“There is no way I'm going back to Mexico. I can't stand to be in a country that is more surrealist than my paintings.” - Salvador Dalí
Drinking a cantarito with a friend in la Roma neighborhood of Mexico City, we comment on how peculiar the nearby intersection is.
From the bar on Coahuila street, we can see the four corners and the memories each one brings. On one corner sits a gay club inside a classic 30’s casona with balconies and etchings on the wall. The music and lights start pounding around 10pm, and by 4am I’ve seen fumigated zombies stumble out while having a hot-dog from the stand outside.
The club closes around 7am, and it’s easy to walk to the diagonally opposite corner and catch an early mass at the Christian church to repent from a questionable night. It’s plastered with posters for meetings promising you to get rid of homosexuality, or any other “vice”, like smoking.
After the mass, if you’re looking for a truly religious experience, you can cross the street to the massive Huerto Roma Verde on the third corner, where you can get dried shrooms or its tastier form, chocohongos. Organic vegetables and evolutive tarot readings are also available. There’s a recycling center to leave all your topo chico bottles, so you feel good after filling up your car with gas on the 4th corner.
The confluence of opposing mindsets couldn’t have been planned, but it co-exists harmoniously.
Back with my friend at the bar, a guy approaches our table and offers us gum, peanuts or toques. Non-lethal electric shocks coming from a portable car battery, just for fun. With one hand I hold the metal cylinder attached to the battery and as I’m about to hold my friend’s hand with the other, people from other tables and passersby decide to join in.
The now eight of us make a big circle holding hands, with my friend holding the other metal cylinder connected to the battery. The toques guy slowly increases the energy from the battery, while I joke telling him I have a pacemaker. He doesn’t flinch. Our arms start bending involuntarily until a bearded guy from the impromptu group can't stand it anymore and lets go, interrupting the electrical current. We pay the guy 80 pesos and the group scatters. My body is left buzzing and my mind grateful to live in a place where these experiences are simply not questioned, but embraced. It’s so embedded and normalized that it can go unnoticed if I don’t pay attention.
Paul Graham says every city whispers a message1. I believe Mexico City whispers be more surreal. The more accurate phrasing is be more magical realist, but it's not that catchy. The difference between the two is that surrealism usually happens in a dreamy, subconscious state, and magical realism is magic added to a mundane reality. And there's a lot of magic added to the reality of this city.
It’s not new. I mean, the city itself was founded on a lake. It’s all Huitzilopoichtli’s fault. The humming-bird-like god-warrior ordered the mexicas to settle where they spotted an eagle eating a snake. Inconveniently, they spotted it in the middle of a lake. The lake eventually dried and here we are in this mushy and wobbly terrain, ideal to increase the odds of your building collapsing after an earthquake.
That origin myth doesn't explain where the magical realism of Mexico City comes from. My guess is it comes from the clash that happened a few centuries later. We were an indigenous society that relied on lots of gods, mystic myths, magic dances and a deep relation with nature to explain reality. It was then confronted with the rationalistic, progress-oriented Europeans when the Spanish arrived in America. Different from say, Argentina, the indigenous population mixed thoroughly with the Europeans, giving birth to the mestizo race: each side bringing their most dominant physical and mental traits.
Five centuries later and those roots are still present. It’s why we get characters like Maria Sabina, a weird mix of ancient plant medicine with Catholicism. And although this is true for all of Mexico and most of Latin America, the Greater Mexico City area has the biggest population spread in the continent. The highest concentration of magic per square meter of reality.
And the Roma intersection is just one example, but if I pay attention, every time I go out there’s a possibility for my world to be questioned.
So I pay the check, say goodbye to my friend, and walk out of the bar. I make a right on Orizaba street because I love the median strip filled with palm trees. I’m whistling a made-up song when I see an old man on the street. Long, white beard. He’s definitely wise. A wooden table in front of him with tree leaves scattered around. I ask him what he sells. Singing leaves, he says. Play me one, I ask. He grabs a big one, puts it between his lips and starts playing it.
The sound of the seismic alarm comes out. Familiar cacophony. I’m enjoying the tune when exactly 60 seconds later an earthquake begins. My legs involuntarily move, as do the buildings. The trees bend side to side, more and more with each oscillation, until the top of a palm tree almost touches the ground beside me. I grab the opportunity and jump on it, propelling me high above.
By my side, Huitzilopochtli winks at me. I told you it was the perfect place to settle down.
A special thank you to , your help was invaluable.
In Cities and Ambition, one of my favorite essays
This essay has legitimately made me smile every time I’ve read and reread it. I’m excited you decided to explore it and that you leaned into it. You did a beautiful job capturing the surrealness—the magic and absurdity of it all is one of my favorite cultural aspects.
Really wishing there was video of the electric shocks moment. I want cantaritos and the toques guy experience followed by more cantaritos ASAP.
Who’s still reading this in 2025 ;)