The Sea Loft Treehouses of Deer Island: Sea Pine’s Hidden Gem

Where is Deer Island? This hideaway within Sea Pines Plantation feels like a secret world on stilts. These quirky octagonal “treehouse” villas have roots in radical planning, not just marsh mud.

I was about 12 years old the first time I stumbled upon the enchanting enclave of Deer Island. At the time, my family spent a week vacationing on Hilton Head Island every year, and most afternoons, my brother, the Hollister girls and I would hop on our bikes to explore the winding trails of Sea Pines. We often ended up in Harbour Town for ice cream — but now and then we’d take a detour. And that’s how we found it: the treehouses of Deer Island, hidden away, like something out of a storybook.

Years later, when my parents retired and made Hilton Head their full-time home, my husband, Duke, and I continued the tradition: going for bike rides just like I did as a kid — only now we stop for coffee, frozen cocktails and ice cream. On one of those visits, we discovered a shortcut to Harbour Town. As we pedaled along Calibogue Cay Road, looking for a secret passage to Harbour Town we had heard about, I spotted a small sign and a narrow path disappearing into the woods. Curiosity (and the promise of shade) pulled us in.

“Why octagons?

Because they’re practical and poetic. No big blank walls to block views. Every angled facet has a window or sliding glass door, offering wraparound vistas and loads of natural light.”

As we emerged from the path, the houses immediately clued us into the fact that we had found a back entrance to Deer Island. This maritime hammock surrounded by salt marsh has its road access at the other end, accessible by a wooden bridge over the colorfully named Heddy Gutter Creek near CQ’s Restaurant. 

The main entrance to Deer Island across from Harbour Town

It’s the houses on Deer Island that immediately capture your attention. Perched among the trees, and built around a central pillar, these octagonal dwellings feel like the Ewok Village on the Forest Moon of Endor. 

But these homes aren’t simply whimsical treehouses. They were part of a bold, eco-conscious vision that redefined coastal development — decades before “sustainable” became a corporate buzzword. The 74 freestanding Sea Lofts were unlike anything else on Hilton Head Island: a cross between futuristic retreat and Swiss Family Robinson hideaway.

How Sea Pines Gave Rise to a Treehouse Island

The story of Deer Island begins in 1956 with developer Charles E. Fraser, who set out to build a different kind of coastal community — one that didn’t pave over paradise to put up a parking lot. A law school graduate with a passion for conservation, Fraser turned his Sea Pines Plantation Company into a proving ground for planning principles that would go on to influence resort communities from Kiawah Island, also in South Carolina, to Costa Rica. (The word “Plantation” was eventually dropped from the name due to its associations with slavery.)

Fraser’s philosophy was simple but radical: Build around nature, not over it. That meant curving roads to preserve trees, designing low-slung homes that blended into the landscape, and enforcing strict architectural guidelines banning bright colors, boxy footprints and big egos.

“We didn’t want to build a resort,” Fraser once said. “We wanted to build a community.”

Sea Pines became a visionary experiment in eco-conscious design as well as a haven for architecture buffs, environmentalists, and anyone who prefers to sleep where the egrets (and alligators) roam.

By the late 1960s, Sea Pines was booming. The iconic red-and-white Harbour Town Lighthouse was completed in 1970, and Hilton Head was quickly becoming a premier coastal destination. Amid this growth, Fraser and his team, including renowned landscape architect Hideo Sasaki and urban designer Stuart Dawson, began sketching out something entirely different: a marshfront community that would feel like a private island while still offering access to nearby beaches, restaurants and shops.

That idea became Deer Island. Completed in 1971, it marked a bold shift in Sea Pines’ residential offerings. Instead of vacation estates, the Sea Lofts were designed to be compact, elevated and unconventional. These octagonal bungalows featured open floor plans that maximized views and minimized environmental impact. Each home overlooks a tidal creek or salt marsh, without disrupting the lush canopy of trees.

Fraser’s team believed the natural landscape should take the lead. While the rest of the island leaned into more conventional development, Deer Island embraced its own quiet charm: no shops, hardly any traffic — just birdsong, breezes and the occasional deer wandering beneath your house. Because, yes, we’ve seen plenty of deer on Deer Island.

Yes, there are plenty of deer on Deer Island — but the treehouses are the stars.

Deer Island Homes: A Style Designed to Disappear

If you’ve ever been to Sea Pines and wondered, “Where are all the houses?” — that’s the point. Deer Island takes that idea to the extreme. From across the marsh, the homes vanish into the canopy. Even up close, you might find yourself squinting through loblolly pines, palmettos and live oaks, trying to spot the angular lines of a Sea Loft villa. These houses were meant to exist in harmony with their surroundings.

Fraser and his team set strict guidelines: low rooflines, muted earthy colors and tree preservation. In fact, if you have to cut down a tree on a Sea Pines property, you’re required to plant new ones to match the original trunk’s diameter in inches. 

The result? A neighborhood that feels like it grew there — even though every detail was carefully planned, down to the last railing. 

Architecturally, it’s a style referred to as Hilton Head Modern, or sometimes, Lowcountry Modern. Think deep overhangs, shaded porches, wide windows and colors inspired by the ubiquitous live oaks. You won’t find any pink stucco or coral trim here. It’s less Miami Beach flash, more Zen retreat in the marsh.

The Octagonal Treehouses of Deer Island

Now let’s talk shape.

The Sea Loft villas are small — roughly 800 to 900 square feet — but they pack a punch. Each is octagonal, lifted one story aboveground on wooden pilings. I’m not the only one who calls them “treehouses,” and while no rope ladders are involved, the vibe is spot on.

Why octagons? Because they’re practical and poetic. No big blank walls to block views. Every angled facet has a window or sliding glass door, offering wraparound vistas and loads of natural light. Inside, the open floor plan and vaulted ceilings make the small footprint feel more spacious. 

And because the homes are up on pilings, you’re always eye level with the birds and squirrels. Beneath the houses, deer graze. As mentioned, the island lives up to its name.

