María Álvarez’s day begins before the city has fully awakened. CEO of NOVO and a devoted walker of her own metropolis, María has an intimate relationship with certain corners of Mexico City—those that don’t always make it into the guides but define her personal rhythm. To accompany her for 24 hours is to discover a capital that breathes in its own way: between improvised markets, beloved parks, and a handful of places that endure in the emotional memory of those who inhabit it.
8:00 — Although she admits she’s not one for big breakfasts outside the house, María has a go-to spot when she decides to treat herself: Nicos. It’s a place that doesn’t show off, but it delivers, she says. At its tables, you feel the Mexico City of always: generous portions, steaming coffee, and a familiar warmth. There, among classic dishes, her day begins with the calm Sunday's promise—even if today the city calls for her early.
10:00 — A walk through Chapultepec is, for María, almost a ritual. She wanders without haste, letting the park guide her: the morning runners, the stalls setting up, the trees filtering the light with an almost liquid softness. Here, she says, she feels outside of time. And perhaps that’s why she returns so often: because Chapultepec is that place that contains everything—history, nature, and a silence that only exists when you know how to find it.
12:30 — By midday, the city reveals one of María’s favorite territories: Colima Street, in Roma. There, between sun and shade, is one of the stalls she considers treasures: the tacos placeros. No official name, no pretensions—just the tempting smell of nopal, chicharrón, the simple made perfect. She’s been going for years, not out of gastronomic pose, but proximity. “For practicality,” she repeats, like someone who knows that everyday life has its own delights.
13:00 — A few steps away, and a bit later in the afternoon, appear the fried quesadillas that take over the same spot when night falls. They’re her weakness. Golden, bubbling, fresh out of the oil. They could be considered a simple craving, but for María they’re a reminder of why this city never ends. And as if the street expedition needed an unexpected coda, she mentions one of those places that come and go in her memory until they resurface like small epiphanies: the seafood stand at the Pirreyes gas station. Super-fresh cocktails served in jars, line included, zero-pretension atmosphere. “Really good seafood,” she says, almost emphasizing that not all great finds need a tablecloth.
16:00 — When she thinks of where she’d take a foreign friend, the National Museum of Anthropology comes to mind without hesitation. For her, it’s one of the most powerful and luminous structures in the city. Today she steps in for a moment: she observes the pieces she knows well, revisits rooms like one revisits old friends. The afternoon light travels through the courtyards, and María admits, once again, that this museum is one of her favorite places in the world.
20:00 — Night calls for one last stop, and María chooses Cananea, her favorite bar of the moment. They serve a drink that, according to her, is difficult to find elsewhere in the city, and it’s here where she likes to end an especially city-soaked day. The atmosphere is intimate, slightly noisy—just enough to feel that life is happening all around.
6:00 the next day — Although it’s not part of her routine, María has one lingering wish: to take a friend to watch the sunrise in the Xochimilco chinampas. Not the party version with blaring speakers and cocktails, but the deeper Xochimilco, where the water mirrors the day’s first ray of light and the city has yet to exist. As she describes it, her voice shifts: there is the María who observes, listens, and feels. The traveler within her own city.
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