Viva los Colores
Exploring the colorful history of Mexico City
I have long been drawn to vast cities. I’m not talking about those (largely) tamed European capitals, but truly mammoth megacities like Cairo, Karachi, Delhi, Beijing, and Mexico City — imperfect, gritty places that sprawl through centuries and offer just about everything a traveler might hope to find.
Visiting these places is always an intense experience, in which all the senses are bombarded. Yet for me, each city has a single, overriding sensory imprint. In Cairo its passionate calls to prayer echoing through the city, rising melodically above the beeping taxi horns. In Delhi it’s the availability of the country’s magnificent and diverse regional cuisines — everything from Punjabi chicken marinated in yogurt with herbs and spices and baked in a clay tandoor oven to Kerala coconut fish curry imbued with spices of the Indian Ocean coast. And in Mexico City it’s the color. Or colors, those dazzling, vibrant hues that arc through the city’s history and across its rambling vastness.
By some estimates, greater Mexico City is home to 25 million to 30 million people — an exact count is impossible. The city lies nearly 8,000 feet up in an oval-shaped, 60-by-40-mile volcano-studded valley that has supported the rise and fall of a series of great cities, including Tenochtitlán, the center of the once-powerful Aztec empire.
Vivid artifacts of these lost cities can be found inside the Museo Nacional de Anthropología. Set among the acres of grass and lakes in the city’s green centerpiece, Chapultepec Park, the museum is best approached slowly, as you pass by idling couples, picnicking families, carts selling coconut and banana ice cream and chicharrón (deep-fried pork skin topped with a squeeze of lime juice and some salsa picante), and women with fistfuls of shimmering, cartoonish balloons for sale. As you plunge inside the building, the past comes to life in vibrant displays: a Teotihuacán mask of turquoise with eyes of obsidian and shell; a Toltec coyote-head warrior inlaid with mother-of-pearl and teeth of bone; a vessel for Aztec offerings of human hearts, in the form of a snarling jaguar. To a viewer standing in the darkened rooms, the imagery is violent, frightening, and thrilling.
Trajineras are flat-bottomed, ornately decorated boats that carry passengers through the canals of Xochimilco.
When the Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortés and his army of a few hundred (plus a few horses, creatures the locals had never seen) entered Tenochtitlán in 1519, they found a sophisticated city built of stone, home to 300,000 people. Warily, the Aztec leader Montezuma welcomed the Spaniards; Cortés repaid the hospitality by taking him prisoner and sacking some of the most sacred Aztec altars. In the ensuing unrest, Montezuma was killed, and the Spanish were driven from the city. Cortés managed to escape, but there was no returning to Spain; he had burned his ships at the coast. Reinforced with indigenous allies, he returned to Tenochtitlán in 1521. The city was sacked and every vestige of Aztec culture destroyed. The new city — and capital of Nueva España — was built virtually on top of the ruins.
The heart of that new city was the Zócalo, a massive open space on the site of the Templo Mayor. One of the Aztecs’ most sacred spots, the temple was a site for human sacrifice; visitors are reminded of the site’s past by the wall of skulls and a carved stone eagle with a hole in its back, where the hearts of sacrificial victims were placed.
An organ grinder plays in front of the Catedral Metropolitana.
The Spaniards brought their own colorful beliefs and constructed the magnificent and massive Catedral Metropolitana on the north side of the Zócalo. Once Catholicism took root in the country, Mexico’s most recognized religious — and cultural — image became Our Lady of Guadalupe, considered the Virgin Mary’s manifestation in the Americas. In 1531 a native named Juan Diego claimed that the Virgin appeared to him three times in the guise of an Indian princess, burning her image into his cloak. The icon of the Virgin, with the sun and the moon at her feet and wearing a crown of 12 stars, is on display everywhere, from brightly colored street-side shrines to mini-statues balanced on carpeted taxi dashboards.
The east side of the Zócalo is edged by the Palacio Nacional, built on the very spot of Montezuma’s palace as a residence for Cortés. The Palacio was home to a succession of 61 viceroys during 300 years of direct Spanish rule and more recently served as Mexico’s presidential residence. The building and gardens are vast and sumptuous, but the draw for me is the great series of Diego Rivera murals that wrap around the grand staircase. Rivera depicts the entire panorama of Mexican history, from pre-Hispanic times to the 1910 Revolution, in a blazingly colorful span. Here is an idealized version of Tenochtitlán; see the brilliantly plumed serpent Quetzalcoatl leading Cortés into the country, and here comes Pancho Villa with his luxurious mustache!
