The Bride of Mexico

Travel is the moment when each of us leaves everyday reality and sets off in search of our own hidden self. We will find it again in people's eyes, in the colours of nature, in the scents of the air. A trip to Mexico is all of this: a journey through space, across the ocean, and through time, finally revealed to our eyes by the magnificent pre-Columbian remains brought to light. We arrive on a Saturday, and Mexico City on Saturdays comes alive with the sounds, lights and images of Mesoamerica: we are in San Ángel, a district south of the historic centre. Once this little village was home to the Spaniards' 'case de campo': richly decorated colonial-style villas, massive carved wooden doors, wrought-iron grilles and cobbled streets.

Around them, gardens and flowerbeds frame the city's artists' market: painters, sculptors, antique dealers and junk dealers catch passers-by with the magic of art. A few steps from the central square is the Church of San Jacinto. A characteristic ceremony is being celebrated, typical for girls turning 15: in white dresses, surrounded by the affection of their loved ones and by arrangements of fragrant flowers, they receive the Church's blessing as a sign of prosperity and health. Seated at a table in the square's cellar, we enjoy a cool margarita together with tacos and tortillas. A customer approaches me with his little booth. From the small cage a canary comes out, pecks from the box and pulls out a coloured ticket. Here is my future; I take it for a coin of a few pesos, and it says I will lose everything at gambling...

The following Sunday, early in the morning, we head north: Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe awaits us, and it couldn't be otherwise given the feast of the Assumption. On arriving, I am struck by the mixture of the sacred Christian rite, typical of our country too, with the dances, costumes and almost primordial music that accompany it, a sign of the indigenous belief still deeply rooted and felt. I am struck even more by the slant of the basilica: the great central nave and the two side ones are supported by a colonnade irregular in shape and inclination. Violent subsidence due to the muddy ground constantly threatens the stability of the structure which, miraculously, still stands since the 16th century and preserves the image of the Virgin venerated throughout the country. We climb further north, in search of the mighty pyramids of the ancient city of Teotihuacán.

I choose to climb the Pyramid of the Moon; the steps are slabs of rock wedged one on top of another, steep and narrow, barely giving a foothold. I reach the top, panting. The evocative panorama repays me for the tiring climb; a lush nature surrounds the whole site, witness to the grandeur of this city that arose between the 4th and 6th centuries AD, but suddenly declined and literally vanished around the 8th century AD. From here, looking south-west, behind the mountains, I imagine glimpsing the great lake that cradles Mexico City. We return to the Zócalo of the capital while the sun is still high. The square is enlivened by the feast for the Assumption: men in skimpy leather garments with feathered headdresses dance to the sound of drums and pipes; a shaman sprinkles some women's bodies with fragrant smoke.

Mexico's history becomes legend in the Palacio Nacional, decorated inside with the splendid paintings of Diego Rivera. From the central staircase you climb to the first-floor galleries overlooking the patio. The mural at the centre of the staircase is the richest and most beautiful in the whole palace: it retraces Mexico's history, from the founding of the ancient city of Tenochtitlán (1325), through independence (1810), to the revolution of 1910. The country's historic figures are the protagonists of this beautiful mural: on the left, Rivera places at the centre of the scene the class struggle between the well-off aristocracy and the working people led by a combative Lenin in work overalls; in the centre, the corrupt and blasphemous Church. Not far from the main square the mariachis gather: they strike up Cielito lindo and our evening ends with a glass of tequila.

The next day we travel on the road to Puebla. At the gates of the city we are stopped by a workers' protest march: we are in the homeland of the Beetle. A little further on is the stadium that hosted our Azzurri in the 1970 World Cup. In the city, there are many shops selling typical sweets, which we don't fail to visit. Alongside, windows display snow-white dresses for the 15th-birthday party. Our visit to the Iglesia de Santo Domingo reveals one of Mexico's masterpieces: the Capilla del Rosario. Built in the 17th century, it stands to the left of the main altar; it strikes you with the richness of the figures depicted (Santo Domingo de Guzmán, founder of the Dominican order, the Virgen del Rosario, the dove of the Holy Spirit, the Graces) and the preciousness of the gilded inlays. Outside in the little market a girl sells slices of cake. We are on the road again, travelling again.

Along the way the landscapes change constantly: a fast up-and-down through the Sierra Madre Occidental. A typical candelabra cactus forms the backdrop for a group photo. We reach Oaxaca at dusk. The city has a historic centre laid out on a regular grid. At the market we taste grasshoppers, but then console ourselves with cocoa sweets. Uphill, towards the hill that dominates the city, the Church of Santo Domingo: it is here that Marco celebrated his wedding. On the way back, drops of rain wet the windows of the minibus. In the background, the music of Bennato: '...every fairy tale is a game and is only half true...'. We have been in Mexico for a few days now, and yet we can't get our bearings: our north is the mountains, the cold; our south the sea, the heat.

The state of Oaxaca is the centre-south of the country, but heavy rain greets us at the foot of Monte Albán and the climate wouldn't exactly seem summery. We invoke the group's shaman, Marco, to free us from the evil weather front. The site holds the remains of the ancient Zapotec capital. The altitude of 1600 metres makes the view spectacular and the city's position very safe and protected. The large ceremonial area of the Gran Plaza is notable for the discovery of bas-reliefs depicting human figures called Los Danzantes, because of the curious position of their hands and feet. A tasty little scene reconciles us after the morning's downpour: in the village of El Tule there is an enormous Montezuma Cypress (about 50 metres in circumference...).

Two very friendly little girls accompany us to discover the animal figures that our imagination has us see carved by the bark and branches of the 3000-year-old tree; in chorus, they invite us to follow them and admire the figures with curious refrains in perfect Italian. In Mitla, in the afternoon, the sun returns. The blocks that make up the site date back to the 9th-10th century AD. A series of mosaic decorations and geometric forms characterises the buildings. The sun is about to set. In the now deserted market square, I can hear a voice in the distance: it is Luigia phoning home.