Almost Tourist - Mexico City - 2024

I arrive in Mexico City armed with credit card points and an itinerary of pre-booked tours, already feeling a pang of irony about this so-called “adventure.” Sitting in a too-comfortable restaurant on the first night – the kind of place no local would ever pay for – I catch myself in a moment of self-awareness. Am I becoming the very tourist I always swore I wasn’t? For the first time in my life, I fear that the label “tourist” might perfectly describe my experience. This realization comes with a self-deprecating chuckle. After all, I’m no Anthony Bourdain striding confidently into back-alley cantinas. I’m just a thirty-something traveler who’s grown a bit soft around the edges, trading spontaneity for safety. The voice in the back of my head – the one that used to egg me on into scrappy, offbeat adventures – has grown quieter, replaced by one urging caution and convenience. And so here I am in Coyoacán, cocooned in comfort, wondering if I’ve lost my edge. My trip is just beginning, and already I’m grappling with the uneasy feeling that I’ve sold out my inner explorer for a hassle-free holiday.

Determined to make the most of the journey (or perhaps to justify it), I dive into the tours we hastily booked. 3:00 AM the next morning finds me huddled in an Uber, bound for a meetup by the Ángel de la Independencia. Another day, another dawn pickup. Soon I’m on a packed van with fellow travelers from around the world – mostly Californians, ironically – and it feels a bit like running into neighbors at a foreign supermarket. Same people, just a different location file-n5uhrcdslqdpu7nwujewyv. My cynicism is tempered by bleary-eyed humor: we swap sleepy smiles that say “Here we go, doing the tourist thing!”

The destination itself turns out to be spectacular – ancient pyramids loom against the sunrise, and the beauty is awe-inspiring. For a moment, gazing at the ruins, I remember why I travel. But any budding sense of awe is quickly ushered along by our guide. No tour is complete without the well-trodden path through a souvenir gauntlet. Sure enough, we’re dutifully funneled to a gift shop where local trinket vendors deliver their sales pitches. It’s Tourism 101: every authentic vista paired with a chance to buy a T-shirt. I find myself half-smiling at the absurdity. Here I am, craving something real, yet I’m part of a caravan of outsiders consuming pre-packaged experiences. The expectations of intrepid discovery clash with the reality of comfortably curated travel. Instead of stumbling upon secret temples in the mist, I’m on a timetable, being handed bottled water and told where to point my camera.

Back in the city by afternoon, I feel the itch to break free from the script. The following day, my wife elects to sleep in – a perfect opportunity for me to wander untethered. Camera in hand, I set off solo into the waking city streets. This has always been my favorite ritual: pick a direction and walk, no real plan, just soaking in the life of the city. As I meander through colorful mercados and quiet leafy plazas, Mexico City begins to reveal itself on its own terms. These unscripted morning moments become the antidote to yesterday’s tour. I chat (in broken Spanish) with a vendor selling tamales, follow the smell of fresh bread to a panadería, and snap photos of street dogs lazing in the sun. Here, at last, I feel invisible in the crowd – not a customer to be catered to, just a curious passerby. It strikes me that this is what I had been missing: the simple authenticity of observing a place that isn’t performing for me file-n5uhrcdslqdpu7nwujewyv. No ticketed entrance, no tour bus – just the city being itself. I realize how much I cherish these slices of everyday life, where I can briefly melt into the background and feel the city’s pulse without a guide’s narration.

Of course, once my wife wakes and we reunite, our day tilts back toward a more conventional track – museums, shops, and must-see sights file-n5uhrcdslqdpu7nwujewyv. I joke that I got my “traveler street cred” in for the day during my morning walk, so I’ve earned a guilt-free afternoon of playing tourist. We indulge in excellent coffee, snap a selfie at Frida Kahlo’s Casa Azul, and yes, even enjoy a fabulous dinner at an expat-favored bistro. The tension between my expected adventurous self and the reality of an easy, pleasant vacation persists, but I’m learning to let both coexist. I can poke fun at myself for taking the path of least resistance, even as I appreciate the stress-free enjoyment it brings.

By the third day, I’m feeling bold again – or maybe just restless. Another pre-dawn alarm, another Uber to the same downtown pickup spot. “Another day, another tour,” I quip as we board a new bus (yes, more Californians aboard). This excursion promises a bit more adrenaline: an itinerary pitched as “Eco-adventure just outside the city!” I’m skeptical but hopeful. As the day unfolds, it turns out to be a surprisingly fun mix of resort-style relaxation and tame adventure. I find myself hiking a well-marked trail to a waterfall, riding a zipline that’s been run a thousand times before, and then sipping a margarita by a pool before lunch. It’s nothing too hardcore, certainly not the wild expeditions of my younger years, but it’s more adventurous than lying on a beach at an all-inclusive resort. I even catch myself genuinely enjoying it file-n5uhrcdslqdpu7nwujewyv. The countryside scenery on the way – rolling hills and cactus fields – offers a refreshing contrast to the urban sprawl of Mexico City file-n5uhrcdslqdpu7nwujewyv. There’s a moment on the trail where I pause to appreciate the quiet rustle of the wind, the kind of unscheduled moment tours don’t usually allow. It feels good.

And yet, the irony isn’t lost on me: I had to buy this slice of “adventure.” It’s adventure with safety nets, thrills that have been thoroughly tested and packaged for consumption. A younger me might have mocked this as an artificial experience. The older me is just fine with it – I laugh at that realization. Perhaps aging has made me pragmatic. I’ve come to accept that it’s okay to take the “slightly beaten path” if it means I get to enjoy the ride and still be back in time for a hot shower and dinner. Privilege has its perks, and I’m unabashedly cashing in. Still, as the day ends, I feel a growing desire for something real before this trip wraps up – a true connection or insight to carry home.