On top of the views, the design is functional. The elevated structure lets floodwaters pass beneath, which is kind of a big deal on a barrier island prone to hurricanes. The shape helps diminish wind during storms. And the materials — often cedar siding, weathered to a silvery brown — hold up beautifully in salt air.

The People Behind the Planning of Deer Island

There may not be a single “starchitect” behind Deer Island, but its DNA can be traced back to a team of forward-thinking planners. Fraser may have been the frontman and public face of the project, but his collaborators included some of the most influential figures in landscape architecture and urban design of the 1960s and ’70s.

Take Sasaki, widely regarded as one of the most influential landscape architects of the 20th century. He believed that good design should serve both people and the planet — a rare point of view at the time. Working alongside his colleague Dawson at Sasaki, Dawson & DeMay, the pair helped shape Sea Pines into a model of what environmentally conscious development could look like. Dawson introduced the concept of “leisure villages” and laid out the roads in short loops, T-intersections and cul-de-sacs — not just to reduce traffic, but to preserve views and soften the human footprint. To this day, planners still point to his designs as best in class.

Supporting players included local landscape architect Joe Harden, who laid out much of Sea Pines’ lush greenery and trails, and Phil Lader, a young planner who later wrote about Fraser’s groundbreaking approach. Even the Sea Pines Architectural Review Board deserves a shoutout; they enforced the color palettes and tree preservation like they were protecting the Mona Lisa.

Still, it all comes back to Fraser. He may not have drawn every line or plotted every trail, but he set the tone — and made sure everyone followed it.

A Living Legacy (With Real Estate Perks)

Fast forward 50 years. Hilton Head has undeniably changed. Sea Pines has grown, the lighthouse area has been completely renovated, and plenty of the early homes have been replaced by larger, multimillion-dollar structures (though they still adhere to his aesthetic).

But not on Deer Island.

Here, the original 74 Sea Loft villas are still standing — weathered, yes, but proudly so. They’ve been updated inside, though, and a few have gotten modest expansions or screened-in porches. But the exteriors? Still hugging trees. Still octagonal. Still charming.

Heddy Gutter Creek. leading out to Calibogue Sound

In an industry where teardown culture reigns, Deer Island is a time capsule that’s only gained value. Buyers today are part of a design legacy. A slice of Sea Pines history. A front-row seat to the marsh.

Prices reflect that. In the past few years, sales have ranged from mid-$600,000 to just over $1 million, depending on the view and renovation level. 

Real estate agents pitch it as “immersive natural surroundings” and “private tranquility,” but you could just say: It feels good here. Like someone actually cared about how people would live — and how the land would look half a century later.

Spoiler: It looks great.

Deer Island: A Small Isle With a Big Idea

Deer Island may be small, but it punches well above its weight — architecturally, historically and spiritually. It’s a place where planners once dared to ask, “What if we didn’t bulldoze the trees?” — and then literally built the homes around (and among) them. A place where you can sip coffee on your deck while snowy egrets and blue herons glide past.

It’s Hilton Head at its most thoughtful. Most peaceful. Most quietly radical.

And in a world where luxury often means “more,” Deer Island whispers a different kind of promise: less square footage, more soul. The kind of place that still feels like a secret.

So if you ever find yourself in Sea Pines, look for that discreet entrance en route to Harbour Town and follow it. See what happens when development makes room for the wild things. You might just find yourself dreaming of life inside one of these architectural marvels like we do. –Wally

Secrets of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World

Author Bettany Hughes shares surprising truths about the Great Pyramid, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and other Wonders of the Ancient World. 

Quick — name the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.

Struggling? You’re not alone.

Most people can’t list them all. Some guess the Colosseum or Stonehenge. Others don’t realize that only one still stands. 

“These weren’t just impressive buildings and sculptures.

They were bold declarations of power — a Hellenistic highlight reel that reflected the ambition and reach of Alexander the Great’s world.”

In her 2024 book The Seven Wonders of the Ancient World: An Extraordinary Journey Through History’s Greatest Treasures, historian Bettany Hughes peels back the mythology and reveals the politics, poetry and propaganda behind these wonders. These weren’t just impressive buildings and sculptures. They were bold declarations of power — a kind of Hellenistic highlight reel that reflected the ambition and reach of Alexander the Great’s world.

MORE: 3 Times Alexander the Great Wasn’t So Great

The oldest surviving version of the list was scribbled on a scrap of papyrus used to wrap a mummified body in Ancient Egypt. 

Most could be visited on a single, well-planned trip through the eastern Mediterranean. This was the ancient world’s first viral travel list — and its message was clear: Look upon our works, ye mortals, and marvel.

1. The Great Pyramid of Giza: A Resurrection Machine by the Nile

If you visit the Great Pyramid today, you’ll likely see a heat-blasted monument rising from a stretch of ochre desert. But what if we’ve been picturing it all wrong? Hughes urges us to reimagine the Giza Plateau not as barren but as bursting with life: “Where we see desertion, imagine an abundance of clover and thousands of homes; where there are sands, waterways; where there is emptiness, tens of thousands of workers in loincloths and linen kilts. Where there are now neutral horizons, there was once hectic color; where piles of collapsed stone, dwarf-pyramids and sloping, mudbrick mastaba tombs. Where desert, gravid green.”

Built around 2550 BCE and once faced in polished white limestone, the Great Pyramid would have shimmered with a blinding brilliance. 

It wasn’t just a royal tomb; it was a “resurrection machine,” a literal launchpad to the afterlife. This machine served a higher cosmic purpose: to guarantee Egypt’s prosperity by ensuring the pharaoh’s rebirth. The fate of the world literally depended upon Khufu’s afterlife. 

And the engineering behind it still leaves modern minds gasping. Standing 480 feet tall and weighing in at roughly 6.5 million tons, the pyramid used about 2.3 million blocks of limestone, each hauled into place over a quarter of a century. Its interior space alone could swallow London’s St. Paul’s Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican, and the cathedrals of Milan and Florence — with room to spare.

