Colourful buildings, replete with seemingly arbitrary paintings along the walls, are just so common a part of the visual culture even in Ensenada, where I lived (mostly) for my time in Mexico. Just walking the streets makes me want to start painting in vibrant colours.

Instead, Mexico fixed me. My experience there is a big part of why I’m so driven to travel now. I have long wanted to return to Mexico, but I’ll admit I think a large part of my original infatuation with the country was an emotional one—I wanted a chance to see the country itself, rather than just seeing how it changed me.

What I discovered, living in Mexico for three months, was a place that never stopped surprising me.

There’s this story about French poet (and Surrealist pioneer) André Breton coming to Mexico, and asking a carpenter to build him a table. The carpenter requested a drawing to follow. Breton draw a quick sketch of a table, rendering it in three dimensions, that way you would once you’re older than, say, six, and understand a bit better that very little—beyond paper and anorexic models—in the world is flat

The carpenter, of course, came back with a triangular table with two legs shorter than the other two.

Somewhere along the highway between Mexico City and Oaxaca, I found this giant advertising structure built into the hill. This is, in case you’re wondering, in the absolute middle of nowhere, and it must be about twenty feet tall. Like their flags, apparently Mexico likes its ads giant. I also saw a man on an open truck, seated at a rifle mounted on the cab roof, and thought this the far more bizarre element on that ride.

This story came up a few times in different conversations with people. So did stories of a remote spot in the jungle near Xlitla. There, an eccentric British millionaire—who kept boa constrictors as pets—built a surrealist garden, complete with a stairway leading to nothing and something titled “The House on Three Floors Which Will in Fact Have Five or Four or Six”. In Tijuana, there’s a giant naked woman built by a sculptor who lived in her with his wife and children. Try as I might, I couldn’t find her anywhere; everyone I met in Tijuana had never even heard of her. And of course there’s Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, living around the corner from Trotsky in Mexico City, and a whole slew of surrealist writers and artists. Salvador Dali, apparently, at one point said that he hated Mexico. He couldn’t, he said, return to a country that was more surreal than his own paintings.

I became fascinated with the surreal in Mexico, and the more interested in it I became, the more I noticed it. Almost everyone I spoke to about it had something to contribute, and a lot of people started to point out strange things to me, just so that I’d notice them. Much of the surreal in Mexico, I think, lies in the juxtapositions. The country still retains elements of its ancient cultures in a way many others don’t, but adds in the overwhelmingly oppressive influence of the Spanish conquistadoras, who quite literally built their Catholic churches atop the Aztec pyramids.

I think this was Aztec, but I don’t quite remember. The clean lines and bold colours are used throughout all sorts of Mexican art, both pre and post Colombian. Somehow it manages to be ornate without sacrificing a sense of simplicity. The colours used are so super-saturated that they verge on fluorescent and clashing, but again, somehow it works. I saw these sorts of colour schemes everywhere, especially in the folk art in Oaxaca, which used intensely bright colours on little surrealist animal sculptures.

I read somewhere that Mexico is actually one of the most Catholic countries in the world, and it doesn’t really surprise me. Catholicism is evident everywhere, from the altars set up in the most unexpected of places to to the processions marching down the streets singing during various Christmastime holidays. I’ve taken to drinking a lot of tequila straight—like scotch, which you can do in Mexico because tequila isn’t firewater here unless you buy the lighter-fluid kind for six dollars—when these things happen, and just wandering out into the crowds to see what on earth is going on. My favourite was the first day of the Virgin of Guadalupe festival, where there was a huge feria, with food and amusement park rides and gaudy images of religious figures to be purchases,  set up around the church (which was lighting off fireworks, of course). On the steps on the church, a priest was throwing holy water on the heads of the amassed throngs.

