72 Hours In Mexico City

72 Hours in Mexico City

We spent 72 hours in Mexico City, which is more than twice the time allocated by the New York Times for any city. Its regular travel feature “36 Hours in ______” actually covered Mexico City a few months ago. Eva clipped it out and brought it with us. Based on our visit there, the article should have advised: “Plan to spend at least 30 of your 36 hours in traffic. The remaining 6 hours will be spent looking for a safe taxi. Hailing a taxi off the street will lead directly to death and dismemberment.”

We come from a country where the leading newspaper promotes the idea that 36 hours in any given place is sufficient. For a city with any depth, that concept is a joke. For Mexico City, inhabitated by 20 million people, and steeped in history, spanning three separate civilizations, the idea of a 36 hour trip is a parody of the American mindset. What if the New York Times had a regular column to summarize great novels for busy professionals? “36 Words On ‘Kite Runner’”. Here goes: “Rich Man, Poor Man set in Afghanistan. As a child, the rich man fails to prevent sadistic assault on best friend (poor man). Haunted by guilt, rich man distances self from poor man. Emigrates to America. Years later, he makes amends by returning to Afghanistan, confronting sadistic man from past and rescuing poor boy’s child.” Cliffnotes on steroids. How about this summary of “Catch-22” for the busy New Yorker: “Yossarian does not like war very much. Tries to get out of army but finds army bureaucracy confusing and frustrating.”

72 hours in Mexico City is only marginally better. But even in our rushing about, we managed to see amazing art and awe-inspiring architecture. (I am sending under separate cover a PowerPoint with photos and captions. Too bad I can’t read this story aloud while showing you the PowerPoint. A Spalding Gray multi-media thing.) To demonstrate the futility of the NY Times’ “36 Hours In Mexico City,” one week later, the editor had to publish a correction which identified 4 separate errors. And so I reserve the right to publish corrections of the following events.

The Overnight Bus.

Our bus was scheduled to leave Colima for Mexico City at 9:30pm. We told Zoë that we were having a “pajama party” on the bus. For a five year-old, each new experience has the potential to be a source of complete joy and utter amazement. When told about the pajama party and spending the whole night on the bus, she wrinkled her eyebrows and looked both pleased and puzzled, “I’ve never heard of a pajama party on a bus.” She kept repeating this until she was thoroughly worked up in anticipation. To make it even more exciting, our 22 year-old daughter, Nicole, was traveling with us. Zoë snuggled up next to Nicole, ate her free sandwich, and went to sleep. Meanwhile, I took two sleeping pills and didn’t sleep. Or did I? It was really hard to tell. My best estimate is that I had 80 naps of 5 minutes each. I kept waking up to the sound of the bus accelerating or rattling or to the feel of a curve being taken too fast. These awakenings jolted me into the realization that I was being hurtled through the night by a complete stranger in a 5 ton vehicle. To make matters worse, I’ve seen these buses from the outside – from the oncoming lane. They don’t slow down for curves and they look impossibly huge compared to the road. When driving at night, the buses erupt out of the darkness, blinding you with the lights exactly at eye level, and then roar past. You can only hold on and hope you don’t run off the road. On this night, we were traveling a particularly scary stretch of highway, between Colima and Guadalajara. There are narrow bridges over deep canyons. What terrified me is that the margin of error -- the margin between staying alive and careening into a bottomless river gorge, is impossibly small.

Given all of this, I did the only rational thing: I stay awake to help the driver. If the bus leaned too much one way, then I leaned my body the other way. When I felt the bus driver apply the brakes (a happy yet rare occurrence), I pressed my foot down to assist. Fortunately, I stayed awake long enough to ensure our safe arrival in Mexico City on Wednesday morning at 7am.

As we disembarked the bus, the sun was still below the horizon. The air was extremely cool. Mexico City, often referred to as D.F. (Distrito Federal) sits at over 7,000 feet above sea level. Large mountains and one active volcano surround the city. After fighting traffic in a taxi to our hotel, we ventured out around 9am. It was still cold enough to require jackets.

