Our Man in Mexico: Eterna Primavera September 12, 2021
This is not the best week to try to renew my passport in the capital city. On the 20th anniversary of 9/11, the US Embassy is braced for jihad, and Mexican federales are out in full force on Paseo de la Reforma. It would be better if I lose my passport and apply for an emergency replacement, but, remarkably, I still have the one issued to me in 2010. Come back next week and try again, the man behind the glass advises, but I have my doubts, as next week is Independence Day and I know from experience that the holiday celebration is cause for mayhem in old DF.
The solution, as usual, is to make an escape. We drive an hour south, over the 10,000-foot hills, to the relatively balmy midsize city of Cuernavaca, the Land of Eternal Spring. A little bit of springtime eternity sounds about right, and I am happy to report that Cuernavaca fits the bill. Sitting in a valley at 5000 feet, this city’s combination of moisture, sunshine, and fertile soil makes it ideal for thriving plant life of all kinds. “We export rice to China and Tulips to Holland,” brag the residents. I hasten to add that cartel turf fights also flourish, particularly since the government’s so-called “War on Drugs” heated up in 2008.
With a population of 2 million, the old colonial city once attracted foreign tourists, but the rising crime rate and violence drove them away, which makes it strangely attractive to the likes of me, although it is not the easiest place to get around. Beyond the central downtown district, most of Cuernavaca is hilly terrain with many ravines, called Barrancas, and the narrow roadways are a maze to negotiate, dictated more by geography than any kind of city planning. Some of the greatest obstacles are the magnificent assortment of large trees that grow at such a rate as to tear up streets and walls with aggressive root systems. Leave your garden alone for a week at your peril, as it may consume your home.
We arrive just in time for a late lunch of Posole at a hideaway known only to a few. A giant kettle of chicken broth simmers on an open wood fire, surrounded by a grove of twisted Ficus trees whose size and shapes astound this desert dweller. Our table quickly fills with a dozen different condiments, including salsas, lime, oregano, radish, onion, avocado, and, for the enterologically adventurous, chopped lettuce. Then come the cauldrons of Posole Verde, a hominy-based soup colored with a green paste made from pumpkin seeds. Meat-lovers are invited to add shredded chicken or deep-fried pork-rind pieces, which frankly require more time to chew than my travel visa allows.
Starting in the early 16th Century, Cuernavaca was the playground for the rich and famous, as it still is for ritzy weekenders from CDMX. Most famous of all was Hernan Cortes, whose winter palace is the centerpiece of downtown. Today its walled estate remains closed for repairs from the ’17 earthquake, but another, El Jardin Borda, is open to all with masks, for 30 pesos, as a cultural center and nature reserve. In the mid-19th Century, this was the safe house for the deeply unpopular Emperor Maximillian, his alleged Nahuatl mistress, and his deluded wife, Carlota, who constantly lamented that Mexicans did not receive her royal highness as mother to all her people.
The grounds are filled with fountains and rich flora—Níspero fruit trees, orange-flowering Framboyán, Mangos and Palmas. Fluttering among them are what look to be flying white napkins, but they are gigantic butterflies, as large as my outstretched hand. Leaf-cutter ants hard at work also exceed the size prescribed by ordinary nature. Here nature is extraordinary. Even the statue in the main square of Father Morelos, the namesake of this state, seems too big for his pedestal. The one exception is the statue of Cortes himself, whose head seems disproportionally small for his frame, sort of like a renaissance infant. This certainly does not reflect the Conquistador’s bloated ego, which seems uniquely suited to the climate of Cuernavaca.