But Catholicism in Mexico is different from Catholicism in other places. Here, there are holidays that don’t exist anywhere else. There are saints and revered figures that don’t exist anywhere in any liturgy, or in fact in any country other than Mexico at all. Santa Muerte is a prime example of this. She’s quite likely one of the most revered “religious” figures in Mexico, especially by the criminal and lower-class elements, but she’s actually shunned by the Catholic church.

In spite of this, people build massive shrines to her, and many pray to her more religiously than the any properly-sanctioned non-secular hero. Again, this goes all the way back into the country’s Aztec roots. The continued infatuation in Mexico with death has roots all the way back into the ancient pre-Columbian societies, who cannibalized their friends, sacrificed their young, and built elaborate graves for their deceased.

An elaborately prepared crypt, found in a hole in the floor somewhere in the amazing useum of Anthropology in Mexico City.

Throughout so many things I saw while I was there, the skull or skeleton motif recurred constantly. It’s one of the unshakeable realities of Mexican imagery, and I think a part of what draws me to Mexico as well. I was so excited for Día de los Muertos, and rather disappointed when I discovered there weren’t huge parades of people in costume those days in Ensenada (in Mexico City or Oaxaca, both of which I visited later, the story would be quite different, but Ensenada, while it has its charms, is not Real Mexico.)

Far from being a morbid interest, this infatuation with death often comes as a celebration of life instead. Far from grisly, the imagery is most often cartoonish, playful, or replete with bright colours. Skeleton figures are often presented as a bride and groom, perhaps mocking the institution that is so highly revered in Mexico. There’s a synthesis here between the ancient and the relatively new Catholic traditions, and they meet in strange and unexpected ways.

Having lived in Mexico for nearly three months, I started to notice how incredibly rich the visual narrative of the country is, and that there are certain elements that recur consistently, no matter what you’re looking at. For me, the bright colour palettes, the continual images of death, blood, and violence, are as much a part of Mexico as the tacos.

I came to Mexico hoping to answer the riddle—to figure out where all the surreal rooted from. I learned a lot, and I saw a lot, but ultimately, I think I ended up leaving with more questions than I had when I first arrived.

I have no idea what this vehicle is used for, if anything, but I like it. The hand-painted typography everywhere was really lovely.

There’s something about a pair of heels. They’re instantly classy. They work with everything, they make your legs look great, and they can turn the scrubbiest ensemble into a kick-ass outfit. A beautiful pair of shoes is a magical creature that will transform you into a sophisticated lady-about-town, even when you’re just running out to the grocery store in your pyjamas and bedhead.

But when you live in a climate that changes every hour, and the sidewalks are almost always covered in ice (or snow, or mud, or random bits of gravel, or some combination thereof), wearing heels can be hazardous to your health. As a girl who never wears flats and rarely suffers for it, I’ve picked up a few tricks and tips along the way.

Suede Stuart Wietzman peep toes. I have been eyeing these gorgeous things for AGES now, but I think I’d be afraid of ruining them.

1. Carefully calculate risk.

Using the table below, add the activity (a) to the conditions ©, then multiply by the amount of alcoholic drinks consumed (b is for booze!).

Risk = b(a+c)

Activities
Walking: 1pt per km
Dancing: 2pts per half-hour
Attending a wedding, party, or social event that involves standing: 1pt per hour
Kung fu: 50pts

Conditions
Ice: 10pts
Snow: 2pts
Grassy lawn: 1pt
Areas with decks, grates, or lots of stairs: 5pts
Rocky mountainsides: 30pts

If your risk value is over 20, you can be forgiven for wearing flats. If it’s over 10, perhaps it’s best to go with a practical, heavy-heeled boot.  If it’s under ten, a lady can handle it.

Who can resist a pair of Louboutins? If you answered “nobody”, you are correct!

2. Avoid hazardous materials.

Suede boots are for cowboys. Have you ever seen it rain in a cowboy movie? In a town where it rains every other day, I can’t understand why anyone would brave wearing suede boots. Satin (and other fabrics) can be tricky. Mud and salt will often cling to them, but they can usually be washed successfully. Stick to darker colours, or only wear on clear days.

