Texas Spring Break in CDMX: Tía Rosa, Coyoacán, and Sophie at Casa Azul

Why Coyoacán, Why Always Coyoacán

Tía Rosa lives three blocks off the Plaza Hidalgo in a casita with a tile courtyard and a lemon tree that Sophie spent half the trip trying to climb. Tía is my mom's older sister — a cookbook editor in her sixties who has Opinions about every restaurant within a ten-block radius and will absolutely walk you over there to settle a dispute. Staying with her is not a hotel. It is being adopted, fed, and lightly bossed around for a week, which is exactly what I want from a vacation.

Coyoacán itself is the move with kids. It's walkable. It's not Roma-Norte-trendy where every restaurant is a forty-five minute wait and the sidewalks are full of influencers. It's neighborhood-y. Old families, old trees, weekend markets. The kids can run in the plaza while we sit at Los Danzantes with a mezcal and pretend we're parenting.

The Casa Azul (Sophie's First Time)

I'd been telling Sophie about Frida's house for months. She's four. Her interest level was, generously, three out of ten. But the morning we walked over — book your tickets online, no manches, do not just show up — she lost her little mind at the cobalt walls and the courtyard garden. She kept whispering "azul azul azul" like she was casting a spell. Matty, who's seven and a fully formed human at this point, was more interested in the kitchen with the giant clay comales and the names of Frida and Diego spelled out in cazuelas above the stove. Both of them stood in front of the wheelchair and the corset paintings and got, briefly, very quiet.

We did the museum at opening, which I cannot recommend enough. By 11 AM there's a line around the block. By 9:15 you're basically alone with Frida.

The Bici-Taxi to the Mercado

Saturday morning is the Mercado de Antojitos in Coyoacán, and the way to arrive is in a bici-taxi from the plaza. Sophie called it "the bike with the couch." Matty negotiated the fare in Spanish with the driver while Brian and I sat there like proud, useless gringos. Forty pesos. The kid is seven. He's already a better Mexican than his father.

• Café El Jarocho — the chocolate caliente. The line moves fast. Get the campechano. Stand on the sidewalk to drink it, that's the whole experience.
• Los Danzantes Coyoacán — sit on the patio facing the plaza. The mole de pato. The kids can run in the fountain twenty feet away. Civilized.
• Tostadas Coyoacán in the mercado — the tinga tostada. Brian had four. Brian always has four.
• El Pendulo on Avenida Universidad — bookstore with a café, the kids can browse the children's section in Spanish. Matty came home with three new books.

Bilingual Maintenance Is the Whole Point

Look, I'm gonna be honest with you. The reason we go in March, the reason we yank Matty out of school the Friday before if we can stretch it, is that this kid is being raised bilingual in Austin, Texas. Spanish at home is good. Spanish at Tía Rosa's dinner table for seven straight nights is unbeatable. By day three he's dreaming in Spanish. By day five he's correcting Brian's pronunciation, which — okay — Brian sets a low bar but still.

Sophie at four is a sponge. She came home calling Tía Rosa "Tía" with the perfect chilango lilt. She picked up "ándale" and now uses it on the dog. The public school cannot do this for me. Texas elementary Spanish is twenty minutes a week of a song about colors. I am not waiting for that to do the work.

What Brian Discovered This Time

On his fortieth visit. FORTIETH. Brian discovered, on a side street in San Ángel, a guy selling esquites with epazote and a chile he could not name. He came back to Tía Rosa's holding the styrofoam cup like it was the Ark of the Covenant. "Jess. JESS. There's an herb in here." Sí, mi amor. It's epazote. It's been in everything you've eaten for fifteen years. He's still working on the Jalisco pronunciation too. Híjole.