Mexico City

Mexico City doesn't ease you in. It's 21 million people, 2,200 metres above sea level, built on a former lakebed that's slowly sinking. The scale is abstract until you're standing on the roof of a building in Roma Norte watching the sprawl extend in every direction with no visible edge.

We arrived from the airport in the early evening and the first hour was all sensory recalibration — the altitude headache, the smell of diesel and corn tortillas from a nearby taqueria, the astonishing density of the streets.

Coyoacán moves at a different pace than the rest of the city. The weekend market around the central plaza sells everything from fried quesadillas to hand-made luchador masks, and Frida Kahlo's house — La Casa Azul — is genuinely worth the queue if you arrive at opening time.

The Museo Tamayo is the best art museum I visited, not because of the permanent collection (though it's strong) but because of how the building handles light. Every gallery feels different at different times of day.

Street tacos from a stand on Álvaro Obregón at 11 pm. Mezcal at any of the mezcalerías in Roma. Café de olla from the thermos on the corner of Ámsterdam and Sonora.