 Zocalo Where Mexico's Heart Beats by Nick Gallo
In a Mexican community, the main square is commonly referred to as the zócalo, although in some towns it’s called plaza principal or el jardín, the garden. The word zócalo means pedestal, a nickname for plazas that developed during the 19th century when Mexico City residents used to gather at an empty monument base in the main plaza. (The actual monument was never built—or was moved elsewhere, according to various versions of the story.) The concept of a main square in Mexico dates back to Spanish rule. In 1573, Philip II, the King of Spain, issued Laws of the Indies, an extensive set of rules for the building of towns in colonial Americas. It instructed towns to establish a plaza with proportions of 3:2—600 feet long by 400 feet wide was ideal—surrounded by a church, government offices, a customs house, and a hospital. The perimeter, it decreed, should include portales (arcades), lined with merchants’ shops. In colonial days, the main plaza was Spain’s symbol of authority in the New World. Bustling with activities, the plaza was the hub of political, religious, and civic life. Typically, it was plain and functional, however, in the second half of the 19th century, Emperor Maximilian and Mexican President Porfirio Diaz, a Francophile, took a cue from Europe and transformed zócalos into beautiful, park-like spaces, incorporating tree-lined walks, wrought-iron benches, lamps, fountains, and kiosks. Mexico City: That’s Zócalo—with a capital “Z”
Occupying the entire east side is the National Palace, the seat of the federal government. Every year on September 15, just before midnight , Mexico’s President stands on the balcony and shouts, “Viva Mexico!” to commemorate Independence Day. Dominating the north side is the grandiose Metropolitan Cathedral, one of the largest colonial churches in the Americas. Along the two other sides, centuries-old palaces house government offices, businesses, and stores. Standing in the Zócalo where there is little except an immense flag for ornamentation, it’s possible to sense history’s layers shifting beneath your feet. The barren plaza is built on the site of Tenochtitlán, the center of the Aztec empire. After the conquistadors defeated the Aztecs in 1521, they razed the ancient city and looted stones from the temples to erect their buildings. While pre-Hispanic ghosts envelop the Zócalo, the plaza also pulses with real people and present-day activity. In one corner, Aztec dancers in feathered headdresses and shell anklets dance to drums. In another, political protesters, strikers, or campaigners set up camp. In 2001, Subcomandante Marcos, the leader of the Zapatista revolutionaries, led a caravan of masked supporters into the square. Tourists, too, are part of the scene, here to tour the Cathedral, the National Palace, which contains spectacular murals by Diego Rivera, and the Templo Mayor museum, home of extensive Aztec artifacts unearthed from the area. Oaxaca: “A place for doing nothing”
In the cool evenings, the square crackles with activity, especially on weekends when it seems as if every Oaxaqueño streams into the plaza. As roving vendors sell crafts and food—“Ta-MAL-es,” bray women in flowered dresses selling homemade tamales from plastic buckets—marimba musicians entertain revelers seated in outdoor patios. The adults look dressy—men in crisp, collared shirts; women in heels. Teens hang out in the shadows, dodging the glare of nosy grandmothers. Kids roam freely, their parents secure that they’ll be safe kicking around soccer balls or eating paletas—fresh-fruit popsicles. Human dramas erupt everywhere, but there are also nooks for solitude and seclusion. Once, a Oaxaqueño told me that the zócalo is a haven, a shelter. In large families, there’s often little privacy in homes, so people escape to the square to find refuge. There is not actually much to do here, that is, there aren’t many shops or galleries. There is music to listen to and beer to sip, but ultimately this is a “place for doing nothing, sitting at the center of the universe,” as Eliot Weinberger, the translator for Octavio Paz, once wrote. Here, the world turns round and round, and somehow from your seat, you turn with it, in the world, and yet are not submerged by it. The zócalo is the anti-mall, forsaking neon signs and the latest consumer goods in favor of spiritual renewal. And in this time warp, this unhurried world where there always is time, you occasionally find a magic moment. San Miguel de Allende: classic Mexico
On New Year’s Eve, a fireworks machine appeared, an ancient-looking apparatus. At midnight, the loud contraption set off a wild celebration, spinning around and spitting out fiery blasts and smoke. It was classic Mexico-people, noise, and color fused into energy. To top off the evening, Laurie and I looked around to spot Noah, on all fours, suddenly climbing to his feet and giving chase to a balloon vendor. He had learned how to walk in Mexico in that most fitting of places, the zócalo. Nick Gallo, an award-winning Seattle writer who specializes in Mexico topics, travels frequently to Mexico and always heads for the zócalo to gauge a town's flavor and mood. In Pursuit of the Best Zócalos Which is the best zócalo in Mexico? Everyone has a favorite—my best advice is to visit and decide for yourself. Here are a few to explore:
Originally Published July 2005
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Living in the wet, gray climate of Seattle, I inevitably fantasize about a Mexico reprieve. Not surprisingly, I spin dreams of beaches and south-of-the-border sunshine, but most of all, I yearn for one of Mexico’s simplest pleasures: a seat at the main square. Dulled by America’s commuter culture and work world, I want to feel the plaza’s energy and life, its slow rhythms and centeredness. I want to borrow Mexico’s soul.
Aptly, Mexico’s most imposing, yet least typical, square is set in Mexico City. The Zócalo, the only zócalo spelled with a capital Z, is the world’s second-largest public square (after Moscow’s Red Square). Unlike most of Mexico’s pretty plazas, the Zócalo is an open, paved, monumental expanse—830 feet by 500 feet—that seems designed to overwhelm individuals with its immensity. In truth, it carries the weight of Mexico’s tumultuous history.
With autos banned decades ago, Oaxaca’s zócalo is meant for walking and strolling. In late morning, there’s an easygoing, languid air. You hear the slap of cloth against leather—old men getting their shoes shined as they read the paper. Ex-pats perch at sidewalk cafes, lingering over breakfast and last sips of cappuccino. 
On Sunday evenings, we’d watch the paseo, the traditional promenade around the square in which the señoritas would circle in one direction, the boys the other, everyone flirting and sizing up prospects. Everyone walked about, as if to pump oxygen into the city’s heart and send blood through the arterial streets radiating through town.