Pedestrians walk through the Zócalo, once the site of the Templo Mayor.
The Zócalo is one of the world’s largest plazas and the crossroads of this vast metropolis. It’s resplendent with people from every nook and cranny of the country. Prada-wearing hipsters, beggars and buskers, office workers in suits, uniformed students, Aztec dancers, demonstrators, hawkers, tourists, and countless street vendors. And there’s no shortage of apple-green VW Beetle taxis. (Some 250,000 registered cabs in the city compete with an untold number of unregistered “rogues.”)
In such swarming masses, I get the urge to walk on, not into solitude, but rather, toward even more density. And nowhere are the colors as dense and heady as in the nearby La Merced market. Since Aztec times a market has stood on this spot; the current incarnation dates from the 1950s. It’s one of the largest covered food markets in the world, and almost anything edible can be found among its numerous stalls. Canary yellow mangoes blushed in red, soft as peaches and exuding the warmth of the tropics. Great clusters of bananas from the Yucatán — yellow, red, or green; fragrant vanilla pods; watermelons sliced open to show red flesh as brilliant as fresh paint; bins of magenta, chartreuse, and fuchsia hard candy; glittering Gulf Coast red snapper, called huachinango. There are also a few things that don’t appear so delectable, such as huitlacoche, a black fungus that grows on young corn in the wet season. Long considered a delicacy in native cuisine, it is now a star in sauces and crêpe fillings in nueva cocina mexicana (new Mexican cuisine, a fusion of traditional ingredients with contemporary influences).
Sliced fresh watermelon for sale at La Merced market.
I browse among young chefs searching for the components of this new haute cuisine, pearl-wearing housewives, and old women, faces as wrinkled as tobacco leaves, with straw baskets. They’re shopping for la comida, the big midday meal that for many still revolves around a trio of ingredients: tortillas, beans, and the distinctively flavored manteca (pork lard).
I have read that walking the market’s length without stopping takes 20 minutes. But who can walk here and not stop? I lose myself while watching animals being carved apart by an assured hand, and linger among the stacks of chilies. Mexico produces some 300 varieties of chilies, everything from tiny red peppers no bigger than the tip of a pinky to plump, orange habaneros. But it’s the stacks of dried peppers that make me wax poetic — dark, shriveled, ruby and violet and chocolate-colored pods that exude spice and earthy loam. These are toasted and ground with such ingredients as pumpkin and sesame seeds, almonds, cinnamon, and chocolate into mole pastes.
I could lurk among the chilies for hours, sniffing them as someone might sniff a fine wine, but hunger inevitably drives me on. Mexican markets are best in the morning, when the products are freshest and in fullest supply, and after wandering for an hour or two, I am always ready for a midmorning snack of tacos. Small taquerias, often with just a handful of stools at a counter with some dishes of fiery green and red salsas, abound in the surrounding streets (and throughout the city, for that matter). But which to choose in this unfamiliar and foreign place? I just look for that international symbol of quality: a crowd.
One morning specialty here is tacos made from the steamed and shredded meat of a cow’s head. The tortillas are small, just three or four inches across, doubled up and filled with a few spoonfuls of meat, chopped onions, and fresh cilantro, a bit of hot sauce, and a squirt of tart lime. They are eaten in two, maybe three, bites. With a sigh of pleasure that always accompanies the first bite, I dribble part of the taco down the front of my shirt.
Mexican flavors are intense and tend to boot-stamp the taste buds. To round out the imprint, I go next for a glass of fresh juice. Papaya, strawberry, guava, mango — you name the fruit and it’s pressed into a thick, delicious jugo. Glasses glowing orange or green or pink invitingly line the counter. Drink up and walk on.
A room inside Frida Kahlo’s Casa Azul, her home for most of her life.
From the city center, I find a cab and head eight miles south to the suburb of Coyoacán. Cortés launched his assault on Tenochtitlán from here and used the area as a base while the conquered Aztec city was being demolished and his new city built. Among lively squares, swanky cafés, and leafy, cobbled streets lined with brightly painted colonial buildings sits Frida Kahlo’s aptly named La Casa Azul (Blue House). She was born in this house in 1907 and died here in 1954, and she lived much of her life within its cobalt-blue walls. Numerous Kahlo paintings hang in the home, including her final work, Viva la Vida (“Long Live Life,” 1954), a brilliant, richly hued still life depicting sliced watermelons. (Learning that Kahlo had just had her leg amputated before completing the work slightly changes one’s reading of the piece, but not the pleasure of viewing it.) On display too is a fine collection of papier-mâché skeletons, ceramic animals, pre-Columbian idols, and chunky jewelry, as well as the bright, floral-patterned Tehuana dresses that were Kahlo’s trademark.
Murals by Diego Rivera cover the walls of the Palacio Nacional.
Kahlo had a tumultuous 25-year marriage to Diego Rivera, and the two were part of a nationalist artistic movement that stopped looking toward Europe for inspiration and instead turned its attention to Mexico’s own rich cultural traditions, folklore, and heritage. The couple did as much as anyone to forge a national identity — confident, proud, and embodying the spirit and hues of the country’s rich past.
Nowhere, though, are the colors more dazzling and evocative than in the architecture of Luis Barragán (1902–88). He left a relatively small number of buildings (he did much garden design work), but they are strong and memorable, especially Casa Luis Barragán, my next stop. The cab heads back north from Coyoacán toward the city center, the driver patient and chatty in the clogged traffic, and at last pulls up on a dead-end street in Tacubaya and drops me at a nondescript wall. But behind that wall is a place where the elements of architecture — light, space, scale — are harmoniously blended and the saturated colors recall the cosmos of Mexico: indigenous clothing, wooden toys, woven blankets, candles, market fruit, hard candy, and icons.
Barragán built the house for himself in 1947 and lived here the rest of his life. Why move? Natural light glows off the entryway’s deep rose-pink wall and fills the room not only with a haze of pink, but also with emotion. Stepping inside, I pass through the double-height living room and other light-filled rooms painted in bold primary colors before climbing stairs to a rooftop terrace that is framed with the stunning blue sky. Below is a patio reminiscent of colonial mansions.
The Blue Lounge inside the Camino Real Mexico hotel in the Polanco district.
One of Barragán’s disciples, and perhaps the greatest contemporary Mexican architect, is Ricardo Legorreta. His 1968 hotel Camino Real Mexico remains the best place to finish up a visit to Mexico City. Sure, there are newer and chicer spots — places like the fabulous rooftop bar at the hotel Habita — but there’s nowhere better to have a bottle of Bohemia beer and suck in a last draught of the city’s saturated tones before heading to the airport. Legorreta, like Barragán, works in colors born of Mexican traditions, and the lapis-blue lobby, with its filtered light and the ambient sound of flowing water, exudes the color-fueled essence of the city.
As the airplane climbs up above the valley, it’s hard to imagine that down in that dark haze below lies a vibrant city that pummels you with the poetry of colors. These colors may have ancient roots and cultural significance, but one suspects they are also used for more playful reasons. Barragán was once asked in an interview why color so dominated his buildings. His answer: “For the sheer pleasure of using and enjoying it.”
— Jeff Koehler
Getting There: Continental offers daily nonstop service to Mexico City from its hubs in Houston and New York/Newark, and from McAllen, Texas. Continental flies to more destinations in Mexico than any other U.S. carrier.
Sleep and Eat
Hotels
Camino Real. It might be turning 40 next year, but Camino Real is still one of Mexico City’s slickest choices. It’s large (712 rooms and suites) and colorful, with delightful interior spaces, including the blue lounge. Mariano Escobedo 700, Colonia Anzures, 52.55.5263.8888. caminoreal.com
Habita. Shrouded in glass, this hotel is gorgeous, stylish, and, with only 32 rooms and four junior suites, intimate. The rooftop swimming pool, bar (Area), and restaurant (Aura) are all popular. Presidente Masaryk 201, Colonia Polanco, 52.55.5282.3100. hotelhabita.com
Condesa df. From the owners of Habita, this 40-room hotel in the hip Condesa neighborhood is set in a refurbished early-20th-century mansion and exudes pure bohemian chic. In the room you’ll find not only a DVD player, Internet connection, and an iPod, but also a rocking chair. The city’s top choice. Veracruz 102, Colonia Condesa, 52.55.5241.2600. condesadf.com
Restaurants
Café de Tacuba. In business since 1912 and set in a gorgeous 17th-century building, this legendary spot may be famous for its coffee and fresh pastries, but it also serves excellent traditional Mexican dishes and has the distinction of lending its name to a local (and now internationally famous) rock band. Tacuba 28, Colonia Centro, 52.55.5521.2048
San Ángel Inn. Another long-standing favorite and guaranteed hit. Set in a 17th-century former monastery, it serves traditional regional Mexican dishes such as Vera Cruz–style sea bass, chicken with mole sauce, and crepes with huitlacoche. Diego Rivera 50, Colonia San Ángel Inn, 52.55.5616.1402, sanangelinn.com — J.K.
