By Lena Katz
My earliest memories of Mexico were of Mazatlan timeshares, and then, of the giant oceanfront all-inclusives of Puerto Vallarta. In recent times, I’ve been to Cabo San Lucas — or Las Vegas South, as some people like to call it — and of course Cancun, the glossy hub of high-rise tourism.
Seeing these places, I can understand why other visitors could think that Mexico is just one giant resort sprawl. However, having traveled a bit more throughout the country, I know how mistaken they are. Mexico’s real cities — as well as its non-resort towns — have distinct and colorful personalities, histories and aesthetics. It just goes to show you, the same rule applies to places as to plants: Allowed to evolve organically over time, they’ll turn into unique expressions of the lands and the locals who tend them.
Acapulco
Truth: I spent 10 years preparing to hate this city. I wouldn’t travel here, thinking it was too crowded, dirty, touristy. … And then I went. I stayed in a pink cupcake palace carved snugly into a mountain (Las Brisas — it’s famously nicknamed "the Baby Factory," and indeed, staying here made me want to get … married).
From various high-up hillside vantage points, I surveyed the city as it flirtatiously winked back at me. I couldn’t determine whether the skyline, a skyscraper crescent curved around a wide bay, reminded me more of Miami, Rio or somewhere in Spain. Like any typical tourist, I goggled at the La Quebrada cliff divers — although I stopped short of taking a photo with them in their full Speedo-clad glory. Unlike most typical tourists, I took a motorboat out to the lagoons and completely covered my face in muddy clay scooped from the bottom. (It didn’t do much for my complexion, one way or the other.) And finally, like a typical Spring Breaker (which I am not, but sometimes forget), I went out clubbing and snogged a law student at 4 a.m. before my friends dragged me away.
Verdict: Just as fun as it was in the ’50s, though not a Hollywood hangout at the moment.
San Miguel de Allende
When I visited this famous inland artist community, it was on Dia de los Muertos, and the church bells were ringing as though the Hunchback of Notre Dame had gone berserk in the tower. Really, it was not great for my hungover head. However. Cobblestone streets, a picturesque square, church spires against a blue sky … yes, this town is exactly as scenic as it’s touted to be. After a four-hour luncheon in a local guesthouse, accompanied by several perfect margaritas and sun-steeped flower tea, I completely forgave San Miguel for my sins — and for the alarming acoustic capabilities of its bell tower.
Verdict: As pretty as the paintings. Don’t walk it in high heels.