Mexico City: In one day!
But how to make the most of one of the continent's great capitols, a city of some 18 million souls, in just one day? I was determined to give it a try.
On the plane, I formed my plan.
I knew a wandering, see-everything approach wouldn't cut it; no, I needed a surgical strike. So of the thousands of possibilities of what to do and enjoy, I decided to hone in on three things: food, art and history.
I wanted a great meal that wouldn't make me sick my very first day in the country, and to see some of the world-famous Diego Rivera murals I had heard of all my life.
I wanted to hang out in the main zocalo, or town square, and watch life go by, and if I could squeeze it in, I wanted to get to the Museo Nacional de Antropología, the museum of anthropology of international renown, and one of the most important museums in the country.
As my plane dipped from the stratosphere and the city stretched before me, a solid blanket of lights as far as I could see, I thought, "Think of all those restaurants." But I'm getting ahead of the story.
The first step was getting to my hotel without getting kidnapped, something warned of with enough multiple exclamation marks in every guidebook to get my attention.
Getting a safe cab is actually quite simple, but someone needs to tell you how to do it, because in the airport, it's not clear. And as you exit customs to begin your journey, there's no handy sign saying (in English) Left: Death and Destruction, Right: Safe Passage.
And it's quite likely that several people will approach as you walk, saying with a big smile, as they did to me, "Taxi?"
What they really mean is, "Gunshot? Mayhem? Kidnapping? Robbery? At your service."
So here's what you do: Say "No, gracias" politely, and look to your left as you leave the customs area for the two, brightly lit ticket windows that look like a place to bet on a horse. In fact, these are ticket vendors for cab rides. You state your destination (or write it down, if you can't say it) pay for the ticket, then stand in the line at the taxi-stand for a government-regulated taxi.
Hand the driver your ticket, and enjoy the ride. You have already paid the full price of the ride, and tipping is not expected.
Arriving past midnight, at the Hotel Maria Cristina, I sleepily checked in and made my way to my room.
The first thing was figuring out the lights, activated, it turned out, by slipping my room card into an unmarked slot in the wall by the door. Who knew? A great power saver, it meant the lights would be out whenever someone was not in the room. They stayed out while I stumbled around, looking for the on-switch, until I figured out the slot.
A date with Diego
In the morning I kept breakfast simple, opting for fresh-squeezed orange juice, chilequiles — tortillas, cheese and eggs, topped with a dollop of salsa — and coffee in the hotel restaurant.
It was time to get cracking. The first step was figuring out, with help from the folks at the front desk, that while I could take a cab to the zocalo for about $7, I could also take a mini-bus for about 40 cents. This sounded more fun.
I walked just two blocks, enjoying the extreme sport of Mexican street crossing, and waited for a colectivo, one of the white mini-buses headed to the zocalo.
The bus arrived, nearly packed. I took a seat in the back, and, feeling clever — nothing had gone wrong yet — fired up my pigeon Spanish. With much pantomime, I figured out all I needed to do now was ride to the last stop, and walk about a half block to the Palacio de Bellas Artes, for my first feast of Diego Rivera.
One of the most ornate buildings in Mexico City, the white marble palacio itself is a prize, with its art deco details and Tiffany stained-glass theater curtain. And up the stairs on the second floor, floor to ceiling, across an entire side wall, is Diego Rivera's "Man Controller of the Universe," a version of his mural "Man at the Crossroads."
That work, commissioned for Rockefeller Center, was deemed too socialistic and was hacked to pieces with axes at the directive of building managers in 1934. In "Man, Controller of the Universe," it was fun to see what had so ticked them off: Vladimir Lenin's visage, tucked amid the painting's many toiling workers.
I walked the broad hallways, savoring the colors and forms of this and other Diego Riveras, and the cool marbled hush of the palacio.
Downstairs, I stuck my head into the gift shop and fixed, especially, on the artisan jewelry, carvings and crafts in the front case by the register. I thought, oh, "I'll find more and cheaper later in this trip, elsewhere," and was wrong, wrong, wrong. If you see what you like here, buy it. I didn't encounter better or cheaper in 10 days of travel.
The zocalo
I stepped out into the honeyed weather — I had great luck here, even the locals spoke of it being unusually clear, with Mexico City's infamous pollution taking a day off — and walked on to the zocalo. One of the largest town squares in the world, the zocalo is rimmed by a delightfully overwhelming carnival of street vendors and musicians.
I reveled in this pageant of food carts, dueling street musicians, and everything you could think of to buy, spread by vendors on towels and blankets on the sidewalk, or peddled from carts. Embroidered shirts, ices, CDs, you name it, it was available.
