Abrazos a México …
When we leave Boston, Logan is covered with snow (as it is when we return two weeks later, and a new “blizzard of ’26” is bearing down).
It’s a smaller plane than I hoped. Three tiny bathrooms in the back and one in the front, that you get to by walking through Business Class. Is it theirs, I wonder.
Set out to read The Death of Artemio Cruz. I had started it before a trip to Chile in 2018, but Mexico is more “on point.”
Staying near Zócalo in Centro. From there, Mexico City does indeed feel like the biggest city in North America. Many distinct barrios, long avenues of interesting arcade buildings, streets and markets morphing into one another, small and large parks. Not all lush, but greenish.
One thing about famous Latin American cities: their historic centers are mostly beautiful, but their sprawl tends to begin in close to those centers and spread quickly and haphazardly but relentlessly.
Our place in Centro is across the large plaza from the city’s grand cathedral and the home of Mexican President Claudia Sheinbaum. On the day when a military anniversary is to be celebrated on the plaza along with announcements of demonstrations, metal detectors suddenly go up in the hotel lobby. The terrace of the hotel restaurant is deemed a threat.
Mexico City seems to be broken into streets based on needs: one for lighting, one for electronics, one for girls dresses from christening through quinceañera and wedding. Montevideo was that way too. One neighborhood of bookstores, one of fabric shops, one of furniture, etc. Cities with specialized neighborhoods seemed to precede department stores.
It’s odd shifting from local serving class of hotels and downtown denizens in the Centro to more privileged hipsters in Roma Norte and La Condesa. Might as well be NYC.
Met two friendly Mexico City residents.
An Uber driver drove us to the Frida Kahlo museum, then several hours later by coincidence, picked us back up from the museum. He was relatively quiet on the way there, as we passed seemingly miles of sad-looking young streetwalkers. On the way back, the driver came alive, entertaining my bad Spanish. He slowed the journey considerably so he could tell and show us pictures of his favorite places in Mexico. In fact, we got a message from Uber that our trip fare was higher than estimated because its duration or distance was longer than expected
The second kind chilango we meet is a personal tour guide who was of Basque descent and spoke Basque as well as Spanish, English (he was born in Texas) and French (tells of his daughter whom he refers to as his “kid,” living in Paris). He uses 1985 as a milestone year, when a magnitude 8.1 earthquake struck Mexico City, killing 25,000 or more and changing the architecture and building codes of the city.
The guide explains that he is on the spectrum. We all are, I say. He credits his confidence to time he spent learning under Jesuits. When Joanne expressed surprise that their method works, he deadpans, “well, I have autism.”
Tourgrouping
Getting older, we opt for a tour group for part of the trip.
After interesting visit to Aztec ruins and anthropology museum, Joanne and I stop at a place where my resistance to ordering brains breaks down. Not nearly as rich and briny to me as in Spain or Italy but always a nice reminder despite my mad cow disease fears.
We return to Mexico City to a sismo warning, as our guides had warned us about in this seismically active zone. I act stoic but am a bit shaken. Nothing like our Rome shake or midnight Edinburgh fire alarm, I inform my potentially alarmed kids. I assure them we’re now comfortably watching the Super Bowl with one of our tourmates, a good-humored young widow from New Jersey. She and her son like Bad Bunny, whose halftime show upstaged the game.
Finally got my grasshoppers. Made a joke about hearing “crickets,” as young people like to say. The American, who we watched the Super Bowl with the previous night offered a slight chuckle; the Canadians, who seem to think they know everything, proceed like they represent the Duchy of Grand Fenwick. The instinct to suggest you know a hell of a lot seems to be a common temptation on such group tours. Always having to say something smart is such a drag.
Large canvases at the Mexico City Museum of Modern Art showcase interesting works by Mexican painters such as José Clemente Orozco, David Alfaro Siqueiros and Rufino Tamayo. A separate museum houses Tamayo’s fascinating collection of pre-Columbian statues.
The Diego Rivera Museo Mural features Rivera’s Sueño de una Tarde Dominical en la Alameda Central, his 1947 mural depicting historical figures including conquistador Hernán Cortés (who overthrew the Aztec Empire), Porfirio Díaz (dictator of Mexico from 1876 until his overthrow in 1911) and a young Rivera. The museum was created after the 1985 earthquake destroyed the Hotel del Prado, where the mural was originally painted.
Much about indigenous art. The serpent with feathers like the quetzal we had searched for in Costa Rica stands out. And corn of course, a sort of religious symbol in these parts.
