Tierra de Tortugas

More of Mexico: Chiapas

First, Tuxtla Gutierrez

We were surprised at the new and very shiny airport at Tuxtla Gutierrez, and also surprised at the high cost for a taxi into town (MN$335; US$21). But the airport is about 35 kilometers from the city – maybe the closest flat spot they could find in mountainous Chiapas. According to an article in Síntesis, a newspaper based in Tuxtla Gutierrez, the mountainous state of Chiapas is Mexico’s second most active area for earthquakes (Oaxaca is first; Guerrero is third). That’s where the mountains come from. 

I don’t recall our whole thought process regarding a hotel room, but we ended up in a Holiday Inn Express (US$55/night) in a convenient area. After settling in we got a quick cheap and huge dinner next door (about MN170; US$10.62) and asked where to get an ‘helado’ (ice cream cone). They mentioned the Plaza de la Marimba, just two blocks away. 

Tuxtla Gutierrez is a true Mexican town on a Sunday night. When we arrive at the plaza, it’s filled with probably hundreds of people of all ages. We, as usual, are the only gringos. Vendors are selling food, balloons, jewelry made from local amber (or a reasonable ‘facsimile’), and plenty of other stuff. Kids are playing while parents visit with friends. There’s a good marimba group on the bandstand with seven marimba players, a sax, congas, and a guitar. About half the crowd, mostly the older set, is on the ‘dance floor,’ swinging to the music. It’s a very friendly crowd with no apparent police presence. Afterward, it’s an easy stroll back to the hotel and a very soft bed. 

At first glance Tuxtla Gutierrez is a grimy industrial city of moderate size. Well OK, at second glance it’s pretty much the same; and few people stay here long on their way to San Cristobal de las Casas and the other gems of Chiapas. But we stayed a bit longer and found there’s more to offer than we thought. Many towns and cities are that way, if you give them a chance.

 

The big event in Tuxtla is the impressive Cañon del Sumidero. Local tours are inexpensive (MN350; US$22) and worth the price. Ours provided a ‘lancha’ ride with narration (all in Spanish) and numerous photo-stops through the cañon, followed by a trip to the sweet nearby village of Chiapa de Corso.

“This is the forest primeval.”  The opening words of Longfellow’s “Evangeline” came to mind as we descended into the cañon. A dense treescape, filled with wildlife, touches the water’s edge; a wonderful and terrifying sense of wildness surrounds us. The Río Grijalva was once roaring and untamed, and it claimed the lives of several early explorers. A plaque high on the canyon wall attests to that. It’s a Mexican version of Deliverance – a hell of a book, a hell of a movie – running the wild river before it was dammed. But the river is now contained by four large dams generating the electricity that powers much of the area and parts of Central America. 

We’re on a boat filled with Mexican tourists, plus a few British college girls who happily accept translation help from the handsome young Argentinian fellow sitting behind them. We pause for a young crocodile sunning himself on the rocks, plus several huge ones hauled out on a beach.

 
 

There’s a black iguana to ponder, and howler monkeys swinging in the forest canopy. And there are birds, short fat ones and tall skinny ones. I can now add both those breeds to my Bird List. If I ever start one. 

We pause at a shrine to the Virgen de Guadalupe, perched high in a natural grotto. An eddy of trash swirls nearby, swept downstream during the rainy season from the streets of Tuxtla Gutierrez. Our guides are not happy about the trash.

 

A gush of water sprays from a spring high on the canyon wall and falls over a blanket of grasses and ferns. This is the famous ‘Arbol de Navidad.’ We take pictures and then we’re drenched as our guides ensure we get the full experience, a smaller version of the one at Niagara Falls.

 

 

We reach the end of our trip at CFE’s Chicoasén dam, currently the largest hydropower plant in Mexico, and turn back for a rerun of the Cañon de Sumidero.

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And then we’re off to charming nearby Chiapa de Corso for lunch and a stroll through the quiet streets.

It turns out we happened to be in Tuxtla for the celebrations of Mexico’s Independence Day on September 15 and 16. We passed lots of activity in the main plaza on our way to Las Pichanchas, a restaurant we wanted to try out. The young man at the door told us the regular menu had been replaced by an evening of regional specialties that would cost us MN270 (US$17) each plus drinks, tips, etc. We opted for it.

There was more food and entertainment than we imagined, beginning with trays of interesting morsels (sautéed cow tits, anyone?) and complimentary tequila shots.  

 

 

All of that followed by costumed dancers, childrens’ games,* and a form of bingo (we didn’t win). We rang our overhead bell to order a “Pumpo,” the house concoction that arrives in a large gourd.

 

Afterward, as we meandered our way back to the hotel, We saw the elaborate fireworks being set off in the plaza, which was still crowded with people who had attended the major musical event there.

 

 

It’s unlikely most people will see Tuxtla Gutierrez as a destination, and we really don’t either. Yet, even the streets of Tuxtla Gutierrez have a few things to offer. Marimba music at the plaza, with a good ice cream cone, was a fine way to spend a few evenings. And the side streets had some of their own interesting sites. An impressive botanical garden, a municipal theatre, and museum complex on the other side of town from our hotel are among places of interest we merely glimpsed.

 

 

 

But it was time to leave for San Cristóbal de las Casas. We chose a combi tour that would get us there and include visits to two indigenous communities (MN370 each; US$23).

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*CHILDREN: reflections…

Every time I hear a Mexican child cry in a public place, I am aware of how rare an occurrence it is. You see very little acting out. Very few tantrums. Yet children accompany their parents everywhere, at all times of the day and night. It’s not uncommon to see a small child sharing the family’s late-night dinner in an elegant restaurant, babbling contentedly in a highchair or on daddy’s lap. 

We saw great examples of this on the evening of September 15, the beginning of Fiestas Patrias in celebration of Mexican Independence Day. We were the only “gringos” in a wonderful restaurant, Las Pichanchas, in Tuxtla Gutierrez, Chiapas. The place was totally decked out in red, green, and white — the Mexican national colors — with flags, banners, and streamers everywhere. We arrived early and took a table off to the side where we could observe the entire scene discretely. The entertainment was to include a marimba band, folkloric dancers, mariachis, games for everyone, and a menu of regional delights. Then the locals began to stream in. They, too, sported rthe national colors — men in crisp white guayaberas, with large red and green bow ties; women in beautifully embroidered blouses, some with traditional skirts, others with sexy contemporary pants, all wrapped in shawls and silver. And the children! At the table directly in front of us was a family of four. The boy — probably 5 or 6 years old — had a crisp white long-sleeved shirt with a bow tie that matched that of his dad. And the slightly older sister with her embroidered blouse and hair done up with bows. They sat politely at the table with their horchata drinks and posed happily while papa took their photos with their beautiful mother. There were families with children of all ages, and the restaurant interrupted the festivities every now and then with a game just for them. We were there for at least four hours, and not once did I see or hear an unhappy child. Sleepy, yes. But unhappy, no.