Leather is always a safe bet—make sure to protect it. Avoid plastic shoes whenever possible; they’re cheap and lacking in class. Vinyl will often survive more trips through the salt, but it’s horrid and won’t let your feet breathe at all. Patent leather is ideal—you can wear white patent shoes all winter and they’ll always look pristine. Generally speaking, the shinier the shoe, the less likely it is to stain.

3. Length isn’t as important as width.

A kitten heel may seem easier to walk in, but often isn’t. Kitten heels also lack the awesome traits that longer heels offer: making your legs look great, giving you a sexy walk, looking gorgeous.

Instead, look for a heel that’s wider and blockier. You’ll have more stability, and won’t be prone to falling into the cracks of a deck or sinking into the grass.

A so-expensive-I’ll-never-afford-them pair of Alexander McQueen (RIP) sandals.

4. Hide your shame (or just your toes)

Wearing stockings with open-toed shoes is utterly unforgivable. You may be able to get away with a colourful pair of knee socks under a solid black peep-toe pump, but I’ve never tried it. Peep toes are for bare feet and polished toenails.

Stash your open-toed shoes during the snowy season, or be prepared to have very, very cold toes. (I’ll admit to having worn peep toes in the snow on more than one occasion. It was not what I’d call an enjoyable sensation.)

5. Keep your ear to the ground.

Or rather, your eyes. Years of walking barefoot has taught me to instinctively watch my footing everywhere I go. This doesn’t mean staring at the ground all the time, it means keeping an eye on it to see what’s coming up.

Venturing onto an icy sidewalk in a stiletto is like wandering through a minefield, and requires absolute vigilance.

I forget who made these shoes, but they’re pretty!

6. Always have something sticky on hand.

I once broke my heel falling down a set of stairs at a party, and had to walk home in my fishnets. It was November. A little shoe goo may have made it a much less painful trip.

Quick tip: if the whole heel’s come off, coat the spikes & the heel itself with glue, then slide together. If the heel’s snapped, glue the two pieces back together, then secure by wrapping with tape—try clear packing tape or black hockey tape. Chewing gum can work if you’re desperate (but not for long).

7. A gentleman is your best accessory.

Any gentleman worth his salt should be more than ready to offer you his arm as you walk. It’s rather like walking with an extra leg: he’ll offer support, stability, and emergency rescues when you hit a patch of ice.

I had a gentleman on hand the night I broke my heel, and he was kind enough to give me a piggyback ride all the way home. Bring one with you whenever you can.

I just bought a new pair of Nine Wests, and now I’m eyeing up these. They’re on sale, too! (sale+shoes=sarah-bliss)

As a final note, if you find heels just too excruciatingly painful, invest in a well-made pair. Cheaply made shoes are going to be terrible to wear. Don’t wear them for extended hikes home—go barefoot or carry tiny fold-up flats in your purse. Peruse the orthopedic section of the drugstore: “heel huggers” prevent your heels from slipping or blistering, and ball-of-foot cushions reduce foot pain.

And never be too shy to kick ‘em off to get down on the dance floor.

The Bad: No more Digby. I’m trying hard not to think about it because it makes me sad. Why aren’t there more beautiful & clever, highly saturated things around? (I am happiest in technicolour). I don’t understand why “reality” is so interesting. There’s enough reality right outside my door; I’d rather the fantasy when I’m looking to get out of my head.

and the Ridiculous: Minggl thinks “b3k 4w5″ isn’t a valid postal code. It took me three tries to figure out they wanted me to capitalize it. Seriously? Canada Post will deliver my mail if I forget the majority of the address and scrawl it upside down with a six-inch-wide marker, but some web app that isn’t ever going to send me mail can’t validate a lowercase postal code?

Also, why are all web apps named by dyslexic five year olds now? I miss real words.