Silence, Skin, and Soul-Saving Soup in Mexico City

I was hungry for something new.

It was January 2019, a few days into the new year, when I booked a one-way ticket to Mexico City, desperately craving a solo adventure. Only hours after I'd arrived, messages and calls poured in from friends and family. They wondered how my trip was going, what the weather was like, and what I'd eaten so far. I left them all unread.

I walked miles each day, wearing through the soles of my sneakers, the hot sidewalk cutting through the softened leather like butter. Lost in the frenzy of Mexico City, my days felt chaotic yet unclouded. In its ear-thumping soundtrack, I spent days in silence. In its blizzard of colour, I felt black-and-white.

For reasons unknown, wounds from my childhood had suddenly and unexpectedly opened. I needed to face my memories. But now, all I wanted was to escape inside another culture. To sink into anonymity of an unknown city. Most of all, I needed time to think. And walk.

One week into my Mexico City stay, I rose early and clipped through the streets toward the Juarez district, only once breaking my silence to order breakfast in my stumbling, broken Spanish. Already feeling too hot for warm tortillas or sizzling refried beans, I ordered a spicy, crunchy bowl of nopales (grilled cactus) and fried eggs.

After breakfast I set out for my morning walk, a daily exercise best conducted during the coolest part of the day. The Juarez neighborhood was split between trendy shops and crumbling buildings. One street might feature a half-dozen automotive shops, while the next was covered in boutique cafes.

I slowed on the sidewalk to peer inside a sparkling jewelry display. Maybe the perfect gift for my sister or mum? If nothing else, I’d get five-minutes of frosty air conditioning.

I was greeted by Gloria, the studio owner, who whisked me through the sunny jewelry showroom. “We also do tattoos and piercings,” she whispered. Sensing my interest, she beckoned me further into the studio, calling a young tattoo artist over to meet me. His name was Said Sutra.

Said was dressed in black jeans, black boots and a printed cotton shirt, with leather bracelets and a single gold cross handing from his ear. He was artistic, soft-spoken and talented...so talented. I couldn’t believe my eyes when he opened his tattoo book, pages filled with everything from delicate flowers to spiny dragons, drawn in every imaginable style.

I dropped a deposit at the front desk, booking an all-day appointment for the next day.

Day One.

I pulled a handful of muesli bars from my backpack. Said plonked two bottles of gatorade onto the table. We were ready to begin my tattoo, a detailed black-and-grey sleeve that Said estimated would take two days to complete.

“Tengo un idea,” I pronounced tentatively. Said bobbed his head enthusiastically, prompting me to explain. I swiped through a number of photos and crude sketches on my phone, feeling both of our excitement grow. There was no stencil or guide for the idea I was proposing. So, it was decided – Said would freehand the entire design.

Said pulled a handful of washable markers from his pack. Carefully, he traced the outline of a snake, curling smoothly around my left elbow. We shuffled together toward the mirror. Communicating in scrappy Spanglish and hand movements, we edited and sculpted, sketching and re-sketching the tattoo in colorful ink.

Yellow, orange, red, green and purple...my arm was covered with the sticky shades of the rainbow. To me, it looked like a muddled mess, but to Said, the plan was crystal clear.

The hours slipped by quickly. We broke only three times the first day – to gobble a snack, to piss, to steal a fast cigarette. It was nearly dark by the time I left the studio, saluting a smiling Said with promises to meet early the next morning. I glided back to my hotel in the Centro Historico.

After a quick examination of Said’s smooth black linework, I fell backwards into bed, exhausted. The missed calls went unanswered, the messages unread. They had reached double-digits hours ago, and even a quick glance made my stomach flip-flop inside my gut with anxiety. No time for catch-ups now – I just needed rest. A deep, dreamless sleep found me.

Day Two.

The morning came and went quickly – a pinch here, a tooth-rattling buzz there, but mostly, alone with my thoughts. Said shaded the final contours of my arm, scratching his needle repeatedly against my inflamed skin. We hadn’t spoken in hours, both content to spend the painstaking process in concentrated silence.

