins that were old before my country had a name.

Teotihuacán.

Luchadores in Spandex and masks.

A michelada. Beer mixed with lime, hot sauce, and spices in a chili-rimmed glass. Cold, spicy, and dangerously easy to drink.

Biblioteca Vasconcelos. Interstellar vibes.

A limpia at the Zócalo. Copal still burning, five hundred years later.

This table is the reason I started cooking Mexican food at home.

The house where Frida turned pain into the most honest art the world had ever seen.

The iconic cobalt-blue walls, vivid red floors, green window bars, and pre-Columbian sculptures.

The girl who came back someone else.