Visit any Mexican (or South Latin American, for that matter) city plaza in the evening and you will see families strolling together, or parents sitting on park benches while kids play on nearby swings, dance on the unused stages, or entertain themselves with balloons and glow sticks. It’s not uncommon to see adults wheeling strollers through the streets and buying ice cream for the little ones at 1:00 and 2:00 a.m.  Leaving the children with a “sitter” or insisting they be asleep by 8:00 p.m. doesn’t seem to be part of the culture. It’s more likely that grandma comes along to happily carry the baby so mom and dad can tend to the toddlers. 

I am generalizing and there are surely exceptions; but, for the most part, it seems that children are regularly included in all aspects of family life, at home and in public, and they handle it quite well. Perhaps in this way they naturally develop effective social skills and a sense of acceptance and security that make tears and tantrums unnecessary. — CJK

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On to San Cristobal de las Casas

Our combi whisked us away from Tuxtla in the early morning, above the clouds and into the verdant mountains to San Cristóbal. We arrived in time for breakfast at one of the many good little coffee shops that fill this place. A particularly golden sunlight caressed the old stone streets as people walked to work. 

 

Then we were back in the van for a trip to the weavers in nearby Zinacantan. We rode with tourists from various parts of Mexico seeing the distant corners of their own country and so our tour was in Spanish. There was also a group of young Israelis, fresh from military service and embarked on a ‘gap year’ tour of the Americas before returning to school, work, responsibility, all that stuff. Their tour was in English. I enjoyed the ironic image of their guide explaining the three crosses to a group of Israelis. I asked one of the young ladies if it was likely she’d buy any of the very Catholic jewelry on offer. She said no.

Our guide explained various local community practices (no photos of people other than the weavers), their building methods and artistic traditions. Carolyn has done a fair amount of weaving; she felt a deep connection with the weavers and their simple ‘back-strap’ looms. The wool comes from goats, who are not eaten but treated as community members.

We tasted freshly fire-roasted tacos filled with wonderfully spiced beans, corn, and squash — the basic elements in their primarily vegetarian diet — rendered in a far-more delicious way than you would normally expect. And the tasty local home-made tequila-like hooch, called ‘pōsh,’ brought more than a few smiles.

 

The old church at Zinacantan has no roof, apparently due to a decision of the residents not to replace it long ago as a way to assert their own native version of godliness. The various colors of crosses in the cemetery are used to denote children (white), middle-aged (blue), and aged (black).

  

Our next stop was the church in Chamula. The church is like so many others on the outside; but on the inside (no photos allowed), there are no pews. The broad open floor is covered with pine needles; people are seated at various places on the tiles facing rows of lit candles and praying. After they’ve finished a man gathers the spent candles and scrapes wax from the floor to make room for someone else. The major icons are representations of John the Baptist, and the church is named for him, as he is the one saint accepted by these indigenous people because his association with water could somehow be accommodated within their traditional water-centric beliefs. There’s also no priest, as they believe each person has a direct line to God and needs no help with the process. All those prayerful people, with faces illuminated by candlelight, would have made for fine images; but the camera stayed in its case. 

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After the tour, we were eager to explore the streets of San Cristóbal de las Casas. Our brief glimpse, over morning coffee, had barely touched on what we expected to see. We’ve traveled widely throughout much of Mexico, but many of our Mexican friends were surprised to know that we’d not yet been to Chiapas. To a person, they described it as the most beautiful part of their country. And they seemed to have special affection for San Cristóbal. In addition, our friends Casey and Priscilla have described it as their ‘new favorite Mexican town.’ Surely a visit was in order.

If you enjoy good reading and rich conversation, and tend toward liberal-left politics (OK, we’re guilty!), you’ll probably feel at home in San Cristóbal’s coffee houses, book stores, night clubs, and bars. This place is a very long way from Mexico City and other cosmopolitan centers, but makes up for it with its own intellectual pleasures. There’s a steady stream of international travelers soaking up the culture, and adding their own, such that a visit here is now almost a rite of passage. I began calling it ‘Berkeley del Sur.’

We settled in to the Hotel San Jose, a well-kept and quiet place about seven blocks south of the main plaza. It’s a good value (off-season: US$41/night), and the family that runs it pays plenty of attention to detail. We stowed our gear and set out to explore the surroundings.

There are several museums in San Cristóbal de las Casas, and we may find ourselves in some of them, but the narrow stone-paved streets, in many ways, are the museum. San Cristóbal was established by the Spanish a mere five centuries ago. So while it’s not a truly ancient village, by meso-American standards (Cuernavaca was established in 1200 BC!), there are charming vistas of churches and casitas around every corner – and even a Jewish center. We were told there is a mosque but did not see it. The best we can do is share a gallery of images...

 

 

 

 

 

Mexico has more than 80 very special places designated as “Pueblos Mágicos,” and this is one of them. Just wandering these streets is enough to keep us busy for several days. And it’s easy to pause at a small shop for a cup of hot cacao in the afternoon just to watch the street life go by.

Flowers are a common sight, including my all-time favorite, the humble dandelion. Why can’t we learn to love this tenacious and joyful bloom (“Can’t we all just get along?” - Rodney King) that makes its home, against great odds, in some of the least hospitable places? It asks so little and gives so much.

With its wide variety of excellent restaurants of so many different kinds, San Cristóbal has rightly been called a ‘foodies’ paradise.’ If you can’t find something you want to eat here, you have a particular problem. And it’s good that this is a very walkable city so weight gain is less of an issue.

In the evenings it’s easy to find more great food and good music than you’d expect here in the southern highlands. We must remind ourselves from time to time that we are in the midst of a mountainous, tropical forest, land of the Maya, not terribly far from the Guatemalan border, but a long way from the worldly wonders of Mexico City. 

We split a good sandwich and drinks at the Revolución Bar, just two blocks off the main plaza. Then we crossed the street to the Dada Bar for more drinks and a couple of good jazz combos. An artist in the corner quickly produced a picture of the band, with us in the background, and brought it to our table. He refused to name a price but gladly accepted 200 pesos. 

Then Starr, a local resident who was sitting at a nearby table came over and introduced herself. She runs a small, well-equipped bookstore named Abuelita Books, and we made a point to drop in a couple of days later for some coffee and a brownie. And a few more books.

Across the street we were greeted by a man with “poeta” written on his cap. His name is Quentin Kirk, a retired English teacher from the Midwest who lives here now. He introduced us to Richard (creator of a Facebook page titled “Locos de San Cristobal,” a literary US/Peruvian refugee also living in San Cristóbal. The coffee houses here abound with literary talk, in multiple languages.