Despite theories ranging from alien intervention to lost technologies, Hughes focuses on the human marvel of it all: tens of thousands of anonymous laborers working 10-hour days, 52 weeks a year, over decades — moving one block every two to three minutes. Current estimates suggest around 20,000 workers were active on the plateau at any given time, likely using a combination of sledges, rollers, ramps and perhaps even early hydraulic lifts. Still, the exact method remains elusive: “The engineering and construction of the Pyramid — the way these blocks were shaped, lifted and set in place — has confounded researchers for centuries, triggering miles’ worth of parchment and paper, and now volumes of iCloud storage,” Hughes writes. “It is a conundrum that obsesses the modern world — taxing the minds of engineers, architects, archaeologists, surveyors, even mediums.”

It’s also easy to forget that this was a riverfront wonder. In Khufu’s day, the Nile flowed much closer to Giza, hugging the Pyramid complex for most of the year, and sometimes lapping its very foundations. What we now see as isolation was once a place of movement and connection — a grand riverside attraction.

Capped with a golden or electrum pyramidion that caught the sun’s rays and hurled them back to the heavens, the Great Pyramid symbolized the original mound of creation — the divine moment when the world emerged from chaos. It was cosmic.

2. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon: Myth, Monument or Mistranslation?

Of all the Seven Wonders, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon remain the most mysterious — and possibly the most fictional. Unlike the Great Pyramid, whose stones still scrape the sky, the Gardens leave us with no ruins, no universally agreed-upon site, and plenty of questions. Did they even exist?

If they did, the Hanging Gardens would have bloomed sometime in the 6th century BCE, during the reign of Nebuchadnezzar II — the great Babylonian king who ruled from 605 to 562 BCE and who is most often credited with their creation. That attribution, though, rests more on later tradition than contemporary evidence.

MORE: Nebuchadnezzar, King Josiah and the Formation of Jewish Law

And the evidence is where things get messy. Hughes lays out the problem clearly: Neither Herodotus nor Xenophon — Greek chroniclers who actually visited Babylon — mention the Gardens. Not once. That silence is thunderous. Even the East India House Inscription, a beautifully preserved 20-inch-wide slab chronicling the many accomplishments of Nebuchadnezzar II, makes no mention of them — no garden at all, hanging or otherwise.

So what gives?

Hughes suggests we may be looking for something too specific. What if the gardens weren’t separate from Babylon’s famed walls but were part of them — verdant terraces that flowed from the fortifications and palatial structures themselves? In many ancient lists, it’s actually Babylon’s walls that earn the “Wonder” designation, not the elusive Gardens. That ambiguity raises the possibility that what we now call the “Hanging Gardens” may have been a poetic misunderstanding — a mistranslated marvel.

And yet, the idea of the Gardens persists — not just because they would’ve been beautiful, but because they captured something deeper and darker about humanity’s emerging relationship with nature. These were not serene rooftop retreats. They were feats of engineering and control, power disguised as paradise.

“Whatever they were, however wondrous, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon would not have been idylls,” Hughes writes. “They would have been exquisite, exacting expressions of potency, expressions of belief, manifestations of ingenuity and the start of a dangerously dominating relationship with the natural world.”

Whether built in Babylon or borrowed from memories of Nineveh, the Hanging Gardens endure because they symbolize an idea: that nature could be bent into spectacle. And that idea, as Hughes suggests, has echoed through every empire since.

MORE: Controversial Theories About the Tower of Babel

3. The Temple of Artemis at Ephesus: Sanctuary of Stone and Wildness

Of all the ancient world’s architectural achievements, none left the poet Antipater of Sidon more breathless than the Temple of Artemis. Around 140 BCE, he wrote, “I have set eyes on the very wall of lofty Babylon, supporting a chariot road, and the [statue of] Zeus by the Alpheios [in Olympia], and the Hanging Gardens, and the Colossus of Helios, and the huge labor of the steep pyramids, and the vast tomb of Mausolos; but when I saw the temple of Artemis, reaching up to the clouds, these other marvels dimmed, they lost their brilliance, and I declared, ‘Look, apart from Olympus itself, the sun has never shone on anything that can compare to this!’”

Constructed around 550 BCE and rebuilt in grander fashion after a devastating fire in 356 BCE, the Artemision — as it was called in classical sources — was the first of the Seven Wonders to be accessible to all people, not just royalty. And it was the only one where women, both mythic and mortal, stood at the center of its story.

The original temple was incinerated on a sweltering July night — the very night Alexander the Great was born. In fact, the Greek world couldn’t help but connect the two events: “Tongues wagged: Artemis — goddess of nature and childbirth — it was whispered, was so busy in northern Greece, super-birthing a world-class megalomaniac, she neglected her earthly temple home,” Hughes writes. 

MORE: Alexander the Great: 8 WTF Facts About His Early Life

The arsonist was a man named Herostratus, likely a desperate slave who torched the temple to immortalize his own name — and, ironically, succeeded. The Ephesians tried to erase him completely. Speaking his name was made a capital crime. But history, being what it is, remembered him anyway.

The rebuilt temple was a marvel: 425 feet long, 225 feet wide — nearly twice the size of the Parthenon that would follow it 150 years later. It featured 127 columns, each 60 feet high, and some capped by a skylight above the central cult statue. The structure marked the first true colonnaded Greek temple, laying the architectural blueprint for millennia to come.

Here, Artemis wasn’t the graceful huntress of Louvre sculptures. She was Asiatic Artemis, a wild guardian of beasts, bearing the mystery and fertility of the Earth. She was a goddess of contradictions — pure yet primal, distant yet intimately present.

“Artemis in the mythology of the Greeks was an unusual goddess, a female figure who stood apart from the rutting sexuality that was the norm of ancient life and myth,” Hughes writes. “The story went that on the eve of her wedding, Artemis begged her father Zeus to allow her not to marry. In most cultures at this time, women were controlled, either by having to have sex, or by not being allowed to. Artemis’s agency, and her choice, makes her attractively odd. She was a virgin, whose sphere was consummation.”

Her image, kept hidden behind a curtain in the sanctuary, was likely a wooden plank known as a xoanon — treated as a living being. It was washed in seawater, anointed in fig milk or grape juice, adorned with clothes and gold, and lovingly cared for in a process called kosmeis — the root of our word cosmetics.

