Mexico City for The Three Generations: a Friday-to-Monday weekend

One of the largest squares in the world, dead flat, with the flag lowered by soldiers at six and benches under the cathedral's arcade for the ones who want to watch.

Walk into the lobby for the 1908 Tiffany glass ceiling and the cage lifts, then ride up to the terrace for a drink with the Zócalo spread below.

The Spanish club's 1903 dining room on the first floor, reached by lift, with tables for ten, paella on Fridays and waiters who have seen every family.

A painted boat with a long table down the middle, benches for everyone and a canopy for the sun; the mariachi boats come alongside and the food boats too.

A barbacoa hall for two thousand with a children's playground and a mariachi stage; the lamb comes from the pits in the courtyard and the tables run long.

A sixteenth-century church with a gilded ceiling, step-free from the square, and the plaza outside with ice cream for the children and shade for the rest.

Lifts, wheelchairs at the door and a bench in every hall; do the Mexica room for the Sun Stone and the Maya room downstairs, then stop. Over-sixties go free.

Sunday lunch in a sixteenth-century hacienda with gardens, a ramp at the entrance and tables that seat twelve; the chiles en nogada in season are the dish.

The lakeside path is flat and the benches face the water; the children feed the ducks while the grandparents watch the rowing boats go nowhere in particular.

Two lifts to the 44th floor and a glassed-in deck with chairs; on a clear Monday morning the volcanoes show, and the café on the floor below has a view too.

The grand post office across the road is flat at ground level and open for business; the bronze staircase is for looking at, and the stamps are for the children.

A 1912 dining hall with long tables, tiled walls and a menu that suits eight and eighty: enchiladas, chicken soup and the sweet breads from the counter.