 

Another night finds us at “Entropia” for more food, drink, and entertainment. The owner is French, from Aix-en-Provence, where he met a nice young Mexican women doing her studies. They returned to her native land and settled in San Cristóbal. The bar fills with a friendly crowd who clearly know each other, and soon a duo arrives singing doo-wop and soul. The food is excellent (fresh house-made pasta!), and the quirky crowd is as much a show as the entertainers. 

There’s more fine food – we enjoyed breakfast and dinner – at “500 Noches,” named for a song by Joaquín Sabina. It’s an elegant place, tastefully designed, with great attention to detail. The walls are home to literary quotations, fine woodwork, and stacks of good wines mingled with books and old classic radios. A pair of icey martinis was followed by a beautiful lasagna and salad, exquisite creme bruleé, and a few cups of rich Malbec, as a talented guitar player filled the night air with Trova — beloved Mexican folk ballads. It’s a good thing we were only about 5 blocks from our hotel.

We probably should clarify that we don't always eat in such elegant places. But we always eat well — like a veggie-filled chicken soup in a little family-owned joint outside the bus station where we went to buy tickets to get us back to the airport...

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An interesting way to judge a place is by its ‘guerrilla signage,’ including its graffiti.** While there’s much of the usual ugly ‘dog-marking’ kind here, others are whimsical and even romantic.

 

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**GRAFITTI: More reflections…

I know, I know. It’s a cry for recognition, rebellion, a reaction to marginalization and sense of isolation, hopelessness, etc, etc. It’s also everywhere! And so very tiresome after a while. True, there are examples of brilliant social commentary, astounding artistic ability, dialogue, discourse, expressions of justifiable discontent — see our blogs from Valparaiso, Marseilles, Athens… — that blow your mind. Yet, traveling the world and seeing mostly undecipherable trash spray painted everywhere, high and low, on beloved family homes, historic buildings, monuments, lovely hand-stuccoed walls, stone, marble, brick, adobe, fine wood…it is so very sad. The fine workmanship of the past is "a gift to the street." Yet most of this modern graffiti is an assault on love and civic pride and aesthetics. It’s become so ubiquitous that society has stopped paying it any attention; we've given up. Therefore, does it accomplish anything? Well, perhaps that’s the point — it’s purpose is anti-accomplishment, an anti-purpose. And we all are the poorer for it. — CJK

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 As in most Mexican cities now, there are signs protesting the recent murders of the 43 students by a corrupt police-drug gang consortium. Some of these signs also mark the decades of disappearances of activists in various parts of the country. In much of this country, the ‘Revolución’ remains an ongoing process.

 

Other signs call for greater awareness of women’s rights and workers rights, and respect for their dignity. Some call attention to international justice issues. Others are just art.

 

 

 

It can be easy to forget we’re deep in a restive indigenous area with much underlying inequity, where conflicts still erupt. There’s a kind of ‘partying on the Titanic’ air to San Cristóbal, so it’s good to see there’s a broader social awareness beneath the Good Times veneer.

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As usual, there’s much more to see and do than we’ve allowed time for, and now it’s time to depart. We awake on a rainy morning and roll our bags to the bus station, just a couple of blocks away. Next stop, an old favorite of ours: beautiful Guanajuato. — PRW

 

More of Mexico: Cuernavaca

After a short bus ride from Taxco (about an hour and a half; US$5 each) we’re in Cuernavaca. This is ‘The City of Eternal Spring’ according to Alexander von Humboldt, a remarkable naturalist and early visitor. Actually, much of central-highland Mexico has that reputation due to moderate year-round temperatures. This is the land of the three-walled room, basically a deep portal also used as an outside living area.  

Cuernavaca is about an hour’s drive from Mexico City, or a two-hour bus ride from the CD. MX airport. We’re told that a fine house with a pool can be rented here for about US$1000 per month. There are also numerous cultural venues showcasing world-class artists – Sting and the Kronos Quartet are recent visitors. And there’s a Costco. It’s an easy place to live, and for many reasons it’s a long-time favorite for ex-pats. 

Carolyn looked for a good hotel in the historic district but didn’t find what we needed. Then she found one just a bit farther out that looked very good, and affordable. We booked four nights in the quiet and well-groomed Posada Quinta las Flores, only a walkable kilometer or so from the Centro. The summer off-season has been good to us.

 

There’s a nice restaurant on-site and a fine swimming pool for those off-days we need at times. Every morning a man sweeps up a carpet of brilliant red-orange flowers that have fallen from the majestic ’tulipan africano’ trees. And the people are tremendously helpful with everything we might want. It was a good choice.

While I’ve spent much time over 50 or so years (Carolyn, about 30 years) exploring various parts of Mexico, this area had eluded us. On any ‘first morning’ we like to take a long wander and get to know our surroundings. Most of the older parts of the country are rich in ‘photo-ops,’ as are some of the newer areas. Cuernavaca was already ancient when Cortés happened by about five centuries ago, so there’s plenty to see as we head toward the ‘centro historico.’

 

Cortés the conqueror left his mark on this city. His massive Palacio, once abandoned and in ruins for over a hundred years, is now a well-designed museum showing area history from earliest times (ancient ruins are visible in the courtyards) through the conquest, Independence, and the Reforma, to the Revolution. 

 

 

 

And Diego Rivera’s massive and remarkable mural of Mexican and Cuernavacan history is spread across the upstairs balcony. This important work was made possible in the 1920s by funding from Dwight Morrow, the US Ambassador at the time, charged with forging better relations between the two countries. One of Morrow’s first acts was to change the “American Embassy” sign to read, “United States Embassy,” to remove a long-standing point of contention.  

 

 

The Cuernavaca edition of the Bienal de los Volcanes art show was a surprise. We have a fondness for good art and like to see what’s recently been done in various lands. It’s artists who express the pain, the joy, the aspirations of our cultures. We like to check in with them. This exhibit was time well spent. Meanwhile a drama class was in session in the courtyard below us, all a part of daily life.

 

No trip to Cuernavaca is complete without a visit to the extravagant world of Robert Brady. Given a vast inheritance, which of us wouldn’t like to enjoy the world’s most beautiful cites, living in Venice, collecting art? And then you could bring it all back to your grand casa, a lavishly renovated XVI century Franciscan Convent just a few blocks from the zócalo in Cuernavaca. 

Brady, who came from a very wealthy family in Iowa and was encouraged by his parents to pursue his artistic interests, was an interesting fellow with credentials from the Art Institute of Chicago, the Tyler Arts Center at Temple University, and the Barnes Foundation in Merion, Pennsylvania. While he was a noted playboy, he was also an accomplished artist. In Venice he became friends with his neighbor Peggy Guggenheim, and his portrait of her, alone, makes the visit worthwhile.

