Mexico City and the Search for Octavio Paz
Memorials, Monuments, and the Labyrinth of Light
“Octavio Paz? No, he’s not here. This is the cemetery for U.S. service members who died abroad. It’s a memorial.”
My mind raced passed everything else he was saying. What mistake took me here? Is Octavio actually in Mexico City?
“You can enter and stay as long as you like. You can take photos of any part of the grounds except this house,” pointing to a building at the beginning of the grounds. He showed me the book where I would have to sign in to stay. The air was crisp and cool here. The sounds of the city bumping softly away.
I signed the book, walked into the cemetery, and took a seat on a bench. I searched rapidly on my phone to figure out what was going on.
I found the first site I read that confirmed he was in Mexico City, the main reason why I chose to come here for my birthday. I don’t know how I ended up at what I thought was the national cemetery, but I now found his resting place named as “the former college of San Ildefonso,” a whole leap across the city in the opposite direction. It appeared that Paz was here, in Mexico City, but I did not understand what to make of him being buried at a college.
What made this more interesting was that this place did not open for a few more hours. I was in the wrong place and way too early.
I started early this morning to begin my day with this moment, but if he were buried there, there was no way my day would start with me visiting Octavio. I would have to change my plan. I touched my shirt pocket that held the letter I wrote to him that morning.
One of the other places on my list was about an hour down from where he was buried. By the time I got there, San Ildefonso would be open, but I needed a destination now and something to eat soon. I took a moment in front of the central memorial and made my way out of the cemetery thanking the guard. And so it was that I accidentally paid my respects on my birthday.
A Theory of Place
The metro line I would take to Elena Garro Cultural Center would be the same line I’d take returning toward Octavio Paz. I figured it was good to get familiar with the line but noticed the station I would need then was totally out of service. The metro roared through Zampo. Not a soul in sight. The words from the announcement caught up to me, and I hoped it would be back in service for my return. Until then, I would have a moment to appreciate a new plan for my day.
I stood in front of the Elena Garro Cultural Center and took in the design. Its facade is a massive glass wall facing the street. You can see into the Center and the many books outlining the second floor and the displays on the ground level.
I walked in slowly. I love places like this. Not only was it necessary to visit this place for my trip, but it was necessary that I go here in this “year of places.” Well-designed places are important, and after seeing his place online, I knew I’d have to visit. I looked around, locating the genre sections, and found the cafe. I ordered a large lunch and rested on the patio, writing in my journal in between bites.
Handwritten journals are powerful in that they are singular. They do not save automatically to someone else’s cloud, like Google Docs, and automatically multiply. The words there have an aura to them. They are only there. They remain mine. Still now, I don’t know if I want to transcribe what I wrote there in my private moment. I will share, though, my attempted “theory of place” that reads as follows:
A place is “it’s own” based on at least:
The history and origin story of it
The physical design such that it is unique
The area around and what fuels its environment
There are a number of questions at the outset of this, namely: “whose history is considered the origin of a place?,” “are non-designed, natural environments then not able to be their ‘own place’?,” and “what is the process in which a place comes to be its own from a non-nurturing environment?”
But there is time to refine this, if it is to be anything at all.
Somewhere over the wall, someone was singing opera. The birds applauded with their chirping. I found the wing of a butterfly on the ground and placed it in my journal on the half-remaining page of where I wrote my letter to Octavio. I would start again soon. In the meantime, I had a beautiful place to explore.
With some help, I found a few books that were interesting to me and asked the cashier to take my picture holding them, explaining I was here for my birthday. I was massively embarrassed to ask but glad I did.
The Search for Octavio Continued
It was now time to leave for my trek to Octavio. I was ready. I had the letter in my pocket, lunch, and now books. On the metro, I counted until what would have been my stop but watched the car again roar through the station. I was now a full stop beyond where I needed to be, which in Mexico City meant this was going to be a pretty decent walk. Unlike DC, I learned the distances between metro stops are quite sizeable, almost twice the walking time. Mexico City is the biggest city I have ever seen. You can feel the weight of its size as you walk in it. It is a giant.
I exited on the edge of the historic center and began my walk toward the College of San Ildefonso. The streets were packed with people and smells from restaurants and street vendors. It was exciting to be there and see so much. At times, Mexico City felt familiar. In terms of places I know, it is as if LA were Rome but more. The buildings and streets were old, and they bore the wear of usage and importance. The bustle thinned out as I reached the college and quiet ushered me into the courtyard.
By this point, I was exhausted, on top of being confused. I tried to ask the guard at the entry desk, but my Spanish was all over the place asking to find a dead man as if it were an appointment.
“I am trying in search of Octavio Paz. Is it his cemetery in here?” The guard looked to his comrade with a look of “oh, brother. This gringo.” I saw his annoyance boil through his forced smile as he pointed me down the hall saying I should talk to the ticket booth. I thanked him and left, not understanding how there would be a ticket booth inside.