The cult of Artemis was largely female-led. Young women, or parthenoi, took part in the rites. But the high priests — the megabyzoi — were eunuchs, men who had castrated themselves in service to the goddess. Their female counterparts, the melissae, were the “honey women,” underscoring the deep associations between Artemis, fertility and nature’s sweetness.

Ephesus itself had become one of the largest and busiest cities in the ancient world, its port capable of hosting over 800 ships. That accessibility helped the temple’s fame spread far and wide. It was a religious sanctuary, a political hub and — crucially — a bank. Like many temples of the time, it safeguarded vast stores of wealth and knowledge. To violate the temple was to risk divine wrath.

The mythic presence of Amazons — female warriors who were said to have founded the site — was inescapable. Their likenesses adorned the temple’s façade, doorframes and rooftop sculptures. Bronze statues of Amazons stood with short chitons, bare breasts, crescent shields and battleaxes — some even depicted with wounds.

“The Temple of Artemis is a Wonder with diverse genetic makeup and influences from both East and West within its deity, its design and its dogma,” according to Hughes. “It is a work of mankind, trying to understand the power of the natural world and the power of women.”

And Artemis herself? Her statue was encrusted with bees, lions, griffins, cows, horses and sphinxes — a tapestry of creatures and symbols. Her front was thick with mysterious swellings: ostrich eggs? Pollen sacks? Breasts? Testicles? Bags of gold? The goddess resisted definition. She contained multitudes.

Topping her cylindrical polos crown was an image of the temple itself. A shrine of power, mystery and the wild feminine, the Artemision stood as a defiant celebration of life’s most primal forces.

4. The Statue of Zeus at Olympia: God Made Monument

Epictetus, a Stoic philosopher, captured just how beloved the Statue of Zeus had become by the 1st century CE: “The wish to witness the ancient masterpiece of Phidias was so intense, that to die without having seen it was considered a huge misfortune,” he wrote in Discourses. 

The statue of Zeus at Olympia glowed with godly gravitas inside the sanctuary’s darkened temple. A creation of the sculptor Phidias, it was a divine father made colossal: Zeus, King of the Gods, father of Artemis and Apollo, products of the rape of the titaness Leto. The statue wasn’t meant to comfort. It was meant to awe.

“Of course, in a place where men were attempting to become godlike, the ultimate god took the form of the ultimate man,” Hughes writes. 

Built between 438 and 430 BCE, the statue was made of the most extravagant materials available: gleaming hippopotamus ivory for skin, gold for hair and beard, ebony, bone, polished stone and glass. 

“Measuring the size of a three-story home (41 feet, on his pedestal rising over 44 feet tall), and yet seated, crouching, with his head skimming the ceiling, like Alice in Wonderland after taking her Drink Me spiked potion, the godhead must have seemed extraordinarily intimidating,” Hughes adds. “It was said that if he stood up, this Zeus would ‘unroof’ his temple-home.”

The throne featured six statues of Nike, the goddess of victory, marching up the legs. The arms of the seat were sobering sphinxes. The struts featured Herakles slaughtering Amazons to seize their queen’s girdle. The side panels showed Artemis and Apollo massacring Niobe’s children for her pride. And at Zeus’s feet? A stool supported by snarling lions — another Amazonian battlefield carved beneath.

“The message was clear: Olympia, and its Holy of Holies were, in every sense, somewhere that weakness was abhorred, for Zeus’s domain, there were only winners and losers,” Hughes explains. 

In Zeus’ right hand stood a 6-and-a-half-foot statue of Nike, also made of ivory and gold. In his left: a scepter topped by a gleaming eagle. His hair curled in heavy golden locks onto his shoulders, while his ivory skin was oiled daily to prevent cracking in the damp climate. That oil pooled in a limestone basin at his feet — creating a dark twin of the god.

The temple that housed Zeus at Olympia was a masterpiece of Doric architecture, designed by Libon of Elis and completed in 456 BCE with the spoils of war. Zeus’ likeness, modeled after Homer’s verses in The Iliad, captured the very image of cosmic authority. It was said Zeus could start an earthquake just by furrowing his brow. 

A wooden framework supported the ivory plating, carefully soaked in vinegar and sculpted into seamless sheets. Recent research by Kenneth Lapatin confirms the intricacy of this process — and the ingenuity of the ancients who achieved it.

When Roman Emperor Caligula ordered the statue’s decapitation in 41 CE so he could replace the god’s head with his own, Zeus reportedly laughed. The scaffolding collapsed, and days later, Caligula was assassinated — after having dreamed of the deity he sought to deface.

After standing for nearly 1,000 years, the statue was eventually moved to Constantinople, where it burned in a city-wide fire around 476 CE. Olympia’s pride, a masterpiece honored for generations, was reduced to ash.

And yet, Zeus lived on — not just in memory, but in iconography. The Byzantine depiction of Christ Pantokrator, “Ruler of All,” seated on a throne with glowering brow and commanding presence, bore a striking resemblance to Phidias’s Zeus. The divine father had been reborn.

5. The Mausoleum of Halikarnassos: A Monument to Power, Grief and Glittering Excess

It was a tomb so grand it gave its name to every monumental tomb that followed. But the Mausoleum of Halikarnassos — final resting place of Mausolos, satrap-king of Karia — wasn’t just massive. It was mesmerizing. A collision of Greek elegance, Persian grandeur and Anatolian symbolism, built between 361 and 351 BCE on the sun-soaked coast of modern-day Turkey.

This Wonder fused the influences of East and West: Ionian and Doric architectural styles mingled with the dramatic scale and symmetry of Persian rock-cut tombs. Hughes notes that Karia, the region where Halikarnassos sat, was a culture of blendings — borrowing, reimagining and innovating in equal measure. And the Mausoleum was its masterpiece.

“This giant tomb came to be thought of as wonderful because it was trumpeted as embodying a faithful woman’s selfless devotion to her husband-brother, a sign that the brilliance of some men is to devastate women by dying,” she writes. 