The tourism industry runs a fleet of bright red, double-decker buses with open air top decks. Zoë insisted on this mode of transportation. While riding in the front row of the top level, she declared it the most thrilling ride ever. Being with an enthusiastic five year-old is to be five years old again. (Or so I imagine. But honestly I remember only glimpses of being five. It’s shocking to consider how little Zoë will remember of these adventures in Mexico. She is really the intended reader of these essays. When I get discouraged about these writings and whether they’re good enough to be published, Eva wisely reminds me: “think of how Zoë will love to read these when she’s older.” The thought of Zoë reading these – or reading these to her children -- makes me very happy.) The tour buses are magical in this sense: they lift you well above the street traffic and provide the illusion of not being in traffic at all. If a car almost hits the bus, it’s a little comical. “Oh, look at that cute little car down there! It nearly got crushed!! What fun!!”

But seriously, Mexico City has horrible traffic. In response, the city has instituted a system whereby you cannot drive one day per week depending on the last letter of your license plate. Apparently, it has reduced traffic and air pollution. (Imagine the outcry in the U.S. if the government tried to take away the right to drive alone to and from work everyday in a Hummer.) There a million taxis on the street, especially the bright green VW Bugs. But every guide book sternly warns against hailing a cab off the street. In D.F., it is an unfortunate fact that kidnapping and robbery is common. We hear stories of wealthy lawyers who’ve being kidnapped 3 different times – released each time for a ransom of $30,000. I decide its important to instruct Eva on ransom negotiations in the event of my capture. First, tell them that I’ve been cheating on you, we’re getting a divorce and that you hate me. Offer nothing. In fact, offer them $100 to kick me in the teeth. Once you’ve established your bargaining position, wait. They’ll call back. On the next call, treat them like a telemarketer – ask them to put you on the “do not call list.” Hang up on them. On the third call, offer them $200 if they’ll kick me in the nuts, release me and stop calling you.

Next, I thought we should discuss my approach in the event that Eva is the one kidnapped. When I asked, she simply glared at me. I assume that she was practicing her “game face”. I just nodded. “Got you!” (Thumbs up.)

So, don’t hail a cab off the street. There are two types of “secure taxis” in D.F.: private cars and official city taxis called “sitios”. All the hotels are in cahoots with the private car services and probably received nice kickbacks. If you ask any hotel for a taxi, they send an expensive private car. They are three times the cost of a sitio taxi. So, of course, we spent many hours wandering the streets looking for “sitios.” In one daring moment, Nicole and I defied all conventional wisdom and took a ride from a regular taxi. I had several justifications for this. First, it was the only taxi around. Second, I saw a Mexican family getting out of the cab and they looked unscathed Third, the driver looked old and a little out of shape. I felt that I could take him in hand-to-hand. Fourth, I knew the way we needed wanted to go. It was unlikely that he could trick me by taking a wrong turn and driving into some den of thieves. Later, during the ride, I began to reconsider this. What if he tried something? Sure, I could reach over and strangle him or pull a Mike Tyson and bite a chunk of his ear off. But then what? He drives into a telephone pole or into an oncoming tour bus? It was very confusing. So I decided to employ my charm and extensive Spanish language skills. I asked “Usted es de D.F.?” (Are you from D.F.?) and “Tiene hijos?” (Do you have any children?) I reasoned that biting someone’s ear off is unnecessary. Better to endear myself to him; or at least humanize myself so that his waiting gang of kidnappers would take pity on me. And if Eva really followed my plan and paid no ransom, this could be critical. I might really connect with them. We could have some good heart-to-hearts. Perhaps they would not only spare my life but invite me to join them. I started fantasizing about what I would say to them: “Let my daughter go and I’ll work off my debt to you. What better way to lure rich lawyers than to use one as bait??” I was really getting into this idea when we suddenly arrived at the hotel. I was a little disappointed. The only crime involved was a petty one. He had quoted me $30 pesos when we got in the cab but now wanted to charge me $40. (Probably an extra 10 pesos for asking him stupid questions.)

In truth, during the whole trip, we never felt unsafe. This was probably due to three factors: (1) we primarily stayed in upscale neighborhoods; (2) we traveled in the daytime to busy tourist destinations; and (3) we have no idea how to recognize a danger sign.