One part I absolutely loved was sitting in the parks, waiting for life to happen infant of me

When the sun goes down, I keep shooting. But I switch to the Black and white.

Our final full day presents one last opportunity. We’ve booked a tour to Xochimilco’s historic canals – a place famed for its floating trajinera party boats – but our plan is different. In the gray pre-dawn light, we meet our guide at a quiet dock. To our surprise, it’s just the three of us: my wife, our guide, and me. No busloads of tourists, no crowd at all. “Looks like we got a private tour,” I grin, both excited and a little nervous at the responsibility of being the only guests. We step into a small rowboat and push off into a grid of calm canals enveloped in early morning mist file-n5uhrcdslqdpu7nwujewyv file-n5uhrcdslqdpu7nwujewyv. As our boatman poles us along, the city’s usual roar is absent; we glide in near silence but for birds and the soft lap of water.

Over the next few hours, Xochimilco unfolds its story just for us. Our guide, a passionate local historian, shares tales of how these canals are the last vestige of an ancient lake that cradled a great civilization file-n5uhrcdslqdpu7nwujewyv file-n5uhrcdslqdpu7nwujewyv. We learn about the chinampas – artificial islands built by the Mexica people – and how a small community is striving to preserve this traditional way of farming file-n5uhrcdslqdpu7nwujewyv. Unlike the rehearsed monologues of earlier tours, his words don’t feel like a performance. We’re asking questions, having a conversation. I’m deeply engaged – this is the “deep education” I’d hungered for file-n5uhrcdslqdpu7nwujewyv. We paddle past workers quietly tending to crops on these floating gardens as the sun breaks through. None of them seem to pay us any special mind; they’re busy with their morning, as they would be whether we were there or not. I realize we’ve stumbled into what those flashy tour brochures always hinted at but never quite delivered: an experience that feels genuinely authentic.

On one of the larger chinampas, we arrive at a modest wooden dock. Here, a non-profit cooperative has set up a small demonstration farm. It doesn’t feel touristy at all – it feels like we’ve been invited into someone’s backyard garden. We spend the morning with a farmer-chef who shows us how they cultivate crops using methods passed down for generations file-n5uhrcdslqdpu7nwujewyv. Together, we hand-pick corn, squash, and herbs, our fingers caked in mud. It’s delightfully un-sanitized. The farmer jokes with us as we work side by side, and I catch myself laughing freely. There’s no pretensehere, no packaged “cultural performance.” As noon approaches, we help grind corn for tortillas and chop vegetables, participating in creating a meal from the ground up file-n5uhrcdslqdpu7nwujewyv file-n5uhrcdslqdpu7nwujewyv. In an open-air kitchen, under a simple tin roof, we cook alongside our hosts – who really feel more like hosts than guides at this point. The result is a feast of traditional dishes, entirely vegetarian (a surprise for a carnivore like me), and yet it’s hands-down some of the most amazing food of our trip file-n5uhrcdslqdpu7nwujewyv. It’s the kind of meal that’s not just about taste, but about context – every ingredient has a story, every flavor earned through shared effort.

Sitting there on a chinampa under the midday sun, enjoying the fruits (and vegetables) of our labor, I feel a wave of contentment and poignancy. This is the culminating moment of authenticity I’d yearned for, hidden in the most unlikely of places: a tour that, on the surface, we bought online like any other, but turned out to be a profoundly real encounter. I glance at my wife – she looks as moved as I am. We toast our glasses of jamaica (hibiscus tea) and joke that we finally “went off the beaten path” in the most literal sense, by leaving the roads entirely.

An early morning ride down grid shaped canals, accompanied by a deep education about th turbulent history of Mexico City. Going all the way back to then unknown ancient history of this land.

All too soon, it’s time to go. With full bellies and full hearts, we climb back into the little boat. The journey home begins quietly as we float through the now sun-drenched canals. I take a last look at the chinampas receding behind us. In my mind I snap one more photo. There’s a bittersweet taste to this departure – a mix of satisfaction and longing. Not just heading back to the hotel, but back to California file-n5uhrcdslqdpu7nwujewyv. Our trip, in all its curious zigzags between tourist comfort and authentic discovery, has come to an end.

On the flight home, I replay the trip in my head. It’s easy to dwell on the awkward or laughable parts – the herd of Californians at 4am, my misguided war on gift shops, the fact that I ever worried about not being “adventurous” enough. In hindsight, most of the journey was, frankly, pretty cliché and touristy. And that’s okay. Travel is what you make of it. I chuckle thinking how I spent a good chunk of the week essentially cosplaying as a Lonely Planet writer, only to end up right back on the beaten path. But I also feel a genuine gratitude. In the final hours, we struck gold – a small, unscripted connection that made the whole trip worth it. Sometimes, it turns out, you can find something real in the most commodified of experiences, almost by accident.

As the plane lifts off, I gaze out the window at the receding mountains and urban patchwork of Mexico City. A few final snapshots flit through my memory – the hazy sunrise at the pyramids, the quiet park bench where I savored my solo morning, the laughter of our chinampa host as we fumbled with the tortilla press. These are the visions I carry with me. They’re not the glossy, Instagram-ready moments I imagined beforehand, but they’re mine. They’re real. I squeeze my wife’s hand and smile. Almost a tourist, but not quite – perhaps that’s the best I can do, and that’s the journey I’ll remember.