Indeed, much of its fame came from the story of Artemisia II, Mausolos’ sister and wife, who reportedly grieved so hard she mixed his ashes into her wine. But beneath the romance lay a structure of staggering ambition: a 145-foot-tall marble confection built atop a limestone terrace stretching over 785 feet — about half the height of Big Ben, and nearly the length of two football fields.

The base consisted of a rectangular podium roughly 100 by 125 feet wide. Above that, 36 columns ringed the structure, echoing the layout of the Temple of Artemis. On top of the colonnade rose a stepped pyramid of 24 tiers, leading to a grand pedestal. And at the very top? A chariot drawn by four thrashing horses, almost certainly carrying statues of Mausolos and Artemisia themselves — a couple who have been put quite literally on a pedestal.

Designed by architect-sculptor Pytheos and possibly other elite artists of the day — Scopas, Bryaxis, Leochares and Timotheus among them — the Mausoleum was both a sculpture gallery and a piece of architectural theater. Its blocks were polished to a glass-like sheen. Carvings depicted Mausolos hunting, receiving ambassadors, honoring the gods and leading battles — scenes real and imagined. Life, as Mausolos wanted it remembered, in full pageantry. 

We tend to think of ancient structures as white, but many were actually a riot of color — and the Mausoleum certainly was. “Funerary monuments in particular favored color — there was a sense that the polychrome experience brought the dead back to some kind of life,” Hughes informs us. “Mausolos’ tomb would have been a firework in the sky.”

And what fireworks: white marble, then bluish limestone adorned with over 120 human and animal figures — all progressing toward a seated Mausolos before a great doorway. Was this his entrance to the afterlife? Above this level, imported white marble from Athens depicted brutal battle scenes, including — once again — Amazons, a recurring motif in Wonder architecture.

A ring of lions likely prowled the pyramid’s base. The decorative program celebrated domination, but also wildness and ritual. Priestesses in clinging, diaphanous dresses, their bodies visible beneath the folds, hint at ecstatic Bacchic rites. 

Skulls unearthed at the site suggest mass animal sacrifice during the burial — a slaughter of sheep, oxen, lambs, birds. Where now there are thistles and butterflies, there were once streams of blood.

Threads of gold found among the ruins may have once wrapped the king’s cremated remains. 

A spring near the site was famed in antiquity for its uncanny power to make men infertile or effeminate. That same spring inspired Ovid’s tale of the creation of Hermaphrodite: the son of Hermes and Aphrodite, lured into its waters by a nymph, merging into one being of two sexes.

The Mausoleum was a place where myth, sex, sacrifice, politics and grief all coalesced. A wonder of death, yes — but pulsing with the messy, lavish power of life.

6. The Colossus of Rhodes: Bronze Giant, Fallen God

The Colossus of Rhodes is perhaps the most misunderstood Wonder. Popular imagination has long insisted it stood legs astride the harbor entrance, torch in hand, as ships passed beneath. But that towering figure, feet apart across a 390-foot waterway, is pure fantasy — a medieval myth that held the world’s imagination hostage for 800 years. (It even inspired the Titan of Braavos in George R.R. Martin’s Game of Thrones.)

In reality, the Colossus never straddled the harbor. It likely stood higher up, on the city’s acropolis, towering above the bustling port of Rhodes. This was Helios — the pre-Olympian sun god — cast in bronze and iron, gleaming in the Aegean light.

Standing an estimated 108 feet tall, the statue was a staggering feat of ancient engineering. Built in the early 3rd century BCE and completed around 280 BCE, it had a skeleton of iron and a polished bronze skin. Just one of its digits — a single toe, say — was said to be larger than most full-sized statues.

Unlike Zeus’ patriarchal presence, Helios pulsed with youthful ambition. “Whereas the Zeus at Olympia thundered, his luxurious beard the signifier of a mature man in Greek culture, Rhodes’ Wonder, the un-bearded, tousled, soft-lipped Helios, had the dangerous energy of a young, unpredictable man poised to do great things,” Hughes writes. 

And given the era, it’s hard not to see the influence and inspiration of Alexander the Great in the statue’s features and commanding pose. Rhodes had resisted a siege by one of Alexander’s successors — and the Colossus was both a victory monument and a symbol of sun-blessed resilience.

Kolossos is a Greek word — possibly of Asiatic origin — that originally meant simply “statue.” But this statue rewrote the definition. It was never just a likeness. It was legend in metal, a city’s pride forged into form.

“This was a wonder that became legendary within weeks of its completion,” Hughes says. 

Created by the sculptor Chares of Lindos — and possibly influenced by the legendary Telchines, mythical inventors of metalwork — the statue took 12 years to complete. It was cast in sections, working from the feet upward. Each foot stood on a marble plinth around 60 feet wide and 10 to 15 feet thick.

And then it fell.

Around 227 BCE — just 60 or so years after it was completed — a devastating earthquake struck Rhodes. The city walls crumbled, the coastline dropped by 3 feet, and the Colossus came crashing down. It broke at the knees and was never re-erected. 

The fragments, enormous and awe-inspiring, lay scattered for centuries — longer than the statue ever stood. According to later sources, the tumbled Helios remained visible until the 7th century CE, when its remains were finally melted down for scrap. So much for immortality.

And that legend has never quite gone cold.

7. The Lighthouse of Alexandria: Fire, Mirrors and the Edge of the World

Unlike the short-lived Colossus of Rhodes, the Lighthouse of Alexandria stood tall for over 1,500 years — a marvel of geometry, ingenuity and sheer ambition. Built beginning around 297 BCE and completed over the course of 15 years, this towering wonder rose more than 400 feet above the bustling twin harbors of Alexandria, Egypt, making it the second tallest structure in the ancient world after the Great Pyramid.

It was astonishing. A stacked sequence of geometric forms — square, octagonal, circular — constructed from marble and local limestone, sheathed in red granite shipped down the Nile from the scorched quarries of Aswan. Some blocks stretched 36 feet long and weighed 75 tons. The tower was crowned with a 50-foot statue, almost certainly of Zeus Soter (Zeus the Savior), watching over the seas like a divine lighthousekeeper.

