Mexico City for The Romantics: a Friday-to-Monday weekend

Arrive as the organ grinders start and the coyote fountain catches the last light under the laurels; the benches by the kiosk go first.

The national cinematheque under its folded white roof, where the early-evening programme leans to restored Mexican melodrama and the back rows are dark.

A courtyard off the square, house mezcal, and hoja santa stuffed with cheese while the plaza empties; ask for the table nearest the door.

Book the first slot and stand alone in the studio with the wheelchair at the easel and the mirror over the bed, before the garden fills.

The study with its papers, the rabbit hutches he kept in the garden, and a courtyard quiet enough for the two of you by early afternoon.

Open since 1912, tiled to the ceiling, with a trio of estudiantina singers and enchiladas under oil paintings of nuns; they will play your request.

An hour in a wooden rowing boat on the old lake, herons on the island and the castle on its hill behind you; one of you rows, the other steers.

The guided visit ends on the roof terrace of pink and ochre walls with no view at all except the sky, which is the point.

Eduardo García's quiet room of market-led plates, booked weeks ahead, finished with something from the pastry counter and a last glass; this is the splurge.

Find the plumb line hanging from the dome and watch it mark how far the building has sunk into the drained lake; the choir is open by ten.

Carlos Monsiváis's collection of calaveras, caricature and city ephemera, open on a Monday when almost nothing else is; the roof café looks over the domes.

Hot chocolate whipped at the table, nata with conchas, and a last plate of escamoles before the airport; they take their time, so should you.