Day 3: Behind the wall
MEXICO CITY (1/19) - It was back to the Zócalo this morning to pick up the Turibus ticket for the Piramides.
The guides provided bilingual coverage on and off the bus. We stopped for a moment at the Plaza de las Tres Culturas - pre-Columbian, Spanish colonial, and modern - and the guides mentioned the 1968 shooting of protesting students by, well, nobody knows for sure.
Then it was on to a stop at the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe, which is visited by millions of Catholics a year. In fact, it’s the third-most visited religious pilgrimage site after Mecca and the Vatican.
The original basilica, started in 1695, shows the results of living long in Mexico City - the floor’s slightly slanted, due to the make-up of the city’s foundation on an old lake bed. It’s not in any immediate danger of collapsing or crumbling to the ground any time soon. Regardless, there’s a new basilica (1974) across the courtyard.
We then headed out of the city and into the State of Mexico, short-handed as EdoMex (Estado de Mexico). It’s just like the city and state of Washington, but the Mexicos are much closer together.
We arrived at the Piramides, but were then promptly told that the first-millennium residents of Teotihuacan were merely copying the mountainous landscapes in the distance.
After walking through the “suburbs”, we came to and climbed up the Pyramid of the Moon. Even only being allowed a fourth of the way up, it was quite a hike, with the steps about knee-high.
But there was a more embarrassing moment for me; after putting on some additional sunscreen, the tour guide easily deduced that there was a hole on the wrong end of the tube. “Well, this area won’t burn,” I quipped as my fellow Anglophones provided napkins.
Once back down, we were given free time, to which I headed to the restroom and cleaned out my camera bag. Fortunately, there was only a little dab on my passport cover; most of the lotion ended up on the zipper.
Another embarrassment reared its head when me and a couple from South Korea determined we were at the wrong gate. (It’s not like the gates had giant numbers.) Fortunately, we were picked up and taken to a local restaurant for a Mexican buffet.
I want to say it was authentic, but except for it being a Thursday afternoon, I could probably find a singing mariachi band at a Charleston-area Mexican restaurant on a Friday night. What they wouldn’t have would be two fairly authentic-looking Aztec warriors dancing amongst the buffet tables.
The bus then took us down several blocks to an artisan shop. Among other things, our tour guide showed us some amazing properties of the agave plant - paper-like thickness, producing natural liquors - and some more authentic stones than what you’d find the hucksters selling at Teotihuacan. He then led us into the shop for a swig of a higher-proof natural liquor, which was about as sweet as they come.
Coming back, I eventually realized the mistake I made about being at the last pick-up site for the tour bus. It also meant I would be among the last to be dropped off. That meant we crept through Mexico City’s rush-hour traffic for about 90 minutes to make the four other stops. Being on the upper deck of an enclosed double-decker bus sure messed with my depth perception. Cars frequently disappeared from my second-row, second-level view. And with people dashing across the street and motorcycles zipping up the stripes, no wonder I decided not to drive anywhere.
Once back to the Zócalo, I went to the rooftop restaurant of the Hotel Majestic Best Western, where I had Mexican-authentic tacos and a shot of mescal.
Now, I know what you’re going to say. First, mescaline is the drug. Second, mescal is quite a strong liquor - though the one pepper on my tacos that I did eat was what brought me to my knees - but I only finished a third of the shot glass, and again: not driving.
It was 8:30 and time to come home. Once I was back in my Metro neighborhood, I stopped off at the ATM before staggering home after a long day of touristing and a short evening of drinking.
The guides provided bilingual coverage on and off the bus. We stopped for a moment at the Plaza de las Tres Culturas - pre-Columbian, Spanish colonial, and modern - and the guides mentioned the 1968 shooting of protesting students by, well, nobody knows for sure.
Then it was on to a stop at the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe, which is visited by millions of Catholics a year. In fact, it’s the third-most visited religious pilgrimage site after Mecca and the Vatican.
The original basilica, started in 1695, shows the results of living long in Mexico City - the floor’s slightly slanted, due to the make-up of the city’s foundation on an old lake bed. It’s not in any immediate danger of collapsing or crumbling to the ground any time soon. Regardless, there’s a new basilica (1974) across the courtyard.
We then headed out of the city and into the State of Mexico, short-handed as EdoMex (Estado de Mexico). It’s just like the city and state of Washington, but the Mexicos are much closer together.
We arrived at the Piramides, but were then promptly told that the first-millennium residents of Teotihuacan were merely copying the mountainous landscapes in the distance.
After walking through the “suburbs”, we came to and climbed up the Pyramid of the Moon. Even only being allowed a fourth of the way up, it was quite a hike, with the steps about knee-high.
But there was a more embarrassing moment for me; after putting on some additional sunscreen, the tour guide easily deduced that there was a hole on the wrong end of the tube. “Well, this area won’t burn,” I quipped as my fellow Anglophones provided napkins.
Once back down, we were given free time, to which I headed to the restroom and cleaned out my camera bag. Fortunately, there was only a little dab on my passport cover; most of the lotion ended up on the zipper.
Another embarrassment reared its head when me and a couple from South Korea determined we were at the wrong gate. (It’s not like the gates had giant numbers.) Fortunately, we were picked up and taken to a local restaurant for a Mexican buffet.
I want to say it was authentic, but except for it being a Thursday afternoon, I could probably find a singing mariachi band at a Charleston-area Mexican restaurant on a Friday night. What they wouldn’t have would be two fairly authentic-looking Aztec warriors dancing amongst the buffet tables.
The bus then took us down several blocks to an artisan shop. Among other things, our tour guide showed us some amazing properties of the agave plant - paper-like thickness, producing natural liquors - and some more authentic stones than what you’d find the hucksters selling at Teotihuacan. He then led us into the shop for a swig of a higher-proof natural liquor, which was about as sweet as they come.
Coming back, I eventually realized the mistake I made about being at the last pick-up site for the tour bus. It also meant I would be among the last to be dropped off. That meant we crept through Mexico City’s rush-hour traffic for about 90 minutes to make the four other stops. Being on the upper deck of an enclosed double-decker bus sure messed with my depth perception. Cars frequently disappeared from my second-row, second-level view. And with people dashing across the street and motorcycles zipping up the stripes, no wonder I decided not to drive anywhere.
Once back to the Zócalo, I went to the rooftop restaurant of the Hotel Majestic Best Western, where I had Mexican-authentic tacos and a shot of mescal.
Now, I know what you’re going to say. First, mescaline is the drug. Second, mescal is quite a strong liquor - though the one pepper on my tacos that I did eat was what brought me to my knees - but I only finished a third of the shot glass, and again: not driving.
It was 8:30 and time to come home. Once I was back in my Metro neighborhood, I stopped off at the ATM before staggering home after a long day of touristing and a short evening of drinking.