World Cup 2026

Chihuahua, México, June 9, 2026

The journey to the World Cup, my 9th, starts in Chihuahua, a dusty front line of civilization 1.500 km north of Mexico City, located happily in an endless, yellow washed out ocean of sand and stones. Chihuahua is the capital of the same state, home also to the world capital of murder, Ciudad Juarez. It is a city in which the Uber drivers can play David Bowie and his Starman on constant repeat for 35 minutes, a city in which bars serve no non-alcoholic drinks and the wish alone causes weird looks, a city in which hyper masculine beefy local cowboys, complete with hats and leather boots, sing heartbreaking local love songs in gay Karaoke bars. So, in short: it’s weird. It’s different. It’s brilliant.


Arriving from Europe in an overseeably pleasant Iberia flight to Mexico City, a city that is as vibrant and lively as the greatest in the world, I struggled, as always, with a solid jet lag as well as the height of that urban monsters, that, combined with some serious pollution, makes me long after a day for the Dolomites every time I am here. The playfulness and tender, in the best sense of the word child-like loveliness with which Mexicans can interact with each other gets me everytime I am walking the streets. It is a great place to arrive in…

The World Cup hasn’t arrived here though, not yet. The streets of CDMX are covered in protest camps of different social groups, fighting for better life conditions, the Zocalo, the central square, is sealed off with iron plates resembling painfully the Berlin Wall, and once again Mexicans believe that the Copa del Mundo is a thing for the others, the rich, the privileged. I am one of them, and it hurts.