Checking hotels in the Centro Historico
Time to survey the hotels in the Centro Historico. This is Mexico City at its oldest and grandest, where Latin America’s largest Cathedral overlooks the world’s second largest public square, overflowing with Catholic exuberance.
Nearby, enormous pillared structures house the offices of power, reminiscent of some great European palace. Between these imposing edifices, endless colonial mansions adorn the streets. Some are crumbling and ruined from earthquake damage, others lopsided and sinking, yet others are restored to their imperial glory. Flags wave, people throng and a nation defines itself in elegant, stately expressions.
But beneath all this grandeur lies the ceremonial centre of Tenochtitlán – the spiritual and geographic centre of the Aztec universe. The heart of the Fierce Empire. Little has changed since then, I realise, watching the worshippers file into the Great Cathedral, their eyes and hearts fixed upon the Lord Jesus Christ – the ultimate human sacrifice, dripping with blood and gore.
The remains of Tenochtitlan's Great Temple have been partially excavated near the Zocalo. In the background rises the Cathedral, partly constructed with stone from ruined Aztec structures.
But now is not the time to reflect upon the city’s throbbing Aztec heart. I’m forced to make the rounds, clipboard and notes in hand, marching from hotel to hotel to hotel. I have a system worked out. A script. Once you’ve done it a few thousand times, it trips off the tongue in perfect, lightening-fast Spanish.
I present myself, explain the task and show them the latest edition of the guidebook I’m working on. I check their details and prices and enquire about services – cable TV, air-conditioning, restaurant, hot water, tours, taxis, tourist information, internet, WIFI, telephone, laundry, room service, umm – anything else?
I ask to see to a room. Sometimes they snap their fingers and summon some poor little Cinderella from her floor mopping:
“Take the Señor up to 12.”
Sometimes they leave me to find it alone. I take a quick look around, check out the bathroom, the views, the bed and I scribble some notes. I thank everyone concerned and I leave. Next place.
Some travel writers do all this incognito. This is a mistake. When people know you’re working on a guidebook they often want to talk, supplying good recommendations, excellent leads, local gossip and news. And in Mexico, room prices are normally on public display too, so they can’t lie about their rates in any case.
On a typical day, I might visit 20 or so hotels and the same number of restaurants. I’ll be on my feet for six hours or more trying to navigate some weird little town before jumping on a bus by dusk. On to the next place and no time to think about it. It’s important to dispel the myth that the life of a travel writer is glamorous. It’s wonderfully free and different, but it’s hard graft. And the worst thing you can do is work out your hourly rate.
In the Centro Historico, I work a path around the Zocalo and its handsome colonial streets. At a thriving hostel on a busy plaza I realise just how lucrative the backpacker market is. A real cash cow.
The price of a bed in a shared dormitory in this hostel is $14. For a dollar or two more, you could get a comfortable private room in a budget hotel, complete with bathroom, cable TV, telephone and fan. That would suit one or two persons. But if you want a private room in a hostel that will be $45, if you please.
I continue my journey through the Centro historico. At Plaza Santo Domingo there’s a thriving trade in printing. Men with inky, ancient type-writers and antiquarian presses flank the square, accosting me with darting eyes, as if offering some kind of illegal contraband:
“Hey amigo! You looking for something special? I think have what you’re looking for…”
Having quelled my addiction to printed products with a 12-step recovery programme, I tell them ‘no thanks’ and move on.
The area north of the Zocalo is interesting and economical and I see some good value hotels here, including a beautiful old colonial relic crumbling inside and out, but thoroughly charming nonetheless. I check out half a dozen or so places and then arc down to the streets south of the Zocalo. I find myself smack in the middle of a protest that’s reaching the length of the road. They’re marching one way and I’m marching another. I snap some photos and move on to the next thing on the list.
Sat, Aug 15, 2009
Mexico, Mexico City