Lost and Found in Mexico City

From rogue taxis to Diego’s grave, tracing art, memory, and spirit through Roma Norte

Plaza Río de Janeiro

Amy and I parted ways on Monday, June 30, under the bright sun of Oaxaca. She flew north to Minneapolis–Saint Paul, where her son Esau welcomed her with open arms. Her other son, Jess, and sister, Carrie, are close by—family warmth to soften the distance between Minnesota and Oaxaca.

I, meanwhile, came to Mexico City and find myself tucked into a quiet apartment in Roma Norte. A pleasant surprise. Tree-lined streets, bohemian cafés, artful storefronts. It feels safe, relaxed, alive. The kind of place where time breathes a little easier. And an artist fits in naturally.

Each day, I set out with camera in hand. I visited the Museo Soumaya—its silver, twisting architecture always catches the light just right, like a seashell turned toward the sun. Built by Carlos Slim and named after his late wife, the museum is a monument to both love and wealth. The collection isn’t quite world-class, but it’s deep, eclectic, and free to all. I admire that—art offered without charge, a gift from one of the world’s richest men to the people of Mexico.

I went looking for a street I remembered—lined with wedding and quinceañera dress shops. I didn’t find it, but I did stumble upon Plaza Río de Janeiro, with its cheerful fountains and a hulking bronze copy of Michelangelo’s David. Mexico City has a way of giving you what you didn’t know you needed.

Later, I did find the wedding district, tucked in a gritty part of town—rows of shops bursting with ruffled dreams: gowns for little girls, glittering tiaras, satin shoes no bigger than your hand. The shopkeepers were kind. I wandered timidly, a gringo in a bastion of Mexican culture—but left feeling part of something grand, and with some fine photos.

Next day, the metro dropped me too far from the Panteón de Dolores, so I caught a taxi the rest of the way. There was no entry fee, but most of the cemetery was closed to the public—only the Rotonda de las Personas Ilustres was open. Photography was limited to handheld devices, a gesture of reverence. Inside the rotunda, I stood beside Diego Rivera’s grave. The great muralist rests among kindred spirits—writers, painters, musicians, and revolutionaries. The Rotonda is a place where Mexico honors its luminaries—those who shaped the nation’s art, identity, and soul. It’s fitting that Diego lies there, surrounded by a chorus of voices that once stirred the heart of Mexico.

Rivera Grave, front and back

That very afternoon, as if guided by some invisible thread, I found myself face-to-face with Las Dos Fridas at the Museo de Arte Moderno. Kahlo’s most famous painting—created after her agonizing breakup with Diego—is raw, haunting, and unforgettable. Two versions of Frida sit side by side, hearts exposed, one bleeding onto a white dress. The work is both deeply personal and universally human—a portrait of love, loss, and fractured identity. Frida and Diego, both in one day. Icons in the annals of art, heroes in the heart of Mexico. Soulmates, despite it all—and now, both immortalized not just in memory and museums, but on Mexican currency as well. 

Uber has been a comfort—clean, efficient, secure. I used it a couple of times without fuss. But then came the lesson: I had trouble locating a ride, and instead flagged down a rogue taxi. The driver refused cash, overcharged my card, and disappeared without giving a receipt. I called the credit card company and filed a dispute. No harm in the end, but I’m too old for this kind of robbery. Still, the city teaches—even in irritation.

"The Two Fridas," 1939, oil on canvas, by Frida Kahlo

The day held these highlights, yet I came home shaken. The taxi incident had rattled me. And the next day, July 5, was tender. It’s Naomi’s birthday in heaven. I spent the day quietly—sweeping, cooking, walking to the market. Praying. Tuning inward.

Health slows me—prostate issues bring discomfort and shadows of worry—but I press on, grateful for each step, each glimpse of the dream unfolding.

More and more, I long to surrender completely to spirit. To let go of striving. To live inside peace, with equanimity, and give myself entirely to God.

Street Art

Everywhere I walk, the walls speak. Mexico City’s street art is bold, defiant, and alive—murals, stencils, and graffiti bursting with color and voice. I’ve taken scores of photos, drawn to the visual symphony unfolding on every corner. Torn posters layered one over another become accidental masterpieces—an abstract collage of texture, pigment, and time. It's as if the city itself is constantly repainting its soul in public.

