It was all Liverpool Dave's idea. We both frequent a local footy bar called The Fox, which sits on the northeast corner of 120th Street and 8th Avenue in the heart of bustling Harlem. England had just creamed Croatia 4-2—a Croatian team that were strangely missing the sparks to kindle a fire in their bellies—when a mildly exuberant Dave leaned over, with an eye on his wife's knitting needles, and said, in the tone of a BBC Cornwall weatherman:

"We may go to Mexico City if England makes it to the last 32. They might be playing Mexico at the Azteca. Not for the game, but for the atmosphere."

Two weeks later I sat in the same spot with Selwyn, a local Barbadian, watching the frenetic rollercoaster of a game that was Portugal v Croatia. We'd swooned at Modrić's performance since kick-off, but his pass from the dead ball line with his back to play, which hit Budimir's toe on the halfway line, had us off our seats in outraged joy.

The pass brought joy, but a warmer connection followed when I glanced at Selwyn and saw my admiration mirrored back. We both adored the little Croatian magician. We hugged after the final whistle, and on the walk home, it hit me:

"Football," as Danny Rojas says, "is life!"

Once on my sofa I re-read Dave's text:

We've pulled the trigger—flying out tonight!

I floated the idea to my wife and after a sofa meeting accompanied by a bottle of red and Charlie Parker, we discussed the pros and cons until she declined due to her challenging work trips. My poor girl hadn't unpacked from her last trip yet! But she insisted that I should go.

I agreed.

Ten minutes later I'd found an apartment in La Condesa and would fly out to Mexico City the next day, on Friday July 3.

My mission:

Eat tacos
Drink tequila
Make friends
Watch as much footy as possible
Get a Mexico team shirt
Visit a museum
Meet Dave and Heather for a terrific social whirl

Friday, July 3

I was delighted to be traveling on one of the special World Cup E-Trains—a speeding metal blur wrapped by ten of the more flamboyant team flags—en route to the airport. But that delight soon disappeared when I hit the hour-long lines at security; today was a peak-volume travel day.

TSA lines make me want to unleash my flamethrower, so I was pleased to hear my name being called out over the machine-gun patter of the Spanish broadcast during the Egypt v Australia game on Peacock. Smiling at me from the other side of the stanchions and gesturing for me to remove my earbuds was Caliph, an old colleague from Lincoln Center. He was working at JFK on their digital signage. We chinwagged for twenty minutes while I snuck glances at the game and the line magically disappeared.

The flight was a tech nightmare. I tried to buy WiFi coverage on Aeromexico to watch the epic David and Goliath battle of Cape Verde v Argentina, but despite it being offered as an option, and me explaining how tragic and heinous missing the game was, the stewardess broke my heart by saying:

"No tenemos WiFi!"

Even more tragic—when I removed my sweater, I launched one of my earbuds into the void below the seats. Neck and stomach cramps followed as I attempted a downward-facing-dog from my seat to search for them, before giving up and sitting in silence for the foreseeable future.

As Mexico City came into view, shrouded in a death-like vapor, the plane turned sharply so we faced the gulf, then dipped into a steep approach. Apparently it was too steep, so instead of slowing down, we sped up and shot upwards with an Apollo 13 trajectory that filled the plane with gasps, screams, and plenty of:

"Dios míos!"

A sweet citrus mist filled the air and I realized that I'd stomped on my clementine when I tried to apply my air brakes. It was my healthy snack choice, conveniently placed under the seat for maximum squashing potential. If we were going down, at least we'd smell like a bougie hotel bathroom in Soho. We circled back for a smoother approach and I, along with the rest of the passengers, let out a communal sigh of relief on touchdown.

Benito Juárez International Airport was bright, clean, and retained the atmosphere of an urban shopping mall. Once through passport control I hit the bathroom for a pit stop and discovered footy goals in the actual urinals!

