Falling in love with the true Mexico

Journal of Tripals' founder Helen

Both times I went to Mexico City, I traveled alone, and yet I was almost never alone. Every street, every cafe, every small decision seemed to open a door to new friends.

It was these people -- strangers turned companions, who gave me the courage to step beyond what I would normally dare. Because of them, I said yes to things I would have hesitated to do on my own, things that allowed me to glimpse the true soul of this city.

Latin dance - a portal into the soul of Mexico City

Mexico City is vibrant, layered, endlessly fascinating. Certainly there is no need to elaborate on that. What surprised me, though, was that the moment I truly felt at home wasn't at a landmark or inside a museum, but on a dance floor.

I've always been a casual salsa dancer, and being in Mexico City, I felt it would almost be a crime not to experience its dance culture. And yet, the idea intimidated me. I didn't know the city. What if the place was unsafe? What if people weren't welcoming? What if I simply didn't enjoy it?

In the end, the decision came down to something simple: just go. If it's not right, you can always leave. And almost immediately, I knew I had made the right choice. The bar was alive, music spilling into the street, laughter everywhere, strangers greeting each other like old friends. The teachers made everyone feel welcome, the classes were light and playful, and there was a kind of effortless joy in the air that dissolved any bit of fear that still remained in me.

More importantly, I met a group of expat dancers, and I made one particular good friend. What followed unfolded almost naturally: invitations to afternoon dance sessions in Parque Mexico surrounded by greenery, evenings that stretched into long, laughter-filled nights. For a few days, my life in Mexico City became a continuous flow of movement, music, and human connection.

It made me realize something simple but easily forgotten: when we travel alone, it is tempting to stay within our comfort zone because it feels safe and effortless. But more often than not, it is the single, slightly uncomfortable decision that opens up an entirely new world.

Cablebus - a quiet window into everyday life

The Cablebus is not designed as a tourist attraction; it is simply part of the city's public transport system. And yet, it became one of the most profound experiences I had in Mexico City.

I first noticed the vast northern neighborhoods from a highway, looking out from a bus window as the city stretched endlessly before me -- the neighborhoods climbing hills and spilling into valleys. From afar, it felt almost surreal, blocks formed by myriads of humble yet colorfully painted local houses expanding beyond their own limits like a living organism.

Enthralled by the sight, I began searching for a way to explore it, which is how I found the Cablebus. Some advised against it, warning that the cabins pass over areas often described as "humble" and unsafe. There are no curated viewpoints here, no controlled narratives -- just the city as it is. But by then, I had my new salsa friend, and we decided to go together.

The ride begins at Indios Verdes, a dense and chaotic transport hub, and slowly lifts you above the city. As the cable car moved forward, I was suspended above everything, high enough to feel almost detached from it all, as if observing the city from above through a distant, quiet lens, yet close enough to notice the smallest details. I saw shrines to the Virgin Mary tucked into courtyards, heard lively salsa music drifting upward into the open air, smelled smoke rising from street food grills, and caught fragments of voices and laughter carried by the wind.

I had been warned about this part of the city, and I understand it must come from a reason. But what I felt in that moment was not fear. It was something quieter, more humbling: a deep respect for the resilience of people, a sense of everyday dignity, and above all, a simple and genuine happiness that seemed to exist quietly within them, untouched by how their lives might be described from the outside. From above, the neighborhood felt like its own universe, separate from the polished image of the city center and shaped by history, inequality, and movement, yet carrying a vitality that was impossible to ignore.

I didn't want this to be a travel guide. There are already countless guides that will tell you where to go, what to see, what to eat.

What I wanted to share instead is a feeling -- a version of Mexico City that exists beyond curated itineraries, one that reveals itself slowly through people, through moments, and through the choices you almost don't make. Because sometimes, the most meaningful way to discover a place is not by following what's recommended, but by allowing yourself to step, just slightly, into the unknown. And in doing so, you may find not only a city, but a connection you didn't expect.