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like an El Greco landscape. Half the male citizenry is unbuttoning their American mackintoshes and shaking the water out of the brims of their sombreros; the other half is huddling in soaked white cotton pyjamas, their chins and shoulders wrapped in those thin, gaudy horse blankets known as
sarapes
in the arts and crafts. It is no longer hot, only mild like a spring evening. Two hours ago we were in August, now it is April.
    I take a look at a plan and set out. I cross the Alameda, a rather glum squareful of vegetation cherished as a park. It was started, like so much else in Mexico, in honour of some anniversary of Independence, and itsplant life seems to be all rubber trees. I come out into Avenida Juarez ablare with juke-box, movie theatre, haberdashery and soft-drink parlour. Our street, Avenida Hidalgo, was handsome if run down – a length of slummy
palacios
with oddments of Aztec masonry encrusted in their sixteenth-century façades, and no shops but a line of flower stalls selling funeral
pièces montées,
huge wreaths and crosses worked with beads, filigree and mother-of-pearl skulls. The wrong side of the Alameda, we are later told. The right side looks like the Strand.
    I walk on and am stunned by the sight of as amazing a structure as I could ever hope to see. It is the National Theatre and was obviously built by Diaz and in the early nineteen-hundreds. I had best leave the description of this masterpiece of eclecticism to
Terry
:
    El Teatro Nacionál, an imposing composite structure of shimmering marble, precious woods, bronze, stained glass and minor enrichments, stands on the E end of the Alameda … It … cost upwards of thirty-five million pesos. The original plans, the work of the Italian Adamo Boari (who designed the nearby Central Post Office) called for a National Theatre superior to any on the continent … The Palacio presents a strikingly harmonious blend of various architectural styles … When about half-completed the enormously heavy structure began slowly to sink into the spongy subsoil. It has sunk nearly five feet below the original level.
    This sounds an optimistic note. But no, the Teatro Nacionál is no iceberg, there are still some three hundred feet to sink.
    When I reach the centre it is quite suddenly night. On Avenida Francesco Madero – a murdered President – the shops are bright with neons. Wells Fargo, where I had hoped to collect some letters, keep American hours and are closed. Everything else is open and bustling. After the three-hour lunch, the siesta and the rains, a new lease of business begins at about eight. The food shops are as good as they look. Great sacks of coffee in the bean, York hams and Parma hams, gorgonzolas, olive oil.
    ‘May I buy all the ham I want?’ I feel compelled to ask.
    ‘How many hams, Señora?’
    I have no intention of leaving this entrancing shop. It is as clean as it is lavish, and they are so polite … One might be at Fortnum’s. Only this is more expansive: that warm smell of roasting coffee and fresh bread. And the wines! Rows and rows of claret, pretty names and sonorous names of
Deuxième Crus,
Château Gruaud-Larose-Sarget, Château Pichon-Longueville, Château Ducru-Beaucaillou, alas all are expensive. A tray of small hot pasties is brought in,
mille feuilles
bubbling with butter.
    ‘¿Qué hay en el interiór?’
    ‘Anchovy, cheese, chicken.’
    I have some done up to take back to E. There is French brandy, Scotch whisky, Campari Bitter, none of them really ruinous, but none of them cheap. Decidedly, the local produce. I get a quart of Bacardi rum, the best, darkest kind. Five pesos. A peso is almost exactly a shilling. And a bottle of Mexican brandy. The name of this unknown quantity is appropriate,
Cinco Equis
, Five X’s. It costs nine pesos and has three stars. We shall see.
    As I leave the shop, a small child relieves me of my parcels. She does it with dignity, hinting that it is not so much her wish to earn a tip, as that it