I could already feel the warm embrace of the beautiful game as I peeked into a giant restaurant heaving with passengers watching the Ghana v Colombia game. Staff in neat white aprons were glued to the screen with an arm on their colleague's shoulder. A motley crew of janitors yelled at the screen and caroused in a packed booth. A tiny blonde girl with a tanned face skipped by wearing a Messi shirt.

This was what I came here for—atmosphere!

It's here, it's there, it's everyfu**ing where!

Just like Roy Kent!

Even the Uber pickup spot was opposite a massive football parked on a roundabout outside the terminal, like some ancient Aztecan black-and-white convex God.

The short ride to my apartment skirted dark tree-lined streets lit by the bare festoon lamps of taco stands, vendors selling Mexican flags, ducks and team jerseys. Roadside cantinas with widescreens showing the game were accompanied by a soundscape of fanatical cheers and laughter. From my Uber it felt like the colossal Estadio Azteca was hurtling alongside me through the darkness.

La Condesa was a quiet neighborhood filled with stylish eateries and a plethora of taco spots. My driver dropped me off somewhere near my residence, and after some basic navigation I rang a bell . A man in a security outfit appeared and beckoned me down the stairs. He looked at a sheet of paper and pointed at my chest:

"Rojer?"
"Sí!"

Five minutes of Google Translate later I was in my spacious apartment that featured plenty of windows above the quiet tree-lined streets. The table offered a full dining set complete with a soup tureen for four. Miniature water bottles sat on the counter in the shape of…footballs. I threw my bag into the closet and flicked on the TV to find the game, but no luck. On checking the score I saw that Colombia had scraped a 1–0 win. I realized that I'd also missed a rip-roaring epic from the amount of texts reading:

Cape Verde - Insane!

Wow! What a goal!

Go Cape Verde!

“Damn you Aeromexico!”

At 10pm, a little past my dinner time, I went in search of tacos. Sidewalk cafes with families in quiet conversation above the ambience of Miles Davis seemed ten a penny. Soon I came upon a bright red taco spot called Chinampita Condesa and discovered a wonderful rice and cinnamon drink called Horchata. I tried a sample from the waiter in a shot glass and when I nodded:

"Yes, I like!"

He returned with a massive goblet that I needed two hands to manage. It was bigger than every single Spurs trophy combined. I joked to the waiter that it was my Copa Mundial.

The tacos were fabulous—sirloin, al pastor, and rib eye. The eye-twitching picante crept up on me with its tiny jalapeños and prompted a Horchata guzzle.

Saturday, July 4th

The following morning I had a local brekkie at Perfida Bistro Cafe, recommended by the dog-eared guide book in the apartment. Eggs covered in tons of melted cheese were not my favorite, but the Cuban coffee, which I expected to be frothy and creamy, was a strong double espresso that perked me up. Mildly disappointed, I consoled myself with the knowledge that there might be a food cart or two that would offer something more satisfying.

**There is an egg under all that cheese.**

En route to meet Dave and Heather, I wandered through Parque España and grabbed a chilled coconut filled with delicious sweet water next to a bachata dance lesson. Nearby a crowd of screaming children and adults in colorful kits tried their luck at hitting a football through holes in the corners of a net. If you scored, you won a Mexico shirt—the only caveat: you had to sign an online petition for missing women.

The surreal clash of laughter as I kicked a ball for a souvenir, while holding the coconut and scrolling through names of the disappeared women on my phone, hit me harder than the jalapeños did. It was a stark reminder that the fiesta exists right alongside real human devastation here.

I met Dave and Heather in Mercado Roma, a food hall that Dave had described as a great atmospheric spot to watch the Canada v Morocco game. This was based on his experience the previous night. But today at 11am, 90% of the market was closed. Unfazed, we relocated to the front of the market and watched on sun-glared screens while I experimented with a drink called Pulque, an ancient, traditional Mexican alcoholic beverage made from the fermented sap of the agave plant. It was like a delicious fruit punch without a hint of alcohol.

At half-time I headed to a nearby Irish pub called Celtics while Dave and Heather embarked on a three-hour food tour extravaganza. We planned to reconnect later in the afternoon.

The Pulque effects kicked in and the light-headed euphoria kept me smiling all the way to Celtics as I passed rich street food offerings and delicious aromas from the tantalizing array of grilled meats, tacos, gorditas, burritos, sopas, volcanoes and agua frescas. I stopped at a stall with huge hunks of caramel-colored pork overloading the front.

Tacos are served on reusable plastic plates covered by clear plastic bags, with napkins dangling above for easy access. Tiny multicolored stools are set against nearby walls. At less than two bucks, my delicious taco al pastor came with juicy hunks of spicy pork. I added fixings from gargantuan buckets of guacamole and salsa picante, then devoured the feast which totally eclipsed my cheesy brekkie experience.

At Celtics, the crowd was made up of grumpy-looking English men in their late thirties, staring into their phones. A horde of Moroccan fans gathered at the front—I hung out there. I was distracted by figuring out e-sim service, because wandering around this massive city without a map would be foolish. I'd left on a whim, so I hadn't considered this basic tenet of 21st-century travel. The app crashed twice, and I spent 20 minutes with tech support sweating over my phone while Morocco scored. Priorities, right? Once sorted, I looked up and Morocco had a two-goal lead. As the third goal went in, I left for a break at home.

France vs. Paraguay

On the way back to the apartment I spotted a place called La Cerveceria de Barrio Suc Condesa, so after a quick tech check I returned in time for kick-off and found a prime spot in front of the bar with a huge TV screen. A couple parked beside me and as the USA national anthem rang out, I asked out loud:

"Why are they singing this anthem?"

The man next to me spoke in a strong Scottish accent:

"Aye! That's just what I was thinking. Until I realized it's July 4!"
“Oh yeah!" I laughed. "I should know that. I do live in the good old USA."

Ross had retired two weeks ago from his job as a teacher in Glasgow. He'd been to nine World Cups and had tickets for the England v Mexico game. He'd been to Toronto, Monterrey, Miami, Guadalajara, and Boston with the 40,000-strong Tartan Army, and was going to keep attending World Cups until he couldn't. His approach? Just get tickets for any games and go!

"Scotland hardly ever qualifies, so why not!"

I couldn't argue.

Soon Dave arrived at the beginning of the second half, and those two got on like a house on fire. Ross said Dave reminded him of one of his best pals back in Glasgow, who fostered children and ran a local football club.

Then, as the game paused for a hydration break, the skies opened—spectacularly! Hail from hell sent those in the bar extension under a flimsy canopy running for cover. I was getting soaked and I was in the middle of the bar! Thunder, lightning, hail, screams—and then a total power outage! The bar went completely dark and people started screaming!

Rain!

What an atmosphere! I laughed and noted:

"There's no better place to ride out an epic thunderstorm than a bar in Mexico City filled with beer, margaritas, and empanadas!"

It was like Key Largo!

Cheers rang out as the power returned, but the rain only intensified—flooding the streets and chilling the air. I'd refused to take an umbrella or poncho (Aston Villa!), but they would have been useless against this massive deluge. Suddenly the screens flickered to life and France got a penalty. The French screamed as Mbappé slotted it home. More rain, more margaritas.

I'd put on my cap for some much-needed warmth—I was shivering. When I ordered tequila shots for all the plump waitress became very confused as to who I was and asked where I had been sitting. (Everyone was now standing due to the rain and wet seats.) I said:

"Here. Aquí! Where I've been sitting all afternoon. You’ve served me for two hours!"

She frowned. I took off my hat and smiled, and she squealed in delight, recognizing me instantly. We played that game every time she came back—I'd duck my head, whip the hat off, and yell 'Ola!' like a deranged game show host. Her delighted cackle became the soundtrack to the rest of the half.

More Rain

The game ended and Ross wobbled off. Dave and I waited until the rain became a light drizzle before going on a tour of the hood while avoiding flood waters and upturned pavers. We wound up in a bijou cocktail lounge, where Heather joined us after an hour. I'd looked up local restaurants but after some misses we ended up back at my local taco spot, Chinampita Condesa, for another successful late-night taco feast.

Sunday, July 5

England v Mexico

After a meh ham and cheese omelette with a side of salsa and refried beans, I headed to the Museo Soumaya via Uber. Today was the big one—England v Mexico—and it was all-consuming. The green shirts of El Tri were being worn by mamas, papas, chicas, chicos, dogs and babies, and I was beginning to feel left out!

Armed cops in mirrored sunglasses stood in jeeps parked on sidewalks as mariachi bands roared by in open-back trucks. The entire city was energized by the constant parp parp of car horns, air horns, and throngs of teens chanting "Viva México!"

Stepping out of my Uber, the first thing I spotted was a lady selling Mexico footy shirts. I snagged one for 500 pesos and put it on before entering the museum. It felt amazing to fit in, with the added bonus of having the right complexion.

I spent the morning with a Mexican football army viewing the largest collection of Rodins, aside from the Musée Rodin in Paris—for free! The first piece I saw was the magnificent Gates of Hell, a piece I've loved ever since discovering Rodin while studying art history, and I was surprised by how deeply it moved me.

Art and Footy—who would have known I’d love them equally!

To underscore that thought, next door to the Soumaya sits the Jumex Museum, which was hosting a footy exhibition over two floors. A fan chanting soundscape accompanied the exhibition, which was packed with even more of the El Tri fanbase. There were stories about the women's Mexican team coming third in the first Women's World Cup, artist renderings of the Zidane headbutt, and the longest futsal table I've ever seen.

Brazil vs. Norway

I returned to my apartment to grab my portable phone charger and headed to El 98, a small but atmospheric footy bar run by Frenchies two blocks from my apartment. I was offered a spot at the bar and met Alan, an amicable Peruvian man who'd moved to Mexico from Lima four years ago. He was wearing the same shirt as me and was shocked that an Englishman was in Mexican colors…today. I explained:

"I felt left out."

But also that we were about to watch the Norway v Brazil game and that I'd return home to change into my English shirt once that was over.

Two guys sat across from us rooting for Norway—one from Argentina, the other LA. More Brazil fans arrived, and two women in yellow Seleção shirts hopped on the stools behind me. One had grown up in Harlem, so we chatted about the old hood until Brazil got a penalty and everyone screamed for Viní Jr. to take it—Bruno...

Haaland's goal was met with cries of anguish, screams and much head-holding. I noted that City had done it to Arsenal again. Poor Gabi.

After the final whistle, my new Peruvian pal, Alan, promised to hold my seat while I dashed home to change shirts and pack for my early morning flight—I planned to wear my Mexico shirt under my Arsenal shirt just in case they won and their fans wanted to toss all English fans in the air!

On the way back the heavens opened again, and when I reached the bar, a girl wearing an old yellow Arsenal away shirt—that reminded me of Anders Limpar—appeared beside me. She smiled when she caught sight of my Calafiori shirt.

Alex was from Brixton and had been living in Mexico City for a year learning Spanish. She was with five other English fans, and when more of them arrived she invited me to join them at a table outside but I was happy where I was.

"Game delayed?" Alan asked.

I checked my phone. Damn! I ordered another margarita, then stepped out for some air when a tall, fit-looking couple appeared in front of me, peering into the bar.

"You looking for seats?" I asked, like the concierge.

Jack and Ellie were cheerful Aussies who lived in New York and clicked with me right away. They joined us at the bar, and as we chatted, Ellie whispered that Jack was a huge Arsenal fan. They asked why I wasn't with the English crowd outside, and I explained that I preferred international rather than partisan.

After the teams emerged to yelps and screams, the entire bar belted out a rip-roaring rendition of the Mexican national anthem—waving flags, holding up phones, embracing family and friends in a beautiful wave of hope and belief. Smiles and teary eyes left me speechless with goosebumps. This was the moment of pure, unbridled joy I'd come searching for—the atmosphere I'd left The Fox in Harlem to find. I was totally overwhelmed. Alan nodded at me and wiped away a tear.

The game started amidst wave after wave of tardy Mexicans zigzagging into the bar, filling the void in front of the TV. It felt like the screen was replicating itself, as wave after wave of Mexican attacks were repelled like the English Alamo.

Pickford dived low to his near post to deny Jiménez's header, and I found myself frowning at how easily players flip a switch for their country when they can't buy a goal for their club. Mexico swarmed; every attack had the barman and Alan shrieking like hysterical children, and their fanatical zeal had me holding my sides in laughter.

Just as I declared that Saka had done nothing, much like Will Ferrell's appraisal of Derek Zoolander, Rice galloped up the field like some wild adrenalized colt and fed Saka on the right wing. He steamed off and actually made a decision to cross rather than dilly-dallying like some indecisive schoolboy from the forties. But his cross was too long for King Harry, and just as I was about to give up hope, Jude appeared. With that gazelle-like stride, that seems like he's always overstretching, to launch himself like some Saint George inspired human cannonball into the six-yard box to bullet-head the ball into the back of the Mexican net.

Silence. Well apart from me!

“Gooooaaaaalllllll!”

I jumped off my seat and hit my hand on the ceiling in mid-roar while the rest of the bar dropped their heads. I'd promised to do a tequila shot every time we scored and Ellie reminded me when I retook my seat.

After the second Bellingham goal went in, I felt a tinge of sadness for those around me but I had made a promise:

"Make that two tequilas, please barman!"

But then Quiñones scored for Mexico and the roof blew off from the fervid cheers and hysterical screams.

As the second half began, Jack and I cracked up every time Anthony Gordon appeared—it was all about that royal visage.

"It's the swooping blonde hair and the piercing blue eyes," I said. "He glides across the pitch like he's dodging paparazzi."

Alan had no idea what we were talking about, but once we showed him side-by-side pics of Princess Diana and Anthony Gordon, he howled.

Between texting, taking tequila shots every time England scored, laughing at the mayhem and drama—red card, penalties, fans swooning and baying at the screen—the game flew by. Until there were 11 minutes of injury time.

It was like a rooftop ending to a Marvel blockbuster where the hero dangles off the edge of a skyscraper while the evildoer stamps on his hands one at a time until he's holding on by a fingertip. I could barely watch. But I did, with fingers lodged deeply in my mouth, gnawing at the tips—nails long gone!

When the final whistle blew there was silence apart from a ripple of applause from the English table outside and a relieved roar from me.

I swapped numbers with Jack and Ellie and invited them to one day watch an Arsenal game in Harlem. Alan and I shared Instagram profiles and hugged. I commiserated with the locals and, tired, tipsy, and hungry, I found myself back at my taco spot. The waiters baulked when they saw my Arsenal jersey and when I declared that I was English. They joked:

"No tacos for Inglaterras!"

I ripped my Arsenal shirt off like Superman in a phone booth to reveal the green Mexican crest underneath. The waiters' jaws dropped and laughter followed. One of them demanded a photo. I handed him my phone as he yelled:

"The Englishman became Mexican for tacos!!"

I posed as they slapped me on the back, laughing, and served me extra salsa. I'd earned my tacos.

I stumbled toward the exit, belting out the only Mexican song I knew:

Mexico - Here We Go!

Footy goals in the urinals!

There is an egg under all that cheese.

Rain!

More Rain

Mexico - Here We Go!

Footy goals in the urinals!

There is an egg under all that cheese.

Rain!

More Rain

Church and the First Goal