Major works by Kahlo, Ernst, Hartley, Covarrubias, Tamayo and others are found throughout. Portraits of Josephine Baker, to whom he was briefly married, adorn many walls. The chapel-entrance to Brady’s extravagant boudoir is filled with religious art – as a jest, perhaps?

 The Museo Morelense de Arte Popular is a fine place to see a wide array of crafts made in the state of Morelos these days. Numerous whimsical pieces – everything from laughing skeletons to comical masks – share space with some of the finest ceramics, a local specialty.

 

The ring of about 30 black cats surrounding a fishbowl containing a single hapless black (and alive) goldfish is a head turner.

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And there are those of us who visit Cuernavaca with an interest in Malcolm Lowry, author of Under the Volcano – considered to be one of the most important English-language novels of the 20th Century. The novel began as a short story set in late 1930s Cuernavaca, and centered on the last drunken day of the British Consul. It’s written in a complex and troubling style that enhances the entire experience of his descent and death. 

I read it so long ago, maybe 40 years (I’ll reread it soon!), that many of the details are vague; but the impressions remain. Each word in the book was carefully chosen (consider Pound’s obsession with ‘le mot juste’), and there are numerous on-line sites devoted to parsing each of them. It’s a degree of depth I have resisted excavating, yet I felt that John Huston’s movie (as movies do) left much of it out. 

Our quest for Lowry’s traces led us to ask several people where we could see Popocatépetl and Iztaccíhuatl, the famous volcanos for which the book is named. Most seemed unsure of which direction to look. We’ve seen them before, very large and impressive, from a bus on the Puebla to Mexico City route. But in Cuernavaca they seemed to be as elusive as Kafka’s Castle.

We had better luck searching out the hotel in which Lowry wrote his one great novel. It’s located, now named Hotel Bajo el Volcán, on Calle Humboldt, a dirty, traffic-engorged back street downhill from the Palacio de Cortéz museum. While the outside appeared under-impressive (it’s not even mentioned in guidebooks), it seemed fitting as Lowry’s writing worksite. As with the Consul, the author suffered from alcohol abuse and died young. 

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Local residents recommended that we enjoy a nice dinner at Las Mañanitas, Cuernavaca’s most famous hotel. Along the way from the zócalo we explored a bit of the overgrown river that weaves through the city. A section of the river’s edge, near the very busy Porfirio Díaz Bridge, has been carved into a quiet park overlooking the riverine jungle below.

As we approached Las Mañanitas on a busy city street, Carolyn asked if I saw a peacock fly overhead. I thought it must have been just another pigeon, being more concentrated on the sidewalk – usually a good idea while trekking the rough walkways of Mexico. As we entered the lush gardens inside, it became clear. Numerous peacocks and other large fowl of various colors and types were strolling the grounds. 

 

Soon we had two fine margaritas sitting before us, and a tray of nuts and chips. Then the ‘bird wars’ began as numerous very aggressive peafowl tried to rob the goodies! We had no idea of the protocol – feed the birds? don’t feed the birds? The staff didn’t appear too stressed out about it; so after we downed the drinks, we gave up the battle. The birds were delighted as we departed for a dinner table and they quickly looted the remaining chips and nuts.

During dinner – hearty salad, good pollo ala cordon bleu, and a fine Uruguayan red Tannat wine – the usual afternoon clouds arrived with an impressive lightning display for dessert. We decided to wait in the lobby for a cab while torrents of rain poured onto the street. We got drenched boarding the cab, and then hung on fatalistically as our young cab driver, with one hand on the wheel and the other wiping fog from the inside of the windshield, carreened through the dark streets while conversing with us. We arrived safely and quickly, and I thankfully handed him 100 pesos for a 70 peso fare. Then we got further drenched while entering the hotel gate. It was a fine way to experience Cuernavaca in September; we slept well that night as thunder rumbled outside and rain hammered our window.

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On our last day of exploration we hired a taxi for a look around the larger area. The whole thing is very informal. We don’t know if there are ’tour busses’ during the heavy Gringo Season, but we wanted something less directed. We were in search of the Everyday, and not the Tourist Trail. Our driver was a bit confused at first that we just wanted to see various slices of Cuernavaca life; the hotel owner helped with a few suggestions. Soon we were off into the sluggish and jumbled traffic of the city (they seriously need to rethink traffic flow), and making little progress. 

 Our driver mentioned a nearby ‘panteón,’ so we headed that way down a side street lined with florists and tombstone makers. Inside the gates lay a city of the dead, rows of mausoleums of various sizes — some interesting, others mundane, and not quite as spectacular as the famous Recolleto cemetery in Buenos Aires. This one is unlikely to become a tourist attraction soon.

Next on the list was the fanciest, and gated, part of town, the community and Club de Golf Los Tabachines. Our driver convinced the guards we were going to eat at the pricey restaurant so he let us in, after checking the trunk for weapons. We didn’t get close to the exclusive Club de Golf before other guards turned us away, and we blew off the pricey restaurant, but we got a nice cruise past luxury homes.

After that we took a winding road through the green countryside, stopping for handfuls of delicious tree-ripe guayabas, on our way to a hilltop for a view across the city. At the very top, the latest answer to my persistent question about where we could see the volcanos: “Oh, they’re over there, behind the church.” But the view was well-blocked. Sorry.

We finally drive up another hill to an open spot and there, at last, are the famous volcanos, Popo and Izta, huge and imposing. Right over there. Right behind a dense blanket of clouds. The view of volcanos hidden in swirling clouds, may well be a fitting metaphor to accompany Malcolm Lowry’s tale of the Consul’s fraught quest for meaning. I suppose one might have better luck actually seeing them in the dry season.

We wound our way back toward the city's center, passing through the historic villagle of Jiutepec where the colors were out in preparation for the upcoming Fiestas Patrias, Mexico's Independence Day on September 16.

 

 

After several hours wading through Cuernavaca’s astounding traffic we arrived back at the zócalo. We’re early for a guitar concert at a little second floor club called La Maga as a fitting finale to our visit. But we don’t think we can handle getting there more than an hour early to drink the time away. So we opted for some ‘bench presses,’ that’s where we press our tired butts onto a handy bench and watch the world go by.

At the adjacent bench, two older gentlemen are singing love songs for their wives and children, and a ‘bell-ringer’ is in the street alerting residents to bring out their garbage for collection. We’ve seen this before, in Xalapa, for example, and it’s a good way to keep hungry dogs (Los Perros Ambrientes) from scattering debris in the streets.