Its beacon could be seen for over 37 miles — a flaming furnace at night, and during the day, sunlight reflected off massive copper mirrors. It was both a feat of engineering and a performance of cosmic authority. Ships approaching Alexandria’s treacherous coast — battered by crosswinds, stalked by hidden rocks — were guided by this shimmering sentinel, the Pharos.

It was built of red granite, which is usually a dull pink, but could turn an iridescent purple  in desert light. “The ancients must have believed red granite brought with it some kind of sorcerer’s power,” Hughes muses. 

The tower’s structure was just as beguiling: a 1,115-by-1,115-foot base with fortified brick walls and turrets; an interior ramp and hoist system to ferry fuel and supplies; and an eight-sided middle tier symbolizing the compass winds. Above that, a cylindrical chamber topped with the beacon — perhaps powered by naphtha and papyrus, possibly attended by pack animals climbing in pairs.

And the Pharos wasn’t just a lighthouse. It was also a proto-telecom tower, using flashing heliography — ancient Morse code — and possibly even mechanical sound effects. Sculpted Tritons (half-man, half-fish) stood around the structure, possibly blowing horns that served as early sirens, ancient animatronics that altered the city in times of danger.

The lighthouse was initially funded by Ptolemy I — one of Alexander the Great’s most successful generals — and completed under his son, Ptolemy II. It cost an estimated 800 silver talents — over $19 m

illion in today’s money. Built on the island of Pharos, which would lend its name to the structure and eventually become the word for “lighthouse” in multiple languages, the monument embodied Ptolemaic power and vision. It was a glowing stake in the sand, declaring Alexandria the gateway between Africa, Asia and the Mediterranean world.

And for centuries, it worked.

Until 1303 CE, when the Earth shook. An earthquake finally toppled the Pharos, reducing it to ruins and ending one of the longest-standing Wonders of the Ancient World.

MORE: The Major Egyptian Gods and Goddesses

Why the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World Still Matter

All but one of the original Seven Wonders may be long gone — toppled by earthquakes, scavenged for scrap, or buried beneath centuries of sand and myth. But as Hughes makes clear, their true legacy is that they weren’t simply monuments to kings or gods. They were monuments to us — to human ambition, ingenuity, imagination and the drive to build something bigger than ourselves.

The list was specific, political, proudly Hellenistic — showcasing a curated world seen through Greek eyes in the wake of Alexander the Great. And yet, the idea of a Wonder has endured far beyond its original moment.

“Wonders serve a rich triple purpose,” Hughes writes. “They were constructed partly to feed our need for wondrous tales — to experience and talk about the biggest, the best, the tallest, the most strange, the most bold. They encourage a saturation in the now, by submitting to a present, pure sensation of wonder. They remind us of our overwhelming desire to collaborate to create beyond the possibilities of the individual.” 

Even today, the concept of a “wonder” still fuels our storytelling, our bucket lists, our skyscrapers and our sci-fi dreams. Because deep down, we’re still looking to be amazed. Still looking to build what seems impossible. Still wondering. –Wally

MORE: What Was Daily Life Like in Ancient Egypt?

Frank Lloyd Wright’s Burnham Block: Milwaukee’s Forgotten Vision for Affordable Homes

Wright’s American System-Built Homes still stand on Burnham Block, a quiet testament to his dream of housing for the middle class.

Well before he designed Fallingwater in Pennsylvania, Wright poured his energy into a very different kind of project — producing more than 900 drawings and over 30 standardized model variations for the American System-Built Homes: a line of modest, affordable houses for America’s middle-class families.

So when Wally and I planned a long weekend in Milwaukee, one of our top priorities was visiting the Burnham Block. Tucked between 27th Street and Layton Boulevard, this quiet stretch of West Burnham Street is home to six of Wright’s homes — examples of one of the most ambitious design efforts of his career and the largest collection of this housing style in the country. 

“At just 805 square feet, it’s the smallest of any house Wright designed.”

Fun fact: The thoroughfare was named after George Burnham, a brick manufacturer and real estate investor in the city. The cream-colored bricks his company produced helped give Milwaukee its nickname, the Cream City. 

“An American Home” 

After snapping a few photos outside, Wally and I ducked into the gift shop at the back of one of the duplexes currently undergoing restoration. From there we made our way to the front room to join our tour group and meet our docent, Rhonda. Once everyone was settled in, she broke the ice by asking where we were all from, and to our surprise, one family had traveled all the way from Italy.

She asked the group to imagine what a real estate ad might highlight today, and we quickly called out the usual features: square footage, number of bedrooms, location and price — basically everything related to the building itself. 

Holding up a full-page advertisement that ran in the Chicago Tribune in July 1917, titled “You Can Own an American Home” and attributed to then-copywriter Sherwood Anderson, she read the following excerpt aloud:

“There’s a bright, cheerful home waiting for you and your family — better built, excellently planned, far more livable. More beautiful? Yeah, it’ll have that rare thing: genuine architectural beauty, designed by a leader among architects. You select your plan; it’s built to your order. Constructed by a system that guarantees a high-grade building at a known price. In short, an American home.”

Rhonda pointed out that it wasn’t really about any of the features we had mentioned; it was about selling a lifestyle. And one big thing the ad omitted? Wright’s name — and that was no accident. 

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RELATED: Graycliff: Frank Lloyd Wright’s Love Letter to Lake Erie

Wally’s last name is also Wright, but, sadly, he’s never found a familial link to Frank.

When “Wright” Was a Bad Word

By 1915, the architect’s personal life had become tabloid fodder. In 1909 he had famously abandoned his wife and six children to run off to Europe with Mamah Borthwick Cheney — the wife of a former client and the woman at the center of a scandalous, widely publicized affair. 

Both were still married to their respective spouses when they left. Mamah got a divorce from her husband when they returned, but Wright wouldn’t officially be divorced from his wife, Catherine, for another six years. 

