heart of Centro Histórico, where the pace seemed to slow. She had seen several posters of Plaza de la Constitución at the airport and had hoped to take a few pictures of her own.
Dressed in blue jeans and a beige sweater, Tiffany stood out from the crowd, thanks to her strawberry-blonde hair and freckles. In Mexico City, redheads were almost as rare as clean air or good French food, so she was noticed by Latino men and women alike. More cute than sexy, she was often classified as the girl next door – especially in the winter when she packed on a few extra pounds. The truth was she wasn’t obese or even overweight, but she was a little too muscular to be mistaken for a fashion model. And she was fine with that. Unlike some of her friends, who starved themselves to fit into smaller dress sizes, she worked out just enough to keep the figure she had. In fact, when anyone questioned her weight, she always replied, ‘I would rather be happy and healthy than skinny and sad.’
Anxious to learn as much about the area as possible, she paid fifty pesos for a walking tour of the historic plaza. Led by an elderly guide named Paco, the group consisted of thirteen people in total and contained a wide variety of ages and ethnicities.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said in accented English. ‘Welcome to Constitution Square. Or, as most locals call it: Zócalo. Does anyone know what this word means?’
Someone shouted the answer. ‘The main square.’
Paco pointed at him. ‘
Muy bien!
I see someone has taken my tour before! If I have questions, maybe I ask you? I am old and sometimes forget.’
Tiffany smiled, glad to see that he had a sense of humour.
‘OK,’ Paco said, ‘that was easy question. Let me see how you do with tricky one. Why do Mexicans call this place Zócalo instead of Plaza de la Constitución?’
This time nobody guessed.
Paco had anticipated the silence. ‘The answer is simple. The
Spanish
Constitution of 1812 was signed in the plaza, but the
Mexican
Constitution was not. My brothers
refuse
to call this Constitution Square until there is a Mexican Square in Madrid!’ To drive home his point, he thrust his fist in the air, as if he had just delivered an impassioned speech to a group of armed rebels. He held it there for a moment before breaking into a wide grin. ‘Who am I kidding? We call it Zócalo because it is easier to say.’
Everybody laughed as he signalled for them to follow. Slowly but surely, he made his way across the grey plaza towards a gigantic Mexican flag that fluttered high above the centre of the square. Not wanting to miss a word, Tiffany walked beside him.
‘Long ago,
zócalo
did not mean “main square”. The word comes from Italian word
zocollo
, which means “pedestal”. Back in 1800s, the government planned a monument to honour Mexican independence. They set up a giant pedestal but – oops! – never put up the statue. Locals, as a joke, referred to this place as
zócalo
, and the nickname became popular. Before long, it was a new word in our language. Now Zócalo is the name of many squares throughout Mexico.’
‘Why didn’t they put up the statue?’ someone asked.
Paco shrugged. ‘I do not know. That was before my time. But I can tell you that Zócalo is one of the largest city squares in the world. I have heard Red Square in Moscow is the only one larger, but some visitors say that’s wrong. I am too old to measure, so I do not know for sure.’ He glanced at Tiffany and winked. ‘But it is
much
bigger than any square in America.’
She smiled at him. ‘How did you know I was American?’
‘
Pelirroja
.’
‘
Pelirroja
? What does that mean?’
He pointed at her hair. ‘It means redhead. You are only second one this year. The other one look like hamburger girl from Wendy’s. I called her “Wendy”, but she didn’t like.’
Tiffany nodded. ‘I wouldn’t like that, either.’
He smiled. ‘That is why I no call you Wendy! Who said I am
Dressed in blue jeans and a beige sweater, Tiffany stood out from the crowd, thanks to her strawberry-blonde hair and freckles. In Mexico City, redheads were almost as rare as clean air or good French food, so she was noticed by Latino men and women alike. More cute than sexy, she was often classified as the girl next door – especially in the winter when she packed on a few extra pounds. The truth was she wasn’t obese or even overweight, but she was a little too muscular to be mistaken for a fashion model. And she was fine with that. Unlike some of her friends, who starved themselves to fit into smaller dress sizes, she worked out just enough to keep the figure she had. In fact, when anyone questioned her weight, she always replied, ‘I would rather be happy and healthy than skinny and sad.’
Anxious to learn as much about the area as possible, she paid fifty pesos for a walking tour of the historic plaza. Led by an elderly guide named Paco, the group consisted of thirteen people in total and contained a wide variety of ages and ethnicities.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said in accented English. ‘Welcome to Constitution Square. Or, as most locals call it: Zócalo. Does anyone know what this word means?’
Someone shouted the answer. ‘The main square.’
Paco pointed at him. ‘
Muy bien!
I see someone has taken my tour before! If I have questions, maybe I ask you? I am old and sometimes forget.’
Tiffany smiled, glad to see that he had a sense of humour.
‘OK,’ Paco said, ‘that was easy question. Let me see how you do with tricky one. Why do Mexicans call this place Zócalo instead of Plaza de la Constitución?’
This time nobody guessed.
Paco had anticipated the silence. ‘The answer is simple. The
Spanish
Constitution of 1812 was signed in the plaza, but the
Mexican
Constitution was not. My brothers
refuse
to call this Constitution Square until there is a Mexican Square in Madrid!’ To drive home his point, he thrust his fist in the air, as if he had just delivered an impassioned speech to a group of armed rebels. He held it there for a moment before breaking into a wide grin. ‘Who am I kidding? We call it Zócalo because it is easier to say.’
Everybody laughed as he signalled for them to follow. Slowly but surely, he made his way across the grey plaza towards a gigantic Mexican flag that fluttered high above the centre of the square. Not wanting to miss a word, Tiffany walked beside him.
‘Long ago,
zócalo
did not mean “main square”. The word comes from Italian word
zocollo
, which means “pedestal”. Back in 1800s, the government planned a monument to honour Mexican independence. They set up a giant pedestal but – oops! – never put up the statue. Locals, as a joke, referred to this place as
zócalo
, and the nickname became popular. Before long, it was a new word in our language. Now Zócalo is the name of many squares throughout Mexico.’
‘Why didn’t they put up the statue?’ someone asked.
Paco shrugged. ‘I do not know. That was before my time. But I can tell you that Zócalo is one of the largest city squares in the world. I have heard Red Square in Moscow is the only one larger, but some visitors say that’s wrong. I am too old to measure, so I do not know for sure.’ He glanced at Tiffany and winked. ‘But it is
much
bigger than any square in America.’
She smiled at him. ‘How did you know I was American?’
‘
Pelirroja
.’
‘
Pelirroja
? What does that mean?’
He pointed at her hair. ‘It means redhead. You are only second one this year. The other one look like hamburger girl from Wendy’s. I called her “Wendy”, but she didn’t like.’
Tiffany nodded. ‘I wouldn’t like that, either.’
He smiled. ‘That is why I no call you Wendy! Who said I am
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