Soon we’re seated at a front table in the corner at La Maga, enjoying good food and wine, and listening to Carlos Arellano. His music is a mix of rock and bolero, and he’s good! He also has a engaging way with his audience, sharing stores of his life and work. We’re at a small and intimate venue with only about 30 or so people in the room and realize that, again, we’ve fallen into something special. As usual, it was all in Spanish, so a stretch for me, but a fine evening.

We look up Carlos Arellano later and find he’s a very well-known artist — 30 years as a singer/songwriter/journalist from Puebla. We’re lucky to have seen his poster on a wall. 

 

We enjoy one last quiet dinner at the hotel “snack bar,” chatting with Rudolfo, the waiter, starting off with two fine margaritas and ending with nutella ice cream and a couple of brandies, as we watch the sun drop behind the palms, casting rays across the lush green lawn and reflecting off the swimming pool. Not a bad week. Not bad at all!

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We may have worn you out by now with all our tales, but there are still a few random images we just can't resist sharing.....

 

 

 

 

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From Cuernavaca we’ll board an early Servicio Ejecutivo bus (it’s like riding in your own living room!) straight to our gate at the Mexico City airport. We'll catch a flight to the brand new airport in Tuxtla Gutierrez, the industrial gateway city to Chiapas, and make our way to beautiful San Cristobal de las Casas. —PRW

 

 

 

More of Mexico: Taxco

Mountain Charmer and Silver Capital

The wonderfully engaging guests at the breakfast table in Casa Comtesse have given us B&B living at its finest. But after three short weeks in Mexico City it’s time to take our leave. We catch a cab to the city’s southern bus terminal as the cab driver tries to convince us to let him drive us to Taxco(!). Can’t blame him for trying, but no thanks. Mexico’s busses are safe and fast, and cheap.

The three hour trip on a big comfortable Volvo bus costs us only 185 pesos each (US$11.56). And we don’t have to ride in tiny seats with a maniac cab driver at the wheel.

We leave the city behind on a very good Maxi-Pista (toll road) for the forested hillsides of Morelos and Guerrero and soon we’re winding through the streets of Taxco. At the bus station we catch a VW Beetle taxi (all the taxis seem to be VW Beetles) with the front passenger seat removed. We fold ourselves into the back seat and cram our large rolling bags into the vacant passenger seat area, and we’re off to the hotel. If we had more luggage I guess we’d take two taxis.

Soon we’re grinding our way steeply uphill in first gear over a winding stone road. The Bug hugs the road and feels like there’s no suspension left. These things are great for the low speed curving roads of Taxco and it’s easy to see why they’re popular here. The driver pulls onto the top of the hill and under the broad porte cochère of the impressive MonteTaxco resort. 

Carolyn had looked for a decent place to stay in Taxco, but the reviews for most places in the Centro referred to noise problems. The only one that sounded ideal (quiet, a block from the Plaza, reasonable price) was already booked solid. So we found a place overlooking the town, with ‘teleférico’ (gondola) access to the streets below. It looked nice, and quiet, and it only cost US$55 per night. At that low price, we only hoped for a good outcome. We had no idea we’d booked into a 5-star resort at mid-week rainy-season prices with a broad vista of charming Taxco just across the valley below. It was a happy coincidence – at the cost of blowing our ’shtick’ about never staying in fancy places.

The room was large, and the huge bed (with about 8 pillows!) was far more comfortable than we probably deserve. The MonteTaxco has a nice pool, a silver shop, a spa, a fine restaurant (sparrows enter through the open doors, chirping for treats!), and several bars that are open on weekends. It’s like a cruise ship on a hill. It’s complete in every detail, down to the owner’s sweet Jaguar E-Type parked at the entry.

This place is geared to an upper-level Mexican clientele – they can navigate in English but prefer Spanish. That works for us, as we relax over a fine dinner. We got the lower mid-week rate, so we’ll have to visit the bars on our last night. 

Just outside our balcony the small city of Taxco spills down the hill like mine tailings. That seems appropriate since the now-depleted silver mine has long been its whole reason to be. Now travelers and tourists supply the income for this white-walled and red-roofed gem carved from a mountainside. Its narrow meandering stone roads and callejones (alleyways) provide romantic backdrops for picture-taking. This is such a picturesque city that if you can’t get a decent photograph, you are truly a failure. I hope a few of mine are worthy.

Yet, after Mexico City we need some down time; on our first day we sit at the balcony table writing, as clouds engulf the city below. Rain falls heavily on the rooftop. Thunder rumbles over verdant hills like the anguished cries of ancient gods. The dramatic meteorological sturm und drang of the rainy season fills our day as moisture lifts from the warm Pacific and replenishes these mountains with cooling water. Sounds of the busy city drift upward through it all to our cosy aerie on the hillside. After dinner, we write into the night while the lights of Taxco sparkle below.

 

By this time in our trip, we’ve spent a lot of time in museums and want to be more in the streets. When we finally take the Teleférico down to the city we see long stairways leading to Tibetan-looking, cliff-hanging homes.

We notice very few over-weight people here, where mountain-climbing seems a daily requirement. At the bottom of the teleférico (built by a Swiss company) there’s a small fleet of VW Beetle taxis waiting. We take a short ride, but mostly we’d rather walk. It’s the only way to really know a city. Any city of consequence rewards walking. The rest are soulless suburbs.

We spend our time exploring these old stone streets, absorbing the smells, the architecture and public spaces, looking into some of the many silver shops. But the mine museum and others hold little interest. We’ll let the city itself be the museum.

 

 

And speaking of silver, there are plenty of shops with some truly artistic pieces to consider, all of them promising it’s .925% pure silver. Carolyn appreciates these things, but I have no personal interest in wearing silver baubles. I agree there are many beautiful works on view, but I spend much time waiting outside where I’m less likely to knock over something expensive. 

 

 

 

Large bronze penitente sculptures, a celebration of pain, stand outside the entry to a silver shop by the old ex-convento. A nail-studded whip hangs at the shop door. I ask the shop-keeper if that’s how she keeps her esposo in line. She tolerates the question from the tall gringo while Carolyn makes a purchase.

We enjoy lunch on a balcony overlooking the Plaza, with vendors busy in the street below. We actually spot a few gringo-looking folks below us, but they’re rare at this time of year. As we finish lunch, afternoon rainclouds begin to gather, and the sky darkens. Vendors start collecting their goods before the deluge, finding refuge in open doorways. And when the rain falls, it is torrential.

Temperatures drop quickly, and the streets become streams. Yet soon it is over, and the busy streets of Taxco are back at work bustling with people and traffic, and VW taxis. 