"Sueño de una tarde dominical en la Alameda Central,"  Diego Rivera, 50 feet wide

Today, Sunday, with camera slung over my shoulder, I walked to the Centro Médico metro station, descended into the city's undercurrent, and boarded a train—intending Bellas Artes but momentarily spirited in the wrong direction. A swift correction, and soon I emerged into the heart of Centro, where broad pedestrian promenades unfolded beneath towering architecture and a blue Mexico City sky. I returned to the Museo Mural Diego Rivera, drawn again to “Sueño de una tarde dominical en la Alameda Central”—that dense dream of Mexican history and myth. It held me, as always, in its spell. Along the way and all the way back, I made photographs—faces, shadows, signs, surprises—collecting fragments of the city's restless poetry.

In a few days, on July 9, I’ll leave Mexico City and fly to Albuquerque. There, I’ll spend the night with my beloved daughter Sarah—always a joy and a grounding presence. The next morning, I’ll head to Santa Fe, where I’ll settle in for a few weeks of quiet living and renewal. Amy will meet me there, and before long, we’ll journey back together to our sweet Oaxacan home—where life is unhurried, and the dream continues.

Xoloitzcuintle

After we moved to Mexico Amy wanted a dog. Not me. I had not owned a dog for over twenty years because I traveled frequently for extended periods. 

When I met Amy in 2017 she had an old chihuahua named Unica. It died within a year. We married in 2018 and moved to Oaxaca, Mexico in 2019. Here, especially outside the city, many destitute animals wander around neglected. Three adopted us. It was because we pitied them and fed them. After the first two I told Amy not to show compassion any more. But a starving brown dog was too much for her to look at⏤and then there were three. One was murdered by a roaming alpha male that asserts himself over the vicinity. One we care for cannot be touched. Each has his own set of fears.

These dogs came to us. But in her heart, Amy wanted the dog that is considered an emblem of Mexico, called Xoloitzcuintle. I had never seen one before moving to Mexico. At first sight I found them rather repulsive. Hairless, wrinkled, with often a tuft of colored hair (moica ) shooting up between their eyes onto the forehead. Amy had an attraction to the Xoloitzcuintle. Maybe because she is a person who deeply feels cultural roots. The name is from the Nahuatl language. Nahua people primarily live in central Mexico and comprise the largest indigenous group. The Aztecs and Toltecs are descendants.

Famous Mexican artists Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera had several  Xoloitzcuintles. Frida's favorite was “Mr. Xolotl,” after the Aztec canine deity and guardian of the underworld.

Amy began following online posts about Oaxaca Xoloitzcuintle. We almost bought one, but it was just before a two month trip to the east coast and Europe. While we were gone, our house sitters took care of feeding the “adopted” dogs that showed up at the backdoor each day.



It happened quickly. Amy saw on Facebook that the breeder here in Oaxaca had a puppy for sale. It was available because the people who had asked for it had not responded to phone calls. We went to have a look, meeting at a nearby coffee shop. The breeder, Enrique, arrived late. Opening the front of his jacket, two big ears popped out, then a little face with inquisitive eyes. With a half hour it was done. We drove home with our Xoloitzcuintle. It will be a medium sized female. 

So far so good. Her name is Malinalli, a day in the Aztec calendar associated with the god Patecatl. Patecatl is associated with medicine, healing, and fertility. She is the most intelligent animal I have ever had. Curious, attentive, playful and sometimes obstreperous. She trains quickly.

Amy is her favorite. 

I call her Molly.

Xolo

Xolo, (pronounced in English sho-low) is a dog breed developed by Mexico’s early indigenous peoples more than 3,000 years ago. It is famous as a hairless type dog historically revered by Aztec people and others. Once popular, it almost went extinct after the Spanish invasion. Apparently they did not like it and it lost favor. But indigenous people insured its survival and today it is having a burst of popularity as a symbol of authentic Mexican culture. Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera owned several, as well as, famous Mexican artist, Francisco Toledo. Xolos are depicted in sculptures and paintings.

For most of my life dogs have been companions. But for the last twenty years I have been without. Owning a dog and traveling do not mix. At one point I was gone a year. Other times for months. 

Now, Amy and I live in Mexico. Amy wants a dog. A neighbors pet shows up every day at our backdoor, but he always goes away. Amy has come to adore Xolos  for their unique appearance and demeanor. Also for their spiritual symbolism, (in ancient times, Xolos were often sacrificed and then buried with their owners to act as guides to the soul on its journey to the afterlife. They have been found in burial sites of both the Maya and the Toltec). 