Our tour-group guide Adriana is warm and knowledgeable. She frequently refers to Mexicans as “brunette” in complexion, in contrast to whiter Europeans. It’s an adjective I always associate with hair, but perhaps is a precursor to “brown,” now commonly said about skin that is neither black nor white.
Puebla gets me confused about the great Goya and Manet paintings related to various uprisings. Puebla also reminded me that if it’s foreign enough, the house of a rich man can offer enough history to work as a museum.
I plead guilty to my stubborn nonchalance and missed directions etc., which result one evening in a fancy taco dinner with guest celebrity chefs vs many pizzeria options. Like Bob said of the Caribbean wind, “I know what you’re thinking, but there ain’t a thing you can do about it, so let us just agree to agree.”
On to Oaxaca
Riding from Puebla to Oaxaca, we pass a pilgrimage headed to the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City, the most visited Catholic shrine in the world. Guadalupe is a peerless hero here, a “brunette” … and many Mexican children are named for her. Also walking the opposite way are locals collecting cans and bottles in large bags. Our minitourbus is now playing Maniac and Staying Alive.
Appropriately, Lennon’s Imagine played as we passed through a police checkpoint watching for immigrants coming up from Guatemala.
My ears block as we pass along Sierra Madre del Sur and vast stretches of columnar cacti.
Near Oaxaca city, the group arranges an educational day of visiting a family of beeswax makers, another of Zapotec weavers and one of mezcal makers. We watch a horse being trained to grind dried agave into the beginnings of mezcal. Then do a tasting and, of course, an opportunity to buy bottles for takeaway.
In the city, I have my second conejo dinner of trip. Excellent, at restaurant starred by Michelin, the tire people. Then another Michelin-starred restaurant on Valentine’s Day served by a waiter who’s a Red Sox fan but also talks up the local baseball team. Earlier in Puebla, we learned of the local team officially named the Pericos de Puebla (Puebla Parrots), but known as the Camotes de Puebla (Puebla Sweet Potatoes).
Local schools are in session half days. The other half, a 7-year-old guides us around shapes of the the Tule Tree, purported to be the oldest and widest tree in the Oaxaca region. In the shapes of the tree, the 7-year-old points out jaguars, lions, elephants, anteaters and more.
We also witness the start of Carnival in Oaxaca, with a colorful parade of dancers.
The mar
Flight out of Oaxaca over green mountains that reminds me of a coffee ad. Then hugging Gulf coast into Tabasco. A few tankers and oil rigs near Ciudad del Carmen. We then cross the Yucatán peninsula up its east coast toward Cancun.
Volaris passes the flight test. Cancun ground transport not so much. After being so reliable in Mexico City, Uber lived up to its mixed image. Semi-official people in Cancun warned us to avoid the rideshare and go for a taxi. We stuck with Uber, and the driver never showed but did bill us. The anonymous company made it impossible to lodge real complaints with real people.
In Puerto Morelos, the heat and sweat hits. But the sea is reassuring. Open-window sleeping on the sea in Puerto Morelos is exquisite. Reminders of our nice family trip to Isla Mujeres.
From my hotel balcony, I see cruise ships lined up like passenger planes to reach the port of Cancun. An awful lot of Norovirus, I imagine. And I remember stories we published in the journal about Bar Harbor, Maine, welcoming cruise ships despite the lessons of Cancun, which was irreparably overrun and polluted.
A toenail that was injured and loosened before the trip set itself free in the Caribbean.
With reservations (because I avoid risk), we sign up for a snorkel trip on the reef that is a national park off Puerto Morelos. It’s something we’d also tried (mostly unsuccessfully) in Isla Mujeres. This time, we see a manta ray and a few sea plants with schools of fish darting in and out. Then I start “swallowing the ocean,” as we used to say, growing up. Begin to panic. Persevere a bit. Then quit.
The trip is ending. Even Delta’s safety announcement touts the US Olympic team as “intentional” … puh-lease. The same company shows anticipatory obedience with Gulf of America (Gulf of Mexico) flight maps.
Hasta luego Mexico.
A footnote: I had feared a backlash to the latest American imperialism in Venezuela but sensed none. Three days after our return, however, Mexican special forces killed “El Mencho,” the leader of the Jalisco New Generation Cartel. The operation and ensuing violence killed at least 70. In Puerto Vallarta and several other Mexican places, gunshots and roadblocks led to orders for tourists to shelter in place (a turnoff). One Torontonian told the CBC: “I heard a bit of an explosion. And then I see really thick black smoke just billowing all over the place. So that set off an alarm bell for sure.”