It’s actually possible to get a picture of the streets of Taxco without a VW Beetle in sight (How many can YOU count in this blog?), although you might have to work at it. But why? The rattle and hum of dozens of simple and reliable VW flat-four engines is part of the cityscape. They’re easy to fix, and they’ve got a great 1st gear – an important asset on these steep streets. After one of the frequent rains, we saw another small car, a front-wheel drive import, spinning its tires struggling up a slippery street. The rear-engine/rear-wheel-drive Beetles had no trouble with it. 

The production of ‘Vochos’ (Mexican VW Beetles) ceased in 2004. They no longer met emission standards for Mexico City. Also, because of rising crime rates, the City banned two-door vehicles as taxi cabs, requiring four-door vehicles only (for a quick escape?). And Volkswagen itself wanted to cultivate a more upscale image and concentrate on higher profit vehicles. The Vocho’s days were over – In Mexico City, at least. But they remain the best little car to climb the steep and narrow streets of Taxco.  

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A couple of fun ‘Taxco Taxi’ videos: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=spf2Py2tEGA

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJNDNfKzFXU

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 Walking back from the Centro, it’s now a bright and sunny afternoon. We stop for a cafecito and a dulce at a modest little bakery. The owner heats the water and we enjoy styrofoam cupfuls of genuine Nescafé with sugary treats. It costs us 40 pesos, with tip. Then we flag down a Toyota combi and clamber aboard, handing 13 pesos to the driver. One of the doors has been removed for easier access, simple bench seats line the periphery to accommodate more riders. We hang on for a fast ‘roller-coaster’ ride through the narrow back streets of Taxco while the oldest passenger, called Don Pedro by the others, breaks into “Cielito Lindo.” He goes through about three verses before arriving at his stop; the other riders are as surprised as we are and laugh along with us.

 

Back at the MonteTaxco, there’s a conference of diputados from the state legislature, so we’re joined by effusive politicos in the previously almost-empty dining room. It’s a gathering of the ruling PRI and Verde coalition. They’re gracious to us, but we mostly watch at the periphery. The roar of a helicopter breaks the calm as an important dignitary arrives for the lunch break. An old ‘artista’ crafts beautiful bark paintings under the portal. I pose at the bar in typical legislator fashion. 

On our last night, a Friday, there will be a ’Noche de Bohemia,’ a night of romantic songs over dinner in Tony’s Bar. We make sure to attend. We begin with two martinis and scan the menu. The main attraction is the prime rib, but we don’t eat much beef so we order something else to split. “Lo sentimos, señor, pero eso no tenemos.” says the mesero, “¿No preferirías el ‘prime rib’?” (“I’m sorry, señor, but we don’t have that. Wouldn’t you rather have the prime rib?”)

We get the idea and go with the prime rib. It’s excellent. And we follow with a spectacular crepes suzettes and two brandies. After an early-evening rain, it’s a fine time to be in the hills overlooking the magical town of Taxco while an accomplished guitar player sings beautiful romantic songs in the night.

And in the morning we’ll catch the next bus, just an hour and a half ride (at 80 pesos each, US$5) to Cuernavaca, the ‘Land of Eternal Spring.’ —PRW

In case you want another look...Taxco by Air

More of Mexico: Mexico City 3

 It’s Moving Day!

 

After a week in a nice room we decide to move to another location. The room was fine, and well located very near the center of everything the Condesa neighborhood has to offer, but it was just a room. We dragged our bags to the Casa Comtesse, maybe 10 blocks away at the southern edge of the Condesa. At an earlier visit we were taken with its beautiful spaces, inside and out, large bedroom with lots of daylight, and a fine breakfast table to share with others.

 
 

It was quiet except for the usual distant all-night rumble of a busy city through the double-glazed windows looking over Calle Benjamin Franklin – not a problem for us as we collapse into the very comfortable bed after each long day of exploration. Casa Comtesse itself was so quiet it seemed we might be the only ones staying there.

But at breakfast we meet a pair of ladies from Melbourne, Australia doing a ‘retirement tour.’ Shortly we are joined by two young women from Santiago, Chile, who run a literary event called “Santiago en Cien Palabras” (Santiago in 100 Words), and hope to bring it to Mexico City. Next to arrive are our soon to be new friends Bernhard and Maria Luisa, adding (he) German-accented Spanish, and (she) beautiful, clear Chilanga (Mexico City) pronunciation. They have homes in Heidelberg and Mérida and every year visit a daughter in Mexico City. Then comes a pair of young women from Paris…and shortly after, a young couple, also from Paris. They’re all speaking Spanish in various accents. It’s wonderful immersion, but at that point we excuse ourselves from the table as we have much to do.

Another morning finds us at the breakfast table with three bright young women from Spain, two from Barcelona and one from Galicia. I’m doing my best to cope with their rapid and heavily accented (Catalán, and Gallego) Spanish. Then we’re joined by a man from Milan who speaks very clear Spanish, with an Italian accent. And then a lady from Puerto Rico and another from Venezuela. Soon comes a young couple from Colombia; he’s a music journalist; she’s in marketing. Then two Architects from Italy, and their spouses, join the Spanish conversation.

 

Each morning the wonderful cacophony of multi-accented Spanish complements the designerly breakfast offerings. The guests are all professionals, and the talk is bracing. I’m doing my best to keep up with the conversation but I’m still a long way from fluent.

So far we’re the only US citizens at the table. I don’t know why, when the dollar-to-peso exchange rate is so favorable and Mexico City is such an interesting place. Probably it’s the same old Phony Drug War and anti-immigrant hysteria. Or maybe they’ve all gone to Cancún. It’s their loss.

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The Ciudad de Mexico is filled with all the issues of daily life and work and business. At this point it seems very much like a city with a bright future along with its impressive history. As in any great city, we’re surrounded by the past — in street names, monuments, and museums. Some of the street signs even retain all of the former names. As an honorific(?) or maybe just in case…. 

Museums are memory, and this is a city of museums, some renowned and well-attended, others little-known but worth searching out. The city itself provides a vibrant sense of entry to each of these treasure vaults, spread out across the ancient valley in its driven splendor, its daily life, like a field of enchanted poppies. Pick one, pick a handful, of experiences, along the way. In our daily travels, something whispers, “Embrace this place. Absorb the essence.”

Gershwin wrote An American in Paris with all its expressive horn-honkings and flourishes to express the vibrance of that city, at that time. Copeland wrote El Salón México  to express the magic of the entire country. I hope someone writes the great Mexico City Symphony of today with all the honking of horns, the hawking of vendors, the noise of construction, the rattling of rails, that make up the quotidian life of this city, as it slowly recovers from its time in the wilderness of rapid over-population and massive poverty. This seems a period of rebirth, a passing moment in time. It’s worth capturing.

