Huh?
"Your door is open."
That was the cryptic phone call we received sometime around 1am. We were already in a bit of a groggy stupor after spending much of the night listening to our neighbors bring the party home with them, and we couldn't quite make sense of what was going on. But while Aimee tried to get some more information out of the caller, I crawled out of bed and walked over to the front door of our hotel room.
There was a bit of light peeking through the side, and although the latch was closed, it hadn't nested all the way shut. So I jiggled the door a bit, and felt the deadbolt side into place. I then heard a familiar voice on the other side of the door.
"Your door is open."
"No it's not."
(Pause) "That's because you just closed it."
"Ok. Gracias. Buenas Noches."
The next morning, Aimee and I played around with the door to see how it latched. It didn't quite close on its own, and it needed a bit of coaching to fall into place. The front desk staff had probably come to our floor to tell our neighbors to keep it down, and then noticed that our door hadn't latched completely.
This is the real side of travel in Mexico. No brazen scams to rob tourists. No unreasonable dangers. Just mildly defective hotel room doors and bellhops with limited English proficiency. And neighbors that like to party.
With that settled, it was time for breakfast. Our quaint little hotel had a quaint little breakfast bar, but we were in the mood for something more. Fresh Mexican pastries from a Panaderia sounded absolutely wonderful, so we set off on a walk through our downtown neighborhood to find some.
That quest turned out to be surprisingly tricky, since most of the locals either eat breakfast at home or grab a street taco. So we walked and walked, until the hangries and caffeine withdrawal kicked in. Our wistful pastry hunt needed to wrap up quickly. So we walked into the Mexican version of Starbucks and grabbed a deeply dissatisfying cinnamon roll. But at least we're still married.
That quest turned out to be surprisingly tricky, since most of the locals either eat breakfast at home or grab a street taco. So we walked and walked, until the hangries and caffeine withdrawal kicked in. Our wistful pastry hunt needed to wrap up quickly. So we walked into the Mexican version of Starbucks and grabbed a deeply dissatisfying cinnamon roll. But at least we're still married.
Our plan for the day was to head over to the outlying neighborhood that contained Frida Kahlo's childhood home. So we hopped into a taxi and closed our eyes. But this was actually one of our saner Mexico City cab rides, and it ended next to a nice little cafe near Frida's house. The house (now a museum) wasn't open yet, so we popped into the cafe and had the breakfast that we should have had an hour ago. It was perfect.
Aimee and I both agreed that if we found ourselves living in Mexico City, this is the neighborhood that we would call home. It was still very much a city neighborhood, but far from the high rises and commotion of the city center.
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| This is what passes for a quiet neighborhood in Mexico City. |
Renewed and recaffeinated, we walked over to Frida's house. Instead of buying a sign that said "Art Museum", the museum administrators just asked a group of white tourists with small, circular glasses and canvas tote bags to stand out in front of the building. It meant the same thing.
But the museum itself was outstanding. The house was an early 1900s stucco masterpiece. Frida's father was one of the few photographers in the country at the time, and took photos for the ruling Mexican political party. It appears that he was nicely rewarded for this work, because the house was very impressive.
The house is filled with the works and belongings of Frida and her on-again, off-again husband, Diego Rivera. It is both an art museum and a beautiful time machine back to mid-century Mexico. It was an absolute treat to walk through, and a clear highlight of the trip.
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| Frida and Diego lived in this house 1929-1954 |
Down the street from the Frida house was the Trotsky house. Frida and the Russian philosopher's lives were intricately linked in the 1940s and 50s. Diego Rivera had petitioned the Mexican government to bring Trotsky into the country as a political refugee, since his life was in danger if he stayed in Russia. Now, Latin America in the 1950s was the last place a communist philosopher would think of as a safe haven. But the fact that Mexico not only allowed him to enter, but also protected him as a refugee, speaks volumes to the respect and political power wielded by Frida and Diego.
But we really didn't feel like paying the 40 peso entrance fee to go into the museum. Trotsky wouldn't have wanted that.
We didn't have much of a structured plan for the rest of the day. We mostly just wanted to wander around the city. But first, we grabbed some lunch from the same cafe that we went to for breakfast. It was that good.
After a 30-45 minute walk, we arrived at our next Mexico City spectacle, the Metro. Words can't describe the bustle and commotion of the underground train. For starters, each train was huge. Most metros that I've seen a train with 5-10 cars arriving every 15-20 minutes. But each Mexico City train had at least 20 cars and another one comes by every three minutes. Three minutes! Nearly as soon as the last train pulls out, the next one comes screeching in, throws its doors open, throws its people out, blows its whistle, and speeds out of the station. Repeat, repeat, repeat. It was absolutely nuts. But somehow, Aimee and I both managed to get on and off the same train at the same station.
We had decided to head over to the Zocalo, Mexico City's historic capital. It houses one of the biggest cathedrals in the Americas, several beautiful museums, and the only actual palace on the continent (Mexico briefly had a monarchy in the early 1800s).
But we did eventually find a big door that looked promising. I noticed a mural inside and we patted ourselves for finding the way in. I don't routinely think of myself of a high art connoisseur, but I have my moments. So I asked the graduate student sitting at the information desk where the rest of the Riveras are. She said, "Um, well, that's not a Rivera, it's an [unintelligible]. You're looking for the palace. It's two doors down on the left." Her tone seemed to imply, "It's not hard to miss. It's a fucking palace." And I was reminded why I don't think of myself as an art connoisseur.
After a bit more walking, we managed find the palace entrance, but it was closed in preparation for the Pope's arrival. Damnit. I'll just buy a Rivera post card.
We capped off the afternoon by walking back to our hotel for a nap and a shower. We then set out for an amazing dinner at Azul Historico. It was the kind of meal that would have required a down payment if it were in the US. I had some amazing mole after sampling from the impressive mezcal collection that the restaurant is known for.
Mezcal is liquor made from juice of the agave plant. If that sounds vaguely familiar, it's because Tequila is a type of mezcal made from a particular agave plant that only grows in a few regions of Mexico. But when done well, mezcal is incredibly smooth and doesn't have to taste like a bad decision from college.
We finished off the night with an enjoyable, if unsuccessful, search for live music. The tourist music venues were lame, and the local music venues didn't even open until 10pm. No gracias.
Our taxi ride back to the hotel was the only one that we were overcharged for during our entire trip. Maybe it was the mezcal, but I didn't feel like arguing over $3.
I love this place.
We capped off the afternoon by walking back to our hotel for a nap and a shower. We then set out for an amazing dinner at Azul Historico. It was the kind of meal that would have required a down payment if it were in the US. I had some amazing mole after sampling from the impressive mezcal collection that the restaurant is known for.
Mezcal is liquor made from juice of the agave plant. If that sounds vaguely familiar, it's because Tequila is a type of mezcal made from a particular agave plant that only grows in a few regions of Mexico. But when done well, mezcal is incredibly smooth and doesn't have to taste like a bad decision from college.
We finished off the night with an enjoyable, if unsuccessful, search for live music. The tourist music venues were lame, and the local music venues didn't even open until 10pm. No gracias.
Our taxi ride back to the hotel was the only one that we were overcharged for during our entire trip. Maybe it was the mezcal, but I didn't feel like arguing over $3.
I love this place.