By the afternoon I was laying on my stomach, arm extended out beside me, Said vibrating away at the soft flesh around my elbows. I was hours into a feelingless trance when I began to realize that the world around me had changed. It was moving, breathing. The knotted hardwood floors rippled and twisted, revealing faces in each honey-colored groove.

“Shit, did I take something?” I thought to myself. But, no, I was stone-cold sober. My brain could hardly process the psychedelic scene.

While my body remained motionless under the needle, my eyes traveled methodically across the room, exploring the faces as they appeared everywhere, from the blank walls to the curve of the doorframe. They watched without fear or judgement. I watched them right back. Strangely, their presence soothed me. Without words, they began to tell me things. They knew of life and love, pain and death. They were alive as I was.

Finally, Said placed his needle down, breaking my trance, and looked straight into my eyes.

“What does it mean?” he asked, pointing to my freshly inked tattoo.

After a pause, I pulled out my phone, typed something into Google translate, and turned the screen to face him.

His eyes filled with tears. So did mine.

“A transformation,” he said, “I felt the power.”

We nodded and smiled in silent agreement.

Swinging my legs off the table, I walked nervously toward the mirror, tingling with anticipation. There was no going back now – my decision was permanent. A promise to myself. The snake’s head rested gently across my left wrist, haloed by a black sunburst – Said’s suggestion. Surrounded by ferns and mulberries, the snake’s body rose against my arm, swirling snuggly around the limb, and flicking its tail into the space below my shoulder.

After final handshakes and hugs with Said and the studio crew, I staggered back to my hotel room in the late-afternoon sun, swollen arm held awkwardly by my side. A googly-eyed smile took residence on my face as I looked in the mirror, twisting my limbs to view the tattoo from all angles.

Even through the glistening cast of plastic wrap and puffy flesh, I could see that it looked cool. Really cool. But I wasn’t ready to share my inked masterpiece with anyone yet. I was bloody starving! In one of the world’s great culinary capitals, I had eaten nothing more than muesli bars and sugary drinks for the past 48-hours.

Half an hour later, I unpacked a steaming delivery container of blood-red pozole – a nourishing soup known to cure hangovers and other ailments – and small paper packets of fresh condiments: lime wedges, diced avocado, fresh cilantro, and crisp tortilla strips. An audible groan escaped my lips after the first bite; it was soulful, savory, and damn delicious. I’d never tasted this dish before, but somewhere deep inside my soul, it tasted like home.

Stomach satiated, I tucked myself under the blankets, giving my phone’s neon screen a final glance before placing it face-down on the nightstand. The messages were still rolling in, but I couldn’t be bothered to respond. I closed my eyes to sleep.

A few hours later, I woke thrashing and hot, sweat soaking through my thin t-shirt. My swollen arm throbbed, and my brain felt hazy with dehydration. After swallowing a couple painkillers and two glasses of water, I forced myself back into bed, head spinning with the possibilities that I had made a horrible mistake. Had Said used a dirty needle? Maybe it was the soup? Would my body make it through the night?

Day Three.

My eyelids snapped open at 7am the next morning. I glanced frantically at my arm, eyes sweeping the fresh, midnight-black ink. The swelling had subsided overnight, leaving smooth, slightly raised tracks across my limb. I was healing. The pain was now dull and manageable. More than anything, I wanted to share my new artwork with someone I cared about. A smile crept across my lips.

Shimmying out of the cottony cocoon of blankets, I reached for the bedside table and grabbed my phone, now heavy with florescent notifications. Feeling a gentle release, I sent a message:

“Hi mum and dad, sorry I’ve been quiet. Mexico is amazing. I actually have a new tattoo. Hold on - I'll send a photo.”

Tips, Please! Thanks for reading my tale of tattoos and life-changing travel. If you’d like to shout me a coffee (or support my ink habit), please leave a tip below. Cheers!

* Note from the Author * For personal reasons, I've chosen not to include any photographs of my tattoos along with this story. They are deeply personal, and I hope my written description has been enough to envision them along with me. Thanks for understanding.