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We emerge from the Metro at the Bellas Artes station to spend time at this great museum. Our last visit was many years ago and it’s time to return. The grand exterior, the inside spaces, and its famous murals (Rivera, Siqueiros, Orozco, and others) are worth a repeat; the new Michelangelo exhibit (no photos permitted!) is an added attraction. 

 

 

The Architecture section on the top floor of the Bellas Artes features the challenging modernist work of Juan José Díaz Infante, designer of the striking Bolsa Mexicana de Valores (Mexican Stock Exchange), one of the signature buildings on grand Paseo de la Reforma. He also experimented with ‘roto-molded’ plastic housing concepts and coined interesting minimalist theories such as “-M+V=E⁽ⁿ⁾” (“less Material plus Velocity equals Space (Espacio) to the nth degree”).  

 

 

There’s a Matias Goeritz exhibit at the nearby Palacio Iturbide on Calle Madero, the busy pedestrian way connecting the leafy Alameda to the Zócalo. This is the vibrant heart of the city, and this is where Mexico’s ‘first Emperor’ once lived. During the 1810 Mexican war of independence from Spain, some factions were inspired by the democratic examples of the American and French Revolutions. But conservative forces misread the winds of change and Agustín Iturbide was declared Emperor. He was deposed within 10 months by…well, it’s complicated. Here’s the story: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Agust%C3%ADn_de_Iturbide).

 

 

 

 

The modernist Goeritz exhibit, framed by ancient stonework and tall classical columns, is a stark contrast to the now quiet imperial residence of Iturbide.

 

There are two fine, but lesser-known museums in the Coyoacán – San Ángel area that are often overshadowed by the powerful influence of Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera.

We search out the Museo Nacional de la Aquarela (National Watercolor Museum) on a very quiet back street in Coyoacán. Carolyn has a special interest in the challenges of watercolors. (Unlike oil paintings, where corrections are easy, there are no mistakes in a watercolor. Every brushstroke counts.) We’re both impressed by the quality of work on display and must remind ourselves often that it’s all accomplished with just watercolor. 

 

 

 

 

On another day, we visit the second, the Museo Carrillo Gil, on a busy street in up-scale San Ángél. We became aware of this museum through a traveling exhibit at Hermosillo’s impressive new Musas art museum, and made a point of searching it out in Mexico City. It’s a well planned building, clearly designed with art as its main focus. The flow is easy, and the art — representing many of Mexico’s best contemporary artists – can be hopeful, or challenging and dark at times (note the brutal concrete casting over an oil landscape), but worth seeing.

 
 

 

Even many of the Great Masters began as misunderstood ‘contemporary artists’ in their day.

 

On another fine day, after a refreshing walk through the broad forests of Chapultepec Park, we’re at the Museo Rufino Tamayo, where there’s always something worth seeing. This time it’s an exhibit of colorful contemporary art with works by Wilfredo Lam, among others. 

 

 

And while we’re near the wealthy Polanco district, we make our way to Carlos Slim’s new Museo Soumaya and the adjacent Museo Jumex.

The Soumaya. What can be said about an architecturally note-worthy museum funded by the world’s richest man as a tribute to his deceased wife? And who is really interested in what I, a mere plebeian, have to say about it? Others have unkindly called this odd building “the blender.” (And they’ve dubbed the nearby Museo Jumex the “cheese grater,” for its serrated top.) How could I, if given to catiness, top that? Although there’s always a temptation (even a need) for the peasantry to ridicule the king; maybe this time better let it rest.

Yet, first impressions: the Soumaya may best be viewed from afar where it is most impressive. That really appears to be the main reason for it in the first place — as a massive advertising prop for Slim’s entire Carso project involving most of the huge buildings that surround it. The museum is a sort of jewel in the middle, a centerpiece upon a well-set table groaning with temptations from the world’s most famous retailers and others. The entire assemblage of buildings is “The Bonfire of the Vanities” moved from NYC to CDMX — a sight worthy to behold, and a stark contrast to the massive poverty seen in other parts of the city.

The Soumaya's entry is an oddly constricted little mouse hole, designed, I’d guess, to keep too many people from entering at once. Or perhaps it’s the result of a too-rigid adherence to the original design concept, a reluctance to violate the overall sculptural schema in any way. Or maybe it’s just a bad design. I’d certainly hate to think such a thing.

Inside, white predominates. An almost blinding white. I’m reminded of scenes in that fine old movie, The Knack, and How to Get It, where the ‘hero’ shares a house with an artist who paints everything white. His other housemate rides a way-cool Ariel Square Four through the streets of swinging London and has ‘the knack’ with women. But I digress. 

 
  

  

 

There’s plenty to see in the Soumaya, if given to fabulous pieces of ancient carved ivory, grand silver platters, and priceless gold coins. Also on display is money from many local banks and states through the country’s turbulent history (US currency has a similar history).

As for the art, it’s been noted by others that there are some world class pieces on view, while many are only ‘studies’ by the great masters for other works. As such, they’re a valuable resource for art historians tracing the evolution of Renoir, for example. But most of the truly important works of the Great Artists are already in museums throughout the world, and even the World’s Richest Man can’t touch them. Mr. Slim has still managed to bag a few notable works and those are worth seeing. 

One surprise was a series of paintings, including a stunning self portrait by Kahlil Gibran. We were not aware of him as a painter!

 Unfortunately my camera ran out of juice before we scaled the upper floors, but there’s an excellent exhibit of paintings of Venice on the second floor from the top. While the most famous works may reside in other museums, there are so many fine Italian artists of the era and Venice is such a compelling and beautiful subject that there are plenty of worthy pieces available on the market. An added bonus: there’s a movie loop showing scenes from a century of films shot on-location in Venice. We have fond memories of many of them.

And the top floor of the museum contains a number of very good Rodin sculptures along with several very odd ones from Salvador Dalí (enough with the ‘melted watch,’ already!). It would have been a great place to take some pics. Sorry.

We were lucky to have dinner one of those evenings in Polanco at a nice restaurant with friends Amy, Tim, and baby Bea, who are there, not because they’re wealthy, but because that’s where they live and work — she for the United Nations, and he as a fine artist. They were kind enough to take us on a walking tour of the beautiful surrounding area and explain much about it.

 

We returned on another day to visit the Museo Jumex. It’s an impressive building with high-quality finishes throughout. The ultra-high ceilings felt a bit over the top (pun intended), and the art was surprisingly challenging for a corporate museum. We have refrained from posting many of those shots in this family-oriented blog.     

 

Afterward, a wander through the vast Carso complex seemed mandatory, and we drifted past the über-expensive offerings in Sacks Fifth Avenue, among many others. Anybody who thinks Mexico is some kind of backward country – especially Mexico City – is seriously under-traveled. The Polanco section of this city is where the truly wealthy congregate to enjoy their mansions, their Maseratis and Ferraris, and their fine foods and wines from the City Market – perhaps the best, most exotically stocked market, we’ve seen anywhere.

