Tenochtitlan

One of the fascinating features of México City is what lies under the streets. I think almost everyone knows that the city is built on top of the remains of the great Aztec capitol of Tenochtitlan. That name means “in the center of the Moon.” It was founded on 13 March 1356 and was the center of the vast Aztec empire. Through the centuries, the city grew outward from an island in the middle of Lake Texcoco, which was slowly drained.

Well, not everyone has a grasp of the details perhaps, but a lot of people know that as a general proposition. I had some general idea about all that anyway. If I did, then a lot of other people do, too. But here is my point. It is one thing to know that in the abstract. It is quite another to encounter personally the physical evidence of that. Let me try to show you what I mean.

This is the National Palace where the presidential offices are located, as well as some spectacular murals by Diego Rivera. The National Palace is located on the Zócalo, or main plaza of the city. In the previous entry there is a view out the door of the National Palace onto the Zócalo teeming with people. After being identified and scanned and searched and generally checked out by the Mexican Army, I wandered around this huge building a good deal.

Inside the National Palace I bumped into this hole in the floor sheltered by a glass cover. When one looks down into the hole, one sees some steps of a partially excavated Aztec structure. Right there under the floor, kids.



















One block north of the National Palace, the streets are disrupted by a big dig. This is the excavation of the Templo Mayor, the main temple of the Aztecs. It is right there under the streets of the modern city. And of course the Aztec capitol of Tenochtitlan was built on top of previous settlements on the island. So there is more stuff to be found the deeper one digs.

Encountering the physical evidence of the older city under the new city gives one a strange sensation. An eerie sensation. I have never been to Rome, but I suspect that one experiences a similar sensation there. It sets the mood for one's experience of the rest of the incredible city of México.

Photo by Adriana.

Preliminary Report

There is an enormous number of Mexicans in México City. I thought it was the third largest city in the world. México City apparently edged out Mumbai, India, behind my back at some point and now holds second place with 18,131,000 people.

In any event, I am a believer now. México City is an incredible place. Overwhelming. It is most assuredly not just another big city.

Here we look out the door of the National Palace onto the Zócalo, the enormous main plaza.

Off to See the Wizard

In a few minutes a cab will arrive to take me to the bus station. I am off to the big city. La ciudad de México. Mexico City.

I am not really a big city kinda guy, but I need to do this. However, I am not taking my laptop with me into that place. Odds are that I would not bring it back out with me.

I shall return on Tuesday, hopefully with some new material.

And Here She Is

Yes, I agree. Vanessa Mae has my leave to bob and weave as she wishes while playing her instrument. And she does so with style, but her gig is wildly different than first violin in a chamber orchestra. My beef is really more with violinists sitting in the orchestra who are excessively active.

A Little Chamber Music Will Do You No Harm . . .

but if you overdo chamber music, a physical dependency ensues with symptoms that include your acquiring precious speech patterns and becoming a pretentious dickhead socially. This is a problem rampant among New Yorkers. With chamber music, as with all things pleasurable in this world, moderation is in order.



On the 15th at 5:00 p.m., I took in some very enjoyable chamber music at Belles Artes. There is a little auditorium there off the second floor promenade that I had not been in.

The Death of My Downtown

I never say never, but circumstances that would take me
back to my downtown would have to be extraordinary indeed.

Give It Some Time

For John near Lake McBride. . . .

What the Hell is Going On and Why?

I realize that an inordinate number of recent entries here have been in great part devoted to meals or food in one way or another. I am a bit sensitive about this because older folks' fixation on and fascination with food has long been a source of amusement for me. See the open mockery in the food column for example. I can only say that my recent focus on food is for very good reasons not closely related to the usual old person's obsession with the subject.

When I came to México, a big priority for me was to see whether I could actually live here on the little money available to me. Obviously, food is a big part—and an essential part—of any budget. One cannot cut food out of the budget. Consequently, it was not that long ago that I was regaling you with the virtues and nutritional benefits of beans and rice. There was good reason for that, too. That is what I was living on, supplemented with some fresh fruit and vegetables here and there.

Suddenly over the course of the last month or month and a half and through the kindness of others, I have been eating higher on the hog than I have ever before eaten in my life. I do not exaggerate. Now, I have not had any caviar, but caviar is overrated anyway. I have had jellied squid ink, for example, which is every bit as good. I am at a bit of a loss to explain how and why all this came about.

Here is an example of what I am talking about. When La Mexicana and I attended the David Sánchez jazz concert, a couple from Vancouver sat down next to us. This was not Mark and Gwen who are also from Vancouver. This couple was Arnold and Debra. Arnold is German and is still president and major stockholder in an active Canadian advertising firm in Toronto, a firm that essentially now runs itself allowing Debra and him to live the good life in Vancouver.

The extraordinary thing about this encounter, and the thing relevant to my point, is that Debra and Adriana just happened to have attended the same convent school in Vancouver. This then later led to an invitation to their condominium rental here in San Miguel on the evening of December 11 for hors d'oeuvres and conversation. . .great, great hors d'oeuvres, if I may say. A true meal substitute. When someone turns me loose on a table of fine hors d'oeuvres, they do not suffer left overs.

We were joined at Arnold and Debra's place by another gracious and very interesting couple, John and Veronica. John is a designer formerly from Los Angeles who works here now. Veronica, a woman of accomplishment in her own right, is Chilean.

So you see, as the result of a strange coincidence, there I was again chowing down on some of the best sausage, cheese, olives, bread, fruit, and whatnot that San Miguel has to offer while at the same time soaking up the company of very interesting people. In other recent entries, I have also told you about the excellent meals I have enjoyed at the homes of other people of means. That is what I cannot explain.

Debra, La Mexicana, and Veronica,
the convent school girls.

On top of that and as another example, I happened to get invited to one of the greatest dinner parties ever simply because I am managing a drinking problem.

And on top of all that still again, La Mexicana often cooks five-course Mexican meals for me that are to die for simply because I can make her laugh.

I am careful never to mislead any of these kind people into the error of believing that I have anything material. The final verse of Jimmy Buffet's Son of a Son of a Sailor Man ends with, “I'm just glad I don't live in a trailer,” as if you cannot go any lower than that. Well, I do live in a trailer, and a damned tiny one at that. I am careful to let everyone I encounter socially know that. The only thing I own, other than my beloved pickup truck and a trailer, is a smile. And yet I am on a run of the greatest meals of my life in some of the most beautiful homes in San Miguel while my own pressure cooker gathers dust.

Now of course there is a social set in San Miguel consisting of Americans of means that will never provide me with a meal. Many of them play tennis here at the tennis courts. That is just fine with me. I would consider a great meal pitiful recompense for enduring their company for even a couple of hours. However, the people I am talking about are fascinating folks of widely varied interests and wonderful personalities with whom to pass some time with. Their conversation is not limited to the state of their portfolios. And what amazes me is that they do not seem to give a shit that I have nothing.

This is going to complicate the revolution to no end for me.