Glimpsing the City
It was February in DC and it was sleeting outside. Raja and I huddled in a corner of Taqueria Habanero. Our wobbly table was a collage of tacos. In-between mouthfuls of barbacoa, nopal, hongos, camaron, and carnitas, Raja looked up and said, “Let’s explore Mexico City one day.”
During the ride from the airport, our taxi whizzes by muraled walls, colonial cathedrals, and sidewalks bustling with vendors, merengue musicians, and men in suits. Skyscrapers tower over tin-roof shacks. The city feels huge. Inside the cramped car, I know that our three days here will only be a glimpse into the never-ending stretch of streets.
It's late afternoon by the time we step out onto shadow-laced streets to search for Mercado de San Juan. The market’s entrance is nondescript—a small doorway that once we duck under, opens up an entire maze of food and bodies and smell and sound. Butchers whack at carcasses, baristas pour coffee, women arrange bags of chilis, and men haul tuna. Fruit towers over the aisles, threatening to domino oranges and lemons through the corridors. I imagine watermelons cascading like bowling bowls, knocking over the stands of dried scorpions. We leave the market clutching plump mangoes. The sun streams through the palms.
I almost walk past the seafood stand. El Caguamo perches on Ayuntamiento Street’s curb and I get caught in the flow of people moving by its open kitchen. But Raja calls my name and soon we are crunching tostada de jaiba. With each bite, lime juice runs down my fingers. Hot sauce stains my lips. After two tostadas, desperate for more, I grab the menu and my eyes catch the word pulpo. Ten minutes later, tentacles flop in front of me. Pressed against the stand’s metal frame, we gorge on octopus.
At Taqueria los Cocuyos, all the meat for the day’s tacos simmers in one pot. Over a flame under the hot sun, lard dyes the liquid red and yellow and green all at the same time. We order. The chef sifts through floating ojo, trompa, and lengua in the bubbling vat. Again on the sidewalk, we slurp sliced saudero and chorizo from greasy tortillas. Specks of cilantro and onion bite my tongue.
The evening passes quickly. We wander through the main square, Zócalo, just to feel the immensity of it all. There are people everywhere but the place feels peaceful. At some point we find a band playing and we join the crowd and whistle when the audience calls out for an encore. Raja smiles the whole time. The sun begins to set and the city glows. I kiss Raja by the flower stand full of marigolds and he holds me.
“I have an idea,” Raja says and soon we’re on the rooftop of the Gran Hotel, peering out over the railing watching the city unfold as dusk settles. We order frozen margaritas that are as big as our heads and we laugh as we sip what they serve the tourists.
At La Casa de Toño, the line for dinner spills into the street. A street lamp lights everyone’s faces. We all watch the host, hungrily waiting for her to call our names and usher us in. Inside, florescent lights brighten the large, crowded space. Chairs are jammed next to each other and bodies squeeze to fit. Servers rush through the tables dropping off plates of quesadillas, tacos de cochinita, and tostadas. Voices ring through the room and Raja and I order bowls of pozole above the noise. We sip the stew and I feel the garlic and chile wash my throat. Raja asks for more hot sauce.
The bar is underground and dimly lit. My eyes take a long time to adjust to the room. A DJ plays dance music and people flow through the space grasping glasses. We peer over Xaman's cocktail menu written in a language neither of us speak and try to guess the drinks. Bunches of herbs lace the bar’s edge. I order by the rosemary. The bartenders work for a long time on each drink. Their backs are hunched and their eyes are narrowed as they pour and garnish. Raja and I find a small table and we drink and watch groups of friends and women in long dresses. Someone is dancing. It's late when we leave but the bar is still full and would be for a long time.
The next morning, I wake up before our alarm. We had left the windows open and the curtains swell in the breeze. Raja is still sleeping when I step onto the balcony. Far away, the sun is rising over the Sierra Madres. Light paints the buildings but the city is almost silent. Two men are walking together below me but neither of them speak. The cars and buses aren’t honking anymore. At 7,000 feet above sea level, the morning air is cold. I stay on the balcony looking out at it all until the sun is high above the rooftops. Someone turns on a radio and the music pours into the street.
