There is a specific kind of silence that only exists when you are surrounded by three million people. I’ve been in this city for two weeks, and the only conversation I’ve had is with the cashier at the corner market who corrects my pronunciation of “panadería.” My apartment is great—high ceilings, a view of the busy street below, and enough sunlight to keep my plants alive—but it echoes.
I thought moving here would be an instant adventure. I imagined myself effortlessly blending into the local crowd, laughing at inside jokes I hadn’t learned yet. Instead, I found myself eating dinner standing up over the sink because I hadn’t bought a table yet, scrolling through social media and watching my friends back home live their familiar lives.
The loneliness hit me hardest on Tuesday. I went to a museum, stood in front of a beautiful, chaotic painting, and turned to share a thought with… no one. The air beside me was empty. I realized that being a “traveler” is romantic, but being a “newcomer” is just exhausting work.
I tried the usual apps. You know the ones. Swipe left, swipe right, judge a human being in 0.5 seconds based on their hiking photo. It felt mechanical. Everyone seemed to be selling a version of themselves that didn't exist. I didn't want a "match"; I wanted a conversation. I wanted someone to tell me which bus actually runs on time and where to find the best late-night tacos, not just someone looking for a ego boost.
That’s when I stumbled onto latidreams.com during a late-night insomniac browsing session. It felt different immediately. The profiles weren't just a collection of curated selfies; people actually wrote about their days, their frustrations, and their favorite books. It felt slower, in a good way. Like walking into a quiet bookstore instead of a noisy club.
I started talking to a local named Sofia. There was no pressure, no immediate rush to define what we were doing. She just asked me, genuine and simple, “What is the strangest thing you have seen in our city so far?”
I told her about the man walking his parrot on a leash near the park. She laughed—digitally, but I could feel the warmth behind it—and told me that’s Mr. Hernandez, and the parrot’s name is Hugo.
We talked for three days before we met. I was nervous. My hands were shaking slightly as I locked my apartment door. I almost forgot my wallet and had to run back up the stairs, feeling clumsy and uncool.
When I got to the cafe, she was already there, reading a paperback. We didn't have fireworks or some cinematic moment of destiny. It was better. It was awkward for exactly thirty seconds, and then we fell into a rhythm. We talked about the humidity, the terrible traffic, and the difficulty of making friends as adults.
It wasn't magic. It was just real. We walked through the botanical gardens afterwards, and for the first time in two weeks, the city didn't feel like a fortress I was trying to break into. It felt like a place I could actually live.
I’m back in my apartment now. It’s still quiet, but the echo isn't so bad. I have a plan to meet Sofia and her friends for trivia night on Friday. I’m terrible at trivia, but I think I’m going to go anyway.