We saw several places in Mexico City which deserve special mention. The Palacio National sits in front of the Zocalo, or main square of D.F. The Palacio is the building where Mexico implemented self-government after the Revolution. The square itself is an immense open area, probably the size of a football field, circled by a 5 lane, one-way road. Swarms of taxis circle the road, mostly “un-secure” and presumably looking for an unwitting victim. It feels like a moat with dangerous alligators lurking inside. In the center of the square (rectangle, actually) is a huge pole flying a giant Mexican flag.


Inside the Palacio, the building is surprisingly modest in size. The first stairwell is covered with a mural by Diego Rivera, depicting the history of Mexican civilization. The historic and anthropological details are fascinating.

After visiting the palace, we walked next door to the Templo Mayor, which was an ancient Aztec temple discovered in the 1970s when digging for a new subway line. The Spanish had just built the city right on top of it.

We walked around in awe of the rich and varied architecture. Each building has various and detailed craftsmanship. The colonial-era post office is gorgeous. There are a myriad of frightening gargoyles, religious figures and beautiful shapes. Below is a photo of the Palacio de Bellas Artes.

Amidst the sprawling city and crazed drivers, there were also many green spaces. In these parks, we found live music, food and drinks for sale, and costumed men riding horses. Several times, Mexican university students studying English asked to interview us for their homework assignments.

At the end of our trip, we visited the magnificent National Museum of Anthropology. All of us were riveted by the wonderful displays of art, culture, and history. Zoë could not take her eyes off the dioramas. Half-naked men attacking a mammoth with spears. Women breast-feeding their babies. I tried to move her along and she refused, “I’m looking at this. Wait.” (Newsflash: it’s confirmed. I have a smaller attention span than a five year-old.) The Museum is vast and the curators have spared no expense to compile a myriad of artifacts from every region of Mexico. There are life-sized Mayan ruins that were brought in from the Yucatan and reconstructed. It was truly amazing. We spent two hours and saw less than half of the museum. At the end of the 2 hours, my brain was full and Zoë’s stomach was empty.

The NY Times “36 hours in Mexico City” allocated only 90 minutes to the Museum of Anthropology. Does this mean that Zoë has now exceeded the attention span of the average American? The average New Yorker?


We returned on another overnight bus. This time, I abstained from any sleeping pills so that I could concentrate on keeping the bus on the road. It worked!

I must admit that Colima seems so tame and pedestrian by comparison to the other places we’ve visited in Mexico. But I’m sitting here in a coffee shop. Zoë is happy at school with her friends. In a moment, I will ride my bike home. It’s perfectly safe and I’m perfectly happy. D.F. is a lot like New York: nice place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live there.

And I’m still waiting for the NY Times to run “36 Hours in New York City.”

Postscript: While my story is written in jest, my fear on the bus was very real. At the very same moment we were speeding along in the early morning hours on Saturday, April 14, there was another bus which had a different fate. I am not making this up:

Mexico bus crash toll rises to 28 dead
Passengers say driver fell asleep
Associated Press
CIUDAD JUAREZ, Mexico – The toll from a bus crash outside this border city rose to 28 dead and 21 injured, Mexican authorities said Sunday.
Authorities said the bus driver, who was among the dead, was speeding when the vehicle collided with a tractor-trailer early Saturday near Ciudad Juarez, across from El Paso, Texas. The truck's gas tank exploded, engulfing the bus in flames.
Officials initially said 23 died and 11 were injured, but revised the toll after determining that the bus was carrying 49 people – some of whom did not have seats and including children who were sitting on people's laps, said Patricia Gonzalez, a prosecutor in Chihuahua state.
Many of the bodies were severely burned and it could be months before all the victims are identified, Gonzalez said.
Some of the passengers told El Diario de Juarez newspaper the driver appeared to have fallen asleep.
"People were burning, screaming, praying and there were a lot of kids," Carlos Omar Rodriguez, 12, told the newspaper.
The boy injured his hip while escaping through a window, but was not burned, the newspaper reported.
Mariana Perez, 20, and her 23-year-old sister Sarahi managed to crawl out through a window, only minutes before flames engulfed the bus.
"The passengers were scrambling on top of us and the front of the bus was burning," she told El Diario. "We just got out and had gotten a few (feet) away when it exploded. ... We were so scared. We were in shock when it exploded because we knew that people were trapped in there. A lot of people couldn't get out."
Operated by the Omnibus company, the bus left Friday night from Jimenez, about 280 miles south of Juarez.