I have to agree that they are different.
I have never been fond of hairless dogs, but could grow to like and love one I suppose.

We found a four year old Xolo here in Oaxaca called Pepe who is available. He has been well cared for by a man who is a dog lover and trainer. Jorge has a pack of animals he dotes on. 

We have had an initial meet and greet. Amy has been researching possible names from the ancient Mexican language called Nahuatl. We like two especially: Tochitli (rabbit) and Potchli (smoke). 

Looks like the next step is to bring Pepe home with us for a couple weeks and see how we like each other.

The Secret

 “I want to be inside your darkest everything.” -Frida Kahlo

The idea for making a painting of Frida Kahlo (Mexican, 6 July 1907 – 13 July 1954) came to me after I watched the movie of her life; simply called Frida. Mexican-American actress Salma Hayek played Frida and the movie is brisk, engaging and colorful. I watched it at home with my wife Amy Córdova.

Amy and I recently visited Mexico City and went to places that Frida and her husband, Diego Rivera left an indelible mark upon. Rivera has immense murals in various places in the city. Kahlo’s family home is now a museum.

One of the highlights for us was visiting Museo De Arte Moderno, and seeing a seminal work by Kahlo, called The Two Fridas. It is a big painting—almost six feet square. To stand in front of it is almost breathtaking. Kahlo’s fame grew rapidly after the 1960’s and now this artwork is iconic.

I researched Frida’s work and chose a painting she made early in her life, just before her terrible accident that left her crippled and in pain. It is called Self Portrait in a Velvet Dress. She made it in 1926 when nineteen years old. I copied it exactly and then put in the skeleton, as if embracing her and whispering in her ear, or about to kiss her cheek. It symbolizes death that speaks to her.

Just before she died at the age of 47, she wrote “I hope the exit is joyful and I hope never to return.”

At the top:

 "The Secret" oil on linen, 24 x 30 inches, by Steven Boone

Limited edition print available. Click here: Frida

Hasta Luego Mexico!

Goodbye Mexico, until we meet again . . . hasta luego!

As the Grateful Dead said, “What a long strange trip its been.”

Tonight we board a plane at the Mexico City Airport and fly overnight to London, then board a flight to Madrid. We board again and fly to Granada.

To taste Mexico City, imagine if you will boarding in the middle of the “historico” center. The place is called “Chill Out Flats” and has high ratings on bookings.com . The owner and his mom speak good English and rent out five apartments in an office building with security. Breakfast is served every day.


A walk to the National Gallery of Art is about two blocks. Along the way, next to a perfume shop, a queue of young people wait to enter a museum of torture (Museo de la Tortura). The place with the masterpieces of art has no line.

Taxi’s are ubiquitous but beware of being overcharged. One day a driver refused to take our money. We could not figure it out until later when the maid at our hotel brought our clean laundry to our room and also refused to take our money. Turns out a bank machine had delivered us fake bank notes. Oh well, the mariachi musicians are out on Garibaldi plaza playing old time Spanish favorites for anyone who stops to listen. A few dirty songs are tossed in that make the young girls blush.

Streets are full of shops and some districts are known for perfumes, others for clothes; including blocks full of shops dedicated only to gorgeous, voluptuous wedding dresses or white baptismal clothes for children. Families arrive in preparation of big domestic events, then linger and choose.

Walking on streets is a carnival, day and night. Musicians play for change, as do organ grinders and young children strumming guitars or pumping accordions.

Frida Kahlo is everywhere—on the sides of buses, adorning posters and graffiti walls. Her lover and husband,  Diego Rivera, is also prized by Mexico. His immense murals are to be seen in museums and government buildings. After the Rockefellers paid him to make an immense mural in New York City, the subject matter was communist, celebrating workers rights and later destroyed. So Rivera made it again in Mexico City where astounded visitors at the Bellas Artes Museum can stand entranced by its grandeur and passionate appeal to rights for the common man.

The Museum of Anthropology is free, and a rich experience cataloging the earliest beginnings of human culture in Mesoamerica. The botanical park is across the street, near the Museum of Modern Art and the Rufino Tamayo museum. In the little park out front men dressed in Aztec regalia climb a giant pole then begin spiraling down, their ankles tied to ropes, in sweeping circles playing flutes and beating drums on the descent back to earth.  It is called “Danza de los Voladores” (Dance of the Flyers).

I have thought more than once that I want to live in Mexico City. Amy too. We can be so creative and the crazy ideas flow freely.