Memories have a way of sneaking up on you. One moment you’re stirring coffee, waiting for the light to change, scrolling through TikTok, and then — suddenly — you’re somewhere else. Somewhere you haven’t been in decades, but it feels as alive as ever.

Today it was Plaza Olvera in Los Angeles. I watched a clip: mariachis tuning their instruments, stalls stacked with pottery and leather, tourists wandering with wide eyes. And just like that, I was six again, stepping out of the car with my family, crossing the border into Mexicali.

Saturdays in Mexicali were adventures wrapped in errands. We went for necessities — ingredients for the weekend carne asada, a fresh haircut, maybe a little trinket to brighten a shelf — but the city itself was the reward.

Just after crossing, we’d pull into a plazita, the air thick with smells: freshly fried churros, roasting meat, sweet aguas frescas. Vendors shouted greetings, displaying hand-woven zarapes, carved Aztec calendars, soft leather sandals. Each stall was a treasure chest, every corner a new surprise.

On the east corner stood Zapatería Tres Hermanos. Its twin entrances spilled the rich scent of polished leather, the kind that makes you wrinkle your nose and grin at the same time. Just behind it, the peletería hummed quietly with its own life. Boots and belts were shaped by hands that knew every curve and crease, and the smell of freshly tooled leather drifted out in waves, mingling with the sun, the dust, and the distant sizzle of street food. I would pause for a moment and breathe it all in — sharp, warm, unmistakable, an experience all its own.

A few steps farther, the flauta shop beckoned, tomato sauce bubbling, tortillas crisping, oil hissing. I remember the way my stomach would twist in anticipation.

Keep walking, and you’d enter a corridor of candy stores stretching along the sidewalks, piñatas swinging in impossible shapes — superheroes frozen mid-leap, animals with wide, painted eyes, stars so bright they made your vision dance. Inside, shelves and bins overflowed with sweets of every color and texture: chewy, crunchy, sticky, sugary. For any kid with a few pesos, it was pure paradise, a treasure trove you could wander through for hours.

A little farther on, Plaza Mariachi revealed itself like a hidden stage tucked between the streets. Musicians tuned their guitars and violins, the sharp twang of strings mingling with laughter and the low hum of conversation. Some strummed quietly, others ran through impromptu riffs, their notes floating into the warm air, waiting for someone to hire them.

Panaderías filled the gaps between shops, sending up ribbons of sugar and yeast — conchas dusted with soft sugar crystals, golden birotes still warm from the oven — their aroma curling through the plaza. Sunlight glinted off the cobblestones, and a gentle breeze carried the mingled scents of baked goods, leather, and sizzling street food. Every sense came alive; every step made you feel part of a city vibrating with sound, color, and life.

The plaza wasn’t just a place to pass through — it was a stage, a market, a gathering spot. Kids ran past, chasing one another around benches, their laughter mixing with the strumming guitars. Elderly men huddled over dominos, murmuring and laughing. Street vendors called out their offerings, and the music threaded it all together, wrapping everyone in a pulse that felt as old as the city itself.

Downhill, La Yarda unfurled like a living mosaic. Wooden crates groaned under piles of oranges, melons, cilantro, and tomatoes, their colors blazing in the sunlight. Vendors shouted their prices over the hum of the crowd, voices weaving through the clatter of baskets and the shuffle of feet. Dust rose from the sunbaked ground, mingling with the sharp sweetness of citrus, the green tang of herbs, and something indefinably earthy — the unmistakable scent of a city alive and working, breathing around you with every step.

And then, there it was: the taco stand. Tacos Tormentas del Desierto — or at least that’s what I remember it being called. A six-by-six grill, a simple counter wrapping two sides, a roof with walls everywhere but the entrance. Four men moved like a well-rehearsed dance, ladling, flipping, slicing, and garnishing with effortless rhythm. The clink of glass-bottled sodas punctuated the air, and the sizzle of meat on the grill mixed with the faint tang of cilantro and onions. 

Every bite was perfect — warm, spicy, layered with flavors that made your taste buds tingle. And every time you lingered, watching the dance of hands and flames, the tacos kept coming, as if they knew you’d been waiting all week. Somehow, the world shrank to that small, smoke-filled counter, where every taste, every sizzle, felt like home.

We could walk it all — roughly a four-mile round trip — but most of the time, we rode in the car, stopping only where we had to. I’d  press my nose to the window, eyes wide, trying to drink in the smells, the colors, the life of it all, as if I could hold the whole city in my chest.

Sometimes we stayed longer, visiting relatives, lingering over conversation and tortillas. Other times, it was purely business: get what we needed, cross back over the border, return home. Either way, the city wrapped itself around us, stitching together family, culture, and the pulse of a childhood that felt infinite.

Watching a video of Plaza Olvera today, I realized something: it’s a nice place, sure, but it can’t hold a candle to those Saturdays in Mexicali. The streets, the smells, the small victories of finding the perfect piñata or the crispiest flauta — none of that ever transfers to a tourist spot.

Those trips weren’t errands. They were adventures. Tiny, fleeting, beautiful adventures. And decades later, they still sneak up on you, reminding you of the world you once roamed, free and wide-eyed.

And all of this — the streets, the smells, the music, the tacos — was brought back to me by something as simple as watching a video on TikTok. In a few fleeting seconds, I was six again, wandering Mexicali with wide eyes, savoring every sound, every scent, every small adventure.

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com —stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.