The centerpiece of the zocalo itself is a flagpole the size of a missile, with what must be the largest Mexican flag in captivity. It's languid motion, backlit by the sun, was hypnotic.
I took a slow walk around the square to the Palacio Nacional, where a grim-faced guard asked for identification. A flash of a passport got me inside for no charge. Here, a trove of Diego Rivera murals beckoned from the staircase and the walls of the second-floor loggia.
These murals depict the history of Mexico, and the more you know of that history the richer the experience of these murals, each packed with detail, can be. But the basic point of some panels can't be missed, even if your history is sketchy.
There is, for instance, one haunting mural in which Spaniards press branding irons to the foreheads of their indigenous slaves. In the foreground, an Indian woman totes a blue-eyed baby on her back, the ultimate intrusion of Spanish influence.
It was a good tonic to the American notion of Mexico as mainly a nation of cerveza and good times.
Time to eat
Overhearing an obviously well-informed local pointing out features of the mural to other travelers, I cornered him and asked, if he had just one lunch to enjoy in Mexico City, where would he eat?
His answer was instantaneous: the Cafe Tacuba, just a few blocks away.
I took him up on it, and walked to a colonial-style building decorated with stained glass.
Inside, the restaurant was cool, spotless and glowing with the color of Talavera tiles throughout.
Waitresses in all-white uniforms, stockings and shoes and with little white caps in their hair looked like a cross between nurses and ministering angels. Not a bad thing for a traveler just beginning to feel the effects of the more than 7,000 feet of altitude and an empty stomach.
This was soon remedied with the tasting menu, a parade of five courses delivered at a stately pace.
The comida, actually eaten later than Americans' lunch, anytime in midafternoon, is the main meal of the day. Properly enjoyed, it should last for hours.
This, I set out to do, starting with fresh papaya and pineapple; followed by an elegant, cold cream of nopales cactus soup, a soft, creamy delectation vaguely reminiscent of vichyssoise but fresher and lighter in flavor.
Next came sopa seca, or a dry soup of rice with sweet corn, flavored with chilies. I scraped my plate clean.
Dry soups are an elegant second course in Mexican meals, consisting of rice or pasta that has absorbed all of its cooking liquid, often seasoned with chili. A delightful alternative starch course to potatoes.
The main event was poached chicken breast swimming in a brilliant green cilantro sauce, a dish so delicious I asked for — and was given — the recipe. Succulent, brilliantly bright in flavor, light and delicious, no Mexican restaurant in the States ever has offered me anything like it.
Dessert of rice pudding and coffee was all that would fit, and then the mariachi band tuned up.
I gave this not nearly the listen it deserved. This band was hot, but time was a-ticking, so I reluctantly pushed back my chair.
Time travel to the Aztecs
My next stop was the Museo Nacional de Antropología, properly enjoyed over at least three days' time. But I remained undaunted and caught a cab to do it what justice I could.
The type of taxi to catch when out and about is not one of the hoards of VW Beetle taxis, which can be dicey, but one of the green and white painted ones, safer, though more expensive.
Mine was commanded by a driver with great taste in radio stations and cool-handed competence amid great swirling traffic circles, blaring with horns and tour buses, one with Ben Hur-like attachments jutting, with menace, from the hubcaps.
After that, the museum, with its hushed, vast marbled lobby that gives way to a reflecting pool and monumental fountain were a cool and soothing oasis of calm.
The museum's exhibit halls — 26 in all — are arrayed around a reflecting pool, each offering artifacts gathered from throughout Mexico since the 18th century.
Choosing just a few exhibit halls to see was absurd, but forced to, I honed in on the exhibit halls dedicated to the Mayan and Aztec eras.
I was drawn first to the stone Aztec calendar that beckoned from the exhibition hall. Massive, ancient, complex, the calendar was a mesmerizing invitation to imagine the culture that produced it.
Also on display were a wide variety of artifacts from which to drink the blood of sacrificed maidens and youth, or sharp objects with which to dispatch them.
What emerged, overall, from my briefest of sips from this museum was a sense of the long history and sophistication of the culture of this country, somehow not well known by we neighbors.
Heading back to my hotel, as the late sun gilded the public art that lines the broad boulevards, I was grateful for this brief appetizer, my eight hours of freewheeling through Mexico City.
Like all good appetizers, it whet my appetite to come back for more.
Lynda V. Mapes: 206-464-2736 or lmapes@seattletimes.com
