Hi from Mexico - a place that i'm convinced has invented colour.

I’m not much of a writer, but being here is shifting something in me. As I explore, I keep finding myself thinking of you. I’ve been writing as I move, notes on colour, craft, food, language, and what it feels like to be gently rearranged by a place. I’ll share a few letters along the way, and one final note once I’m back to London, gathering the places that changed me: where to eat, pray, love… Mexico style. This is the first one.

I arrived on New Year’s Eve. As London was ringing in the new year, the streets of Mexico City were just warming up, lights flickering on, music beginning to leak out, bodies gathering themselves for what was coming. I blame the Don Julio that BA staff kindly slipped into my hand just before landing for how immediately everything felt a little soft, a little unreal. Before I came, everyone I know and people I don’t, said the same thing: you will love Mexico. Apart from accommodation and a ticket to a New Year’s Eve party, I prepared nothing. No lists. No plans. Just a vague trust that the city would meet me halfway. The concierge at my Airbnb spoke to me in fast Spanish, way too fast for my sleepy brain to keep up. I nodded politely, took the keys, clocked that the place looked cool… and only realised how cool it was the next day. 

I forced myself into the shower, put on my brightest dress and headed to the party. I wasn’t expecting much. But the moment I walked in, something shifted. It’s at Soho House Mexico City, a restored historic casa. Warm light. High ceilings breathing again. Very far from Shoreditch House. Just before midnight, a stranger pressed a small bag into my hand. Inside were twelve grapes. He leaned in and whispered that I had to eat them all for good luck, one for every month of the year. A tradition I didn’t know. I shoved every single grape into my mouth by the second bell. This year will be meaningful, I told myself, chewing furiously.

It's the morning of the first. I woke up to colour. Not gently, not politely. Landing the night before, in darkness, hadn't prepared me for how loud it would be. The city (and I) was slightly hangover, but colour had no patience for rest. Bright reds. Acid greens. Blues that felt sunburnt. I could already hear interior designers back home arguing against it all, banning red bedrooms, muting palettes in the name of calm. I tried to connect my e-sim. Failed. And then remembered a promise I made myself last year. Rely less on Google Maps, to trust streets again. So, I turned everything off and let the city lead. I started using colour as my reference point. The yellow wall near the corner, the turquoise door, the building with faded pink trim. I got lost. Properly. And it felt incredible.

Mexico City doesn’t reveal itself if you march through it following a blue line. It pulls you sideways, into crevices, into places you didn’t know to look for. I remembered a sentence I’d read somewhere: burn the map, you weren’t made for straight lines; you were made for wrong turns that bring you home. The city's wrong turns are contagious. I already knew I wanted to take them back to London with me. I wandered into a tiny chicken taco spot in Roma Norte. Here we go, I thought. First bite, heaven. Immediate. I knew then that food was about to ruin me here. Nothing would taste the same again. I joked on Instagram that Mexican food had just knocked Italian into second place (after Moroccan, obviously). It caused quite the stir. You’re welcome to weigh in lol.

The next morning, still jet-lagged, I brewed coffee and my phone screamed. An alarm. In Spanish. Something about the president. I stared at the screen, half asleep, annoyed more than anything. By the time I screenshotted it into ChatGPT and realised it was an earthquake warning, the floor started moving. I ran down the stairs and onto the street in Roma Norte. Dogs were frantic. People weren’t. Someone shrugged and told me it happens all the time. This one, apparently, was a bigger one. 6.5 magnitude. Dogs helped. They always do. My adrenaline slowly settled. Only then did I realise I was wearing my running kit. I had planned to go for a jog in Chapultepec Park. Which, if you know me, is hilarious. I hate running. This felt like a very clear sign to pack the shoes away and never acknowledge them again.  

