The memory of the students is much alive in Mexico City. A large red sculpture in the shape of the number 43 stands in the main boulevard, Paseo de la Reforma.

Looking back decades, Mr. Vázquez traces the turning points and intersecting factors leading to his city’s resurgence. He goes back to the devastating 1985 earthquake, which galvanized the capital and created a lasting spirit of unity. Then, in 1997, the city elected a liberal government that promoted social and economic reforms. Abortion was legalized in 2007 and same-sex marriage in 2010, defying Mexican traditions and the Catholic Church, pulling the city into the 21st century.

“The city is the locomotive,” he says. “It’s the future of the country.”

After six days at Hotel La Casona in Roma, I check into Las Alcobas in Polanco, on Masaryk Avenue, the city’s Rodeo Drive. Las Alcobas is not far from Ricardo Legorreta’s 1968 masterwork, the Camino Real hotel, a dazzling apparition washed in brilliant yellows and pinks. The facade of Las Alcobas pales by comparison, but the concierges greet you like royalty and the compact lobby, centered on a rosewood spiral staircase, reflects the hotel’s luxurious and comfortable design.

With no schedule to follow, I take a long walk along the Paseo de la Reforma through Chapultepec Park. The park had been a favorite place growing up, where I learned to bike and ride donkeys. Under the cover of giant trees I meander, taking in a sidewalk photography exhibit and a display of giant soccer balls designed by Mexican artists. Orange and blue pedal boats dot the placid lakes. Long lines stand at the boat rental gates and at the taquerias and food carts. It’s a weekday but it feels like the Sundays in the park I remember.

A few hours later, on my last evening in Mexico, I am coddled on a red velvet banquette at one of the city’s most talked about restaurants, Dulce Patria. The room evokes the dazzling colors, architecture and art of Mexico. Frida Kahlo inevitably comes to mind. The chef, Martha Ortiz, is one of very few female top chefs in Mexico, and, at 49, is older than most of the new celebrated chefs. Her restaurant provokes extreme reactions. Some people I know hate it, others love it.

My entree, a pork loin prepared with rare Mexican plants and vegetables, arrives on a plate decorated with sweeps of color brush strokes. The plate alone is worth framing. At dinner’s end, Chef Martha stops at my table. She is tall, thin, with dark hair combed off her angular face. She leans down and extends a thin hand. Then, just as suddenly, she is gone.

I stroll back to Las Alcobas, thinking about the swirling colors on the plates and the scarlet and ruby shades, the emerald greens and indigo blues of Dulce Patria. So Mexico.