We find coffee and croissants at Rafaella Panaderia and walk down leafy streets to the entrance of Viveros de Coyoacán. The park is a forest. In the center of the city, thousands of trees dot the landscape. Trails replace sidewalks. Grass replaces concrete. Men and women jog the paths and morning yoga groups sprawl out on the lawn. Raja and I get lost in a pine grove. We sit with our backs pressed against a tree trunk and let the morning light warm our skin. I don’t want to leave and keep checking my watch hoping we have more time.
Frida Kahlo’s house is filled with everything that belonged to her. Her jewelry, her books, her plates, her paintbrushes, her linens. Her bed. Her home is now a museum, but everything seems to be the way she left it each evening when she went to sleep. I pass her mirror and catch my reflection. I look down at her comb on the bureau. Being there feels too personal, too intimate. The garden was hers too: thick and lush and I imagine her sitting with Diego by the foundation. Her art is there, of course, but it is the mirror hung above her bed so she could paint while lying down—when rising from bed was too painful—that I remember. Outside, Raja and I stop to stare at a blue wall. We take photos of each other in front of it and I wonder if the artist ever knew that her home would become an image for postcards and for Instagram.
The restaurant is a large, high ceiling room. Uniformed waiters throng through the rows of tables draped in white table cloths. Our table is pressed against the window in the back corner and I stare at the people passing outside for a long time. Tree branches twist above their heads. Remnants of fallen jacaranda petals streak the sidewalks violet. The early afternoon light floods our table and Raja and I squint at the menu. We are miles from the ocean, but we order red and green grilled snapper, since at Contramar, we'e told that’s what you’re supposed to do.
After strolling through Roma Norte’s hushed streets lined with colonial mansions and dotted with ice cream stands, we find ourselves outside of Blanco Colima. Our throats are dry and I'm envious of the couple sipping drinks on the second floor balcony. Light filters through stained glass windows and blushes the woman’s cheeks. In the penthouse’s courtyard, Raja and I slide into seats at a marble bar. Vines curl their way down the white washed walls from the railings above. A potted palm tree casts shadows over us. Everything is elegant—the architecture, the art, the food, the drinks, the way the people walk down the spiral staircase and lift their forks from their plates. I whisper to Raja that I don’t feel chic enough to be here. He laughs and tells me to look up: in the courtyard, blue sky radiates above us.
There isn't enough time to see all of Chapultepec Park. It stretches for more than 1,600 acres. We walk past kids learning how to ride bikes, clowns performing for families, and girls with their noses buried in cotton candy. A Mexican family on vacation asked us to take their picture. We find a path that winds by the ponds and we wander away from the people. The roots of giant trees erupt through the pavement and we have to be careful not to trip over the cracked concrete. We pause often by the emerald waters. The late afternoon sun makes me want to lie on the grass and fall asleep.
Dinner was sugar. First, we lick ice cream outside of Helado Obscuro. Then, we get in line for churros. Churrería El Moro's small room is packed and the men in the kitchen work fast. Their hands lift ribbons of fried dough and toss them into a bowl of sugar. I hand the man cash and he extends a paper bag already dotted with grease stains. Raja and I find a table wedged between the door and the line and we bite into the warm dough. I push my hair behind my ear and smear sugar across my cheek. Finally, I can’t eat anymore. We walk through Parque México and watch kids play soccer. It looks like it’s going to rain but no one seems to care.
It’s late when we arrive at La Clandestina and we almost miss its dark entrance. It’s even darker inside and we squeeze through the bar's narrow hallway into a back room. We pass cramped wooden tables cluttered with mezcal glasses about to topple over. The people are loud and laughing. Candles in red holders cast crimson shadows on the brick. By the time my eyes adjust to the light, mezcal is in front of me. A dust-tanned ceiling fan swings above our heads. Raja and I sip slowly and chew the pimento seeds but mostly watch everyone else. It's the kind of place where you draw your eyeliner thick and step outside to smoke often.
The next morning, we arrive with packed bags at El Cardenal for a final meal. We are seated in-between tables of Mexican families. One is celebrating a grandfather’s birthday. The windows are large and one is propped open. You can hear Zócalo plaza waking up a block away. I order a dish with mole sauce. It’s thick and I can taste the chocolate. When we leave, most of the city is still sleeping. It’s Sunday morning in Mexico and storefronts are shuttered. The air is dry and cool and there’s a breeze. We wait on a street corner for a cab to the airport. Across from us, a vendor is laying out a blanket of oranges. A designer shop is turning on its lights behind her. We step into the taxi and drive through the layers of Mexico City’s complexities.