In the next courtyard, I found nothing. I did a lap, concluded I must have missed something, and sat down to try and find some clue online. I noticed another guard by another doorway. I decided to try him. “Excuse me, I read there is a cemetery here. I am looking for Octavio Paz.” A little more flow this time.
Less sharp than the one before, “Octavio Paz, yes. You need a ticket from that ticket booth there.” He pointed to a box office window that surely had just appeared. “Oh, yes, I saw it.” I thanked him.
At the booth, “Hello, I am here to see Octavio Paz. What ticket do I need to buy to visit?” “It’s all the same for the grounds and the murals.” “Excellent. One ticket, please.”
I returned to the last guard. “Thank you,” approaching him with my ticket, “I could not imagine it how when I read it online, but it seems so.”
La trinchera
He took my ticket with a small smile and pointed me through the doorway. He gave me directions, but I could not understand them and couldn’t bear asking for more help. I entered the interior of the college, a beautiful inner plaza, simple and ornate all at once. José Clemente Orozco murals covered the walls, and I saw a team working to preserve one down the way. I wandered around, suddenly passing a humble outcove in the wall with the words “Octavio Paz and Marie José Tramini Memorial.” It was a simple white background with black text, almost a Word file version of a notice but set in stone. Is this it?
Destino en 60 Minutos
I wasn’t ready to accept this as my final destination. There were no clues online to confirm, and I simply doubted this was it. I found another guard nearby. “Is that the memorial for Octavio Paz?” “Yes, but it is inside, behind those doors.” Two huge doors stood closed behind the scaffolding restoration work. He said more that I didn’t comprehend and then, “...but it will open in one hour,” holding up a finger. “One hour?” “Yes, it will open again soon.”
I was now the closest yet. I took a seat across the courtyard, directly opposite of the door. All I had to do was to wait, and I would soon be in. I touched the letter in my shirt pocket. I didn’t have the patience after today to only wait, so I helped myself to the other two levels to see the murals of the college and took pictures of the courtyard, but after a while, I didn't have enough energy to continue so I returned to the same bench and watched the door.
4PM was nearing. I looked through the books I just bought and wrote a little, checking the time all too often to be peaceful. I lifted my head again to find the door had been opened. I collected myself and moved forward. I admit to you now that my heart was beating fast at this point. My steps were heavy with wonderment.
Not what I expected at all, I entered a small lounge-like library. The floors were wood, and there were crisp green leather seats in the middle of the room. On the side closest to the doors, some lines of poetry from Paz about the college itself were presented over red stone. Across from this, a wall of black stone stood behind a wooden sculpture jetting outward in a spiral with his and wife’s name on the bottom. I arrived.
The staff member who had opened the doors asked if I needed help. “So, Octavio Paz is buried here?” Yes, this place serves as the memorial to Octavio and his last wife Marie José. It’s a crypt.” She pointed to the wooden structure.
She explained how the red and black stone matched the words of the poem that were on the wall referencing the college itself and their symbolic power available after knowing the context, the significance of a volcano for its energy and ash. I was invited to enjoy the collection of books that were his or that informed his work, both as a poet and ambassador.
I took my time there. I felt no rush to leave or to do anything. I had arrived to observe and to deliver a message. I sat in one of the chairs, quietly read the letter I wrote that morning aloud, and moved back to the staff member to ask for a favor. “Excuse me, do you think it would be respectful if I had a photo here? I came here for my birthday today, and it would matter.” “Yes, of course.”
After a while, I exited the room and placed the letter on the ledge that had the room name in stone.
10 years ago, I had done this in Venice. I journeyed to a then-favorite writer’s grave to deliver a message a friend had equipped me with, a conjugation table of the Italian verb to write. As I left that place then, I spoke aloud, “I will have written.” I left with promises. Here, I arrived having completed things I said would make me happy. I re-announced myself to a now-favorite writer.
I think of the place where this happened: a city new to me, in a language that is not my native tongue, in a school for the arts, and at the site of a personal idol. I think of what I’d seen of that city across today, the visit to the Elena Garro Cultural Center, and now my visit to commune with a legend.
I am struck with the profoundness of place. The pilgrimage I made to get here also imbued this room with meaning, and coupled with its curation, this crypt is also a monument. It holds the meaning of so many pieces of life’s puzzle moved into this unique combination.
It is the combination of so many choices and moments and is flower-like in its display to be read. I vow to carry this place with me, this labyrinth of light. I leave with a refreshed sense of how human places are, and how we ask some to hold meaning for us until needed again. There are places designated to look back and re-member the experience of something profound, another’s life, or to stand as a moment of now and look forward with the enthusiasm to live.
More soon,
Trevor
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