 

 

 

 

Besides a vast selection of the world’s finest wines, there were displays throughout the store of expensive Riedel wine glasses and decanters. There’s every cheese or spice you could want, not a blemish on any of the produce, and the onions are stripped of any unsightly layers. After a long wander through this opulence, we bought 58 pesos (about US$3.63) worth of stuff and made our exit.

Back on the Metro and back to the jostling streets of the city, we make our way past the comfort of street art...

 

window ads...

 

classic cars...

recycling centers...

old tile murals, and...

sex shops...

to another nice and affordable place for a delicious last dinner in The City.

 

It’s been an excellent, if far too short, three weeks. There’s so much else we managed to accomplish – Teotihuacán, Tlatelolco Square, following the Beat Poets, Thursday night jazz with Bernard and Maria Luisa at the Rustic Kitchen...

 

seeing massive demonstrations...

and watching the Mexico City Marathon – yet have no time to write about. And there’s so much else we never even got around to, but that would take several more months. 

Alas, on the morrow we’ll haul our bags to the bus station for the next leg of this trip. See you then, in Taxco! — PRW

More of Mexico: Mexico City 2

How big is a city?

What is a city, actually? Is the entire stretch of US coastline from Boston south to Washington really just one big city? Isn’t the entire San Francisco Bay Area just one big city? As cities and towns grow together they become indistinguishable in the larger whole, and they function, actually, as one large unit. A dollar spent in one area and a job created just across the street don’t really care where someone drew an imaginary line of sovereignty.

With a population of over 20 million people, Mexico City is considered to be the 4th largest city in the world. (Tokyo, with 38 million, is the largest.) The broad Valle de México has long been the location of numerous villages and towns that eventually became one polis. Yet when the entire adjacent ‘urban area’ is considered, Mexico City drops to 10th place. With a population density of 9,800 per square kilometer, the Valley of Mexico is among the world’s more efficient urban areas, well above New York City (at 1,800/sq km) or Los Angeles (2,400/sq km), yet far below Dhaka, Bangladesh, with an astounding 43,500 inhabitants per square kilometer. 

It’s an efficient city with a public transportation system that is safe (security cameras and guards are common) and inexpensive (5 pesos/about 30 cents). With 12 lines, the Metro system moves 1.5 billion people per year – it’s the eighth busiest in the world. Even so, it’s crowded at rush hour, and the local joke is you get a ‘three for one:’ “pasaje, masaje y agasaje” (ride, massage, and spa). During busy times, they cordon off a section for women and children only (“Para Mujeres y niños menos de 12 años”). We avoid rush hours.

 

 

On a list of “Ten Things to Avoid in Mexico City,” driving is number one. We are in the City for three weeks, so we buy two transit cards at the local Métrobus station (with dedicated lanes) and use both systems frequently. 

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We’re lucky to find ourselves, at this age, with just-sufficient resources to explore the vast world beyond our doorstep, if we watch our pesos. We’ve chosen to make the most of it. We make several visits to Coyoacán. It’s really a village within the City, a place where inner-city residents can go for some quiet time, a place with quiet streets, narrow lanes, a large mercado, and a vibrant plaza.

Viveros station gets us to the large nursery (38.9 hectares) the City maintains for replanting the rest of its parks. This a vast and quiet place to immerse ourselves in greenery — a major pulmón (lung), in the heart of a busy city.

 

 

 

People are out for walks, jogging, exercise of all sorts, time with the kids, or just relaxing. The educational signs are amusing and informative, and the only accosting you’re likely to get is from the squirrels, a very accomplished bunch of beggars who specialize in looking cute.

By the time we get to the famous Museo Frida Kahlo (our actual destination), several tour busses have arrived and we’re faced with a very long line that appears to not be moving at all. A quick change of plans sends us off to the nearby Leon Trotsky home and museum where we relive his last days and his assassination by a disciple of Stalin, his arch-rival. It’s easy to imagine the quiet times spent away from his typewriter, tending his chickens in his beautiful courtyard, where his remains are now buried.

 

  

 

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Returning another day to the Museo Frida Kahlo, we find no line at all and enjoy a leisurely wander through her home and gardens. It all evokes a different era: of thick adobe walls, of a quieter time when the Valley of Mexico was far less crowded, the air was clear, and fresh vegetables were grown nearby. This was Old Mexico at its finest. This is the Casa Azul, where Frida was born and lived much of her turbulent life with Diego Rivera. And it’s where she died at the very young age of 47.

 

 

 

 

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After a good lunch, we wander the streets of Coyoacán and through the riotous colors of the Mercado. Carolyn finds some very colorful ribbons for Kaylie, our grand-daughter, and we enjoy all the rest on display.

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

There’s money in Coyoacan. Judging by some of the large ancient mansions behind tall guarded walls, there probably always has been. We pass a trio of parked cars in front of a restaurant: a chrome BMW, followed by a red Ferrari and a black Porsche. I look into the rear window of the Ferrari and see the engine, big, beautiful, clean, powerful. I’ve never owned a car where you could see the engine, on purpose, from the front seat.

 

 

 
 

 
 

The very busy main Plaza is where lovers relax under tall shade trees by a busy fountain. Two old men play chess under an ancient portal, while strolling musicians troll the crowds, and an organ grinder grinds out his songs. There’s even space for a quiet moment or two.

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We end our visit with a quiet walk down Calle Sosa past ancient adobe haciendas with horse-tying rings still attached to the walls. We pass the former home of Octavio Paz, one of Mexico’s most renowned novelists. And the former home of Dolores del Rio, one of its most famous movie stars, and a good friend of Frida Kahlo.

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On yet another pilgrimage we find our way through adjacent San Angel to the “other” Diego and Frida compound. This is the modernist grouping designed by Juan O’Gorman, the one you saw in the Julie Taymor movie “Frida.” All three had separate homes and studios – a ‘necessity for domestic peace,’ according to Rivera. It’s the ‘duty’ of modernism to destroy the architectural icons of the past and discomfit the complacent; this is a stark and stressful contrast to the quiet rambling adobe compound just a few miles away in Coyoacán, and may better represent the most turbulent years of her life. Frida’s former studio is now display space, while Diego’s studio remains a delightful clutter of the objects he collected; his painting of beautiful Dolores del Rio occupies center stage. Check our this excellent documentary on Frida and Diego, produced by friends of ours at New Deal Films. 

And a last quiet walk along the side streets of San Angel returns us to the Vivero station. Soon we’re back in the Condesa searching for a comforting martini and a nice place for dinner. —PRW