The scandal deepened in 1914, when a servant at Taliesin — Wright’s home and studio in Wisconsin — set fire to the building and axed down Mamah, her two children, and four others as they fled the flames. The tragedy made front-page headlines and further tarnished Wright’s reputation.

Rhonda went on to explain that what most people don’t realize is just how deeply Wright believed in what he called “democratic architecture.” To him the idea was simple: If you had a good job, you should also be able to afford a thoughtfully designed home. But Wright, for all his vision, didn’t quite know how to make that dream scalable. 

A Partnership With Arthur Richards

That's where Milwaukee developer Arthur L. Richards came in. He had previously collaborated with Wright on the Hotel Geneva, a lakeside resort that once stood on the shores of Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. Richards had the resources and business network Wright lacked, and he was able to turn the architect's vision into a viable housing project. 

Assuming the advertisement piqued your curiosity, your next stop would be to visit a local distributor. At the time, many young families were buying homes from the pages of mail-order catalogs — think Craftsman-style kits sold by Sears, Roebuck and Co. 

But Wright’s American System-Built Homes were different. They were modern, meticulously detailed, and built to his exacting standards. Customers could choose from roughly 30 standardized models, each offering a range of customizable options, including the floor plan, roof style (flat, hip or gable), custom furniture and art glass windows. You added up your choices, saw the total at the bottom, and that’s what you paid. 

Prices started at $1,875 and rose to about $3,500 once completed — remarkably modest for any home, much less a Wright-designed one, especially given his reputation for commissions that routinely ran over budget. It may sound like a lot for 1915, but homes of comparable size and quality typically sold for 10% to 15% more. This relative affordability was largely due to Richards, whose oversight kept costs down and brought Wright’s designs to a broader market.

To achieve this, the Richards Company pre-cut lumber and other materials in a mill and shipped them to the build site by rail — a method that offered greater efficiency and quality control than traditional site-built construction.

Preserving a Legacy: Restoration Efforts at Burnham Block

Once we had a sense of the project's background, Rhonda led us outside and enthusiastically shared more about this row of homes’ history and significance. Built on speculation between October 1915 and July 1916 the block includes four two-family Flat C (Model 7A) duplexes and two single-family bungalows: one Model B1 with a flat roof and one Model C3 with a hipped roof. 

She highlighted the importance of ongoing preservation efforts, noting that five of the six houses are now owned by Frank Lloyd Wright’s Burnham Block, a nonprofit organization dedicated to the care and stewardship of these historic structures.

“There’s no paid staff,” she told us. “We’re all volunteers. Every single dollar you spend, whether it’s on admission, in the gift shop or as a donation goes directly toward the care of these buildings.”

She went on to explain that the exterior of Duplex 4, the building we had just exited, was restored in 2013 and 2014 with the help of a Save America’s Treasures matching grant. The grant was awarded by the Department of the Interior and is managed by the National Park Service to support the preservation of nationally significant historic sites. Work on the interior, she noted, is still underway. 

“We did get a grant from the government,” she added. “But we’re unsure if we’ll actually receive that money. So for now, we’re kind of on hold, waiting to see what happens.” The hope is that they’ll be able to start restoration efforts on Bungalow Model C3 this year. 

When Richards selected the site for the housing project, it was considered the edge of town — still largely rural and known for its celery fields. An electric streetcar line ran along Burnham Street, connecting the area to the rest of the city. The City Service line provided access to downtown Milwaukee, while the Interurban line extended as far as East Troy. At the time, most people didn’t own cars, but they had access to mass transit, one of the key reasons these homes were built here.  

We paused for a moment in front of 2720 West Burnham Street — the only duplex on the block that isn't owned by the nonprofit.

Rhonda gave us a quick rundown of its history, explaining that a young couple who knew the legacy of the two-flat purchased the property in the early 1980s and converted it into a single-family home with three bedrooms, two bathrooms and a modern kitchen. She added that they installed the art glass windows and red square, a visual element found in many of Wright's designs. Nearly 30 years later, it was sold to its current owner, who now rents it out on Vrbo.

“I’ve been told it sleeps about nine — so if you decide to rent it, don’t forget to invite me!” Rhonda added with a chuckle. 

A Tour of Model B1

A short walk later, we found ourselves standing outside Model B1 at 2714 West Burnham Street. Rhonda affectionately referred to it as the “baby bungalow,” and at just 805 square feet, it’s the smallest of any house Wright designed. It was purchased in 2004 and fully restored to its 1916 appearance in 2008 and 2009. Today, it’s open to the public as a house museum. 

Rhonda shared that the home’s original exterior, like the others, was finished with a material called Elastica stucco. It was manufactured in Chicago and promoted at the time as an affordable and durable option. Initially praised for its smooth appearance, it later proved unreliable and was found to contain asbestos, requiring careful remediation during restoration.

Today, the exterior has been refinished with Pebble Dash — a type of stucco embedded with small stones that are sprayed onto the surface while it’s still wet. The result is a tactile, durable façade that honors the original intent while complying with modern safety standards.

Wright’s Bag of Tricks

Before we even stepped through the front door, we passed beneath a low overhang that extended above the entrance, an unmistakable hallmark of Wright’s design philosophy. It was a classic example of his compress-and-release technique: a moment of spatial compression at the threshold that heightened the sense of openness and volume once inside. 

Crossing that threshold, we entered the living room, the heart of the home, where a central hearth commanded attention. More than just a source of warmth, it was another signature of Wright’s architecture: a symbolic and literal centerpiece meant to anchor family life.

At the front of the room, floor-to-ceiling windows brought in natural light and made the space feel larger. Thanks to the height and placement of the front porch, anyone seated inside could enjoy a sense of openness and connection with the outdoors while still maintaining a sense of privacy, as the porch blocks direct views from passersby. 

This sense of openness was made possible, in part, by Wright’s innovative use of balloon-frame construction, a technique where long vertical studs run continuously from the foundation to the roof. In the American System-Built Homes, these studs are spaced 24 inches apart — wider than the typical 16 inches — based on a 2-foot modular grid. This grid made it easier for Richards’ team of builders to position them with greater flexibility, without needing to rework the structure of the walls.

