A high-pitched sound pierces the air to my left. It sounds as though someone is trying to hail the world’s biggest cab. Moments later, the “Fweeeet!” of thousands of whistles rain down around us inside Arena México, a 16,500-seat cathedral to lucha libre.
Before long, the entire arena — myself included — is whistling.
Two hours earlier, my husband and I are heading to a meeting point inside a mezcal bar in Roma Norte, armed with nothing more than an address sent via email that afternoon. Instead of a single guide, we find ourselves among more than 20 fellow travellers gathered for an Airbnb Experience.
There are Canadians, a smattering of Americans from New Orleans and California, a handful of Mexicans visiting their capital and a young British couple now living in New York City. Some come as a duo, while others are travelling solo through CDMX. We’re all here for the same reason though: a tequila and lucha libre tour that a friend insisted was an unmissable Mexico City experience.
Our hosts, Diana and Eduardo, know this city inside out. They welcome us warmly with mezcal and tacos, making sure that our hands never stay empty for long, before laying out the evening’s itinerary and expectations — my love language.
After 45 minutes of cold beer and conversation with our new chums on Mexico’s top-rated Airbnb Experience, I forget I’m even on a tour. Somewhere along the way, I realize I’d forgotten how much I used to enjoy meeting strangers. Heck, I used to be good at this! During my backpacking days, conversations like these filled long hostel evenings, led to shared road trips and even introduced me to future roommates — including my husband.
Once we’re stuffed with carnitas, the group is herded like tipsy cats down one of the many tree-lined streets CDMX is blessed with. We naturally spread into Noah’s Ark formation, falling into step with different travellers along the way. One woman, bound for Toronto later in the year, asks for restaurant recommendations. Another pair are so cagey about their jobs that my husband and I later decide — over mezcal hangovers — that they must be spies.
At our next stop, we commandeer a row of wobbly wooden tables outside a bar. The proprietor passes around small, ceramic vessels filled with a milky beverage, kefir-like in its sour, fermented complexity. It’s pulque, made from fermented agave sap, and it initiates us into an evening of Mexican traditions that stretch back centuries.
While we drink, our hosts walk us through the history and traditions of lucha libre. To the uninitiated, it can look like men in masks and skin-tight lycra, but Diana and Eduardo reveal the elaborate story unfolding beneath the spectacle. We learn to cheer for the athletic, rule-abiding “técnicos” and boo their adversaries, the “rudos” — theatrical baddies who will do anything to win.
Before we head to the arena, Diana passes around a bag stuffed with lucha libre masks. “The mask chooses you,” she says, encouraging us to reach in blindly and pull out our alter ego for the night. Mine is a simple black and white affair, but the biggest laugh comes when a guy who could be a linebacker draws a hot-pink mask, which he gamely pulls over his head. Soon — looking like rent-a-superheroes — we spill onto the street.
Even before we enter the arena, the excitement is palpable. I was expecting something much more rinky-dink, but this is closer to watching the Blue Jays. Families armed with buckets of popcorn shuffle past us, and our beers, held aloft, threaten to spill as we wind towards our seats.
The wrestling is delightfully over the top. Wrestlers fly from the top rope and backflip across the ring to gasps from the crowd. The villains draw boos with their devious antics, soaking in every Machiavellian moment. By the end of the night, our crew is heckling in unison at this spectacle that’s part theatre, part sport.
Too often, I turn my nose up at guided tours, convinced that I can piece together the same itinerary for less with a bit of research and Google Maps. What I can’t replicate, though, is the spontaneity. I can’t plan the conversation with the solo traveller from San Francisco or manufacture the feeling of 20 strangers booing, cheering and whistling together as one. I leave with phone numbers and promises of beds to crash on — and a gentle reminder that the itinerary is only ever part of the story.
