Tacos, Resilience, and the Heartbeat of Mexico City
I was born here, in Mexico City’s heartbeat. It’s a city that never really sleeps, and yet somehow, it always knows when to slow down just enough to let you feel its calm.
To me, Mexico City isn’t just about the landmarks or the food, though I’ll talk about tacos all day if you let me—it’s about its people. The kind of people you meet on every corner who make you feel seen, like an old friend. It’s old friends like Amado, for instance. He has been selling tacos outside the metro station near my house for as long as I can remember.
Fer y Amado
I first started going there when I was in high school—you know, back when tacos were my lunch because that’s what I could afford (and because they’re delicious!). Over the years, he’s seen me grow up. Each time I stop by, we fall into our routine: chatting about life, laughing about small things, trading stories about our families like we’ve known each other forever.
It’s the small things that make the biggest difference. My neighborhood is filled with people who have watched me grow up. When I go to the market, the vendors still smile and say, “¡Hola, Fer!”—the same way they did when I was a child tagging along with my grandmother.
There’s something about that feeling: belonging, familiarity, a kind of invisible thread that connects me to every street and every person here.
Mexico City at night
Mexico City can be chaotic though, it’s one of the noisiest places you’ll ever visit. During the day, you hear it all: the honking cars, the sweet potato vendor’s whistle, someone singing on a corner, a protest happening at the historic center. But at night, everything changes. When the city finally exhales, the noise fades, and a peaceful calm settles in. That’s my favorite moment—walking through the quieter streets, feeling the fresh air, watching the lights glow gently over this massive city. It feels like magic.
And we’re strong, too. Mexico City taught me what resilience looks like. My parents told me stories of the 1985 earthquake when Mexicans rebuilt their own city because no one else would. I saw it happen again in 2017. I remember how, at exactly 1:15 pm, just one minute after the quake, people were already pulling others from the rubble—neighbors, strangers, friends—a signal that there was hope.
Conclusion
That’s my Mexico City: hope, strength, tacos, laughter, and the kind of warmth you only find in its people.
When I take my guests around, I don’t just show them places—I share pieces of my life. I want them to taste the tacos that mean so much to me, meet the people who make this city feel like family, and feel the quiet magic of a Mexico City night. And when they leave, I hope they take a little bit of that feeling with them—the feeling of being welcomed home, even if it’s their first time here.