I went to the park anyway. But I walked. In the Museo de Arte Moderno, I saw Las Dos Fridas. My first Frida Kahlo painting in real life. I stood there longer than I meant to. A painting about identity, abandonment, colonial legacy, survival. I felt held and undone at the same time. The park was full of lovers. Sitting on blankets on a Thursday afternoon. Kissing. Dancing. Being unproductive together. It reminded me of Morocco growing up, how parks were where young lovers went. Enough privacy for a first kiss. Space. Romance. What happened to lovers going to parks to kiss? Like, what actually happened?

Some of my favourite moments in Mexico City happened in Ubers. Every driver was born here. Raised here. They spoke about the city the way Marrakchis speak about Marrakech: fiercely, lovingly, defensively. They became my Spanish tutors too. EarPods away. Full attention. They’d offer English. I’d refuse. Háblame en español, por favor. At first I understood fragments. Then patterns. Then sentences. People here reminded me of home, warm, funny, generous. Always willing to meet you just over halfway. I felt safe. I opened up more easily than I ever do in London. One morning, I sat at a café and ordered a flat white. Normal milk. I usually don't eat breakfast. The coffee alone explained why every recommendation list I received contained a single word: coffee. The waiter suggested conchas. I protested weakly. He smiled and told me they were known to make people smile. The concha arrived looking unremarkable. I picked it up like a croissant. It collapsed in my hands. But the taste, heaven. Of course I smiled. 

I wandered Roma Norte and Condesa, galleries, vintage shops, old football shirts. AFCON was on and I was wearing my red Morocco jersey. People noticed. Same colours as Mexico, just reversed. "DIMA MAGHREB. VIVA MEXICO" I heard. There is no way, I thought. Most people here are from the city. Like Morocco. Both places attract the world, yet keep their locals. It's hard enough to leave, but not enough to make you bitter for staying. Countries that chose slowness over speed. There is a line here, hospitality without ownership. You're welcomed deeply, endlessly... but you're still a guest. I respect that line.

A week in, I felt overwhelmed by joy, almost scared of how much better it could get (I hadn't been to the coast yet). The colours of Mexico City cracked something open. Brave combinations. Confidence. Story. SO... I started sketching a rug collection. Limited colours. Small rugs. Each made once. Some connected. Some not. Canvases for floors. Or walls. It will be named No te busques donde ya no estás - Don't look for yourself where you no longer are.

Art here revived parts of me I'd forgotten. Frida's Blue House. Bellas Artes. Street murals. Small galleries tucked into ordinary streets. I noticed women eating alone with books. Travelling solo, I smiled every time. I made a point of telling them how good they looked doing exactly that. I shared meals with strangers who quickly became friends. Walked La Lagunilla in Tepito - loud, chaotic, intoxicating. Laughed during nail appointments. Shared dreams with people I didn't know long enough to gossip with properly. Somehow, that was enough. Mexico City made me feel eleven again, when my family moved every few years and everywhere felt like home. I used to think that meant I didn't have one. Now I realise it just means I have many. 

On my last day, an Uber driver and I talked for twenty minutes about family, books, life. And suddenly, Spanish clicked. Words arrived before I could think of them. When a language clicks, a whole world opens. every mouth that ever shaped those sounds becomes just within reach. He told me he was a childhood friend of Gabriel García Márquez (the author of One Hundred Years of Solitude, a book my dad recommended when I was 24). Before he died, Gabriel told him that a life well lived is a life well travelled. He told me never to stop exploring. So, I finally downloaded the book. At the right age, at the right place.

I left Mexico city feeling content that I had much more to see. A friend said to me, you'll come back, you don't have to rush. I'm now writing you from Oaxaca and Morocco just qualified for the AFCON final!!!! I'm wearing red, perfectly matching the building behind me. It's my second day here and I've already scrapped every rug design. The colours operate on another plane. Oaxaca is craft without nostalgia - with dignity, agency, lineage. Alive. Breathing. If Moroccan souks feel like home to you, Oaxaca will too. Different language. Same reverence for the handmade.

So yes, I'm about to have a time.

Will keep you posted,

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