Rhonda pointed out that Wright’s design pulled out all the stops to make this tiny house feel larger than it is. By cleverly “stealing space,” the walls flanking the wraparound hearth draw the eye back toward the foyer and the hallway beyond, creating a sense of depth and openness.

She also noted that most of the woodwork inside the house is original. While telling us about the built-in cabinetry in the living room, she explained that it not only acts as a partition but also cleverly accommodates a dining table that can be tucked away or pulled out — transforming the living room into a dining area as needed. 

To the right of the built-in, a doorway leads to the breakfast nook and kitchen. Vertical wooden slats separate the nook, offering a sense of division without fully enclosing the space, another subtle feature that reinforces an overall feeling of openness. 

The kitchen was fitted with wood cabinetry and the most adorable tiny oven I’d ever seen.

Rhonda added that the glass fronts on the upper cabinets were intentional: designed to catch and reflect light, they help create the illusion of a larger, airier room.

The private space of the home includes the primary bedroom, a children’s bedroom, a bathroom, and both coat and linen closets (a rare feature in a Wright home). A central light well draws natural light into the core of the house, brightening the interior. 

In the primary bedroom, ukiyo-e Japanese woodblock prints reflect Wright’s long-standing admiration for Japanese art and design, while the children’s room features charming illustrations created by his younger sister, Maginel Wright Enright. 

An American Dream That Never Caught On

This development embodied a bold vision of the American Dream. These homes weren’t just places to live; they were a blueprint for how entire neighborhoods of affordable, well-designed housing might take shape across the country. 

That vision extended far beyond this single block. Wright was never one to think small, and he and Richards imagined these homes not as a one-off experiment but as the beginning of something far-reaching. They envisioned entire subdivisions filled with variations on these models, stretching across the U.S. and into Canada. If everything went according to plan, the project could generate more than a million dollars in revenue. 

The six homes on Burnham Street were completed on July 5, 1916 — just 10 days before Milwaukee hosted a massive Preparedness Parade in support of U.S. involvement in World War I. But the war would soon derail Wright and Richards’ ambitious plans. As building materials were diverted to the war effort and the housing market grew uncertain, their grand project ground to a halt. 

In the end, only about a dozen American System-Built Homes were ever constructed — six on Burnham Street and a handful of others scattered throughout the Midwest. Eventually, Wright and Richards had a falling out, culminating in Wright successfully suing Richards for non-payment. Under their agreement, Wright was to receive royalties for each house sold. But a major flaw in the arrangement was that Richards wasn’t required to report each sale to Wright, making it impossible for Wright to know how many homes were actually built. That lack of transparency, combined with missed payments, led to growing mistrust and ultimately ended their partnership. 

Although the Burnham Block is listed on the National Register of Historic Places, discovering the homes felt like stumbling upon a hidden gem. These aren’t the Wright homes that capture a lot of attention.

Tours are available by reservation only and are led by trained docents who offer insight into the history and design of the homes. –Duke

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Before You Go

Phone: 414-368-0060

Admission: $20; children under 16 free

Times: Tours at 11 a.m., 12 p.m., 1 p.m. and 2 p.m.

Tours last about one hour.

Frank Lloyd Wright’s Burnham Block

2732 West Burnham Street
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
USA

 

Chapultepec Castle’s Lavish Décor and Imperial Intrigue in CDMX

Take a room-by-room tour of Chapultepec Castle — North America’s only royal palace — and uncover the imperial lives of Maximilian, Carlota and Porfirio Díaz in the heart of Mexico City.

The deeper we wandered into Chapultepec Castle, the more it felt like we were stepping back in time. 

It’s the only royal palace in North America that actually housed monarchs: Emperor Maximilian and Empress Carlota, who brought European grandeur, idealism (and a fair share of drama) to Mexico City. Their brief, ill-fated reign left a lasting mark on the castle and the country — a poignant reminder of how imperial ambition once shaped the course of Mexican history.

This extravagant carriage belonged to Maximilian and Charlotte.

Sala de Carruajes (Carriage Room)

After making our way out of the west wing, which houses the Museo Nacional de Historia, Wally and I found ourselves in the Sala de Carruajes (Carriage Room). This covered space features historic carriages and serves as the main entrance to the Alcázar, or Royal Palace. 

At the center of the room is the royal coach that belonged to Maximilian and Charlotte. Designed for special occasions, the ornate Baroque-style carriage was meticulously fabricated in 1864 by the Cesare Scala workshop in Milan, Italy and later shipped to Mexico. 

Its gold detailing, sculpted cherubs, and doors bearing the coat of arms of the Mexican Empire, an eagle atop a nopal devouring a serpent, beneath an imperial crown — lend the carriage an air of majestic splendor.

According to records from the National Museum of History, the carriage was used only twice, contributing to its near perfect condition. You could almost imagine it rolling through the streets, drawing every eye in its path.

Additionally, a more modest four-wheeled carriage, designed in Paris, France by Henri Binder for everyday transport, is also on display. Originally built for Maximilian, it was adapted for President Benito Juárez. While its wheels kept turning, they no longer carried a king. Maximilian’s imperial crest was replaced with the emblem of the republic — minus the imperial crown.

“We spent hours exploring the castle’s magnificent halls, grand stairways and stunning rooms — not to mention the breathtaking views from the top of Chapultepec Hill.”

Just beyond the room’s entrance is the first of two large-scale works by Antonio González Orozco, one of the last great artists of the Mexican muralist movement: Entrada Triunfal de Benito Juárez al Palacio Nacional, Acompañando de Su Gabinete (The Triumphal Arrival of Benito Juárez at the National Palace, Accompanied by His Cabinet), painted in 1967.

Nearby is another painting by Orozco: Juárez, Símbolo de la República Frente a la Intervención Francesa (Juárez, Symbol of the Republic Against the French Intervention), which celebrates Juárez’s role in preserving Mexican sovereignty during the French Intervention. His resistance to foreign rule and efforts to restore the republic earned him the Colombian government’s honorific title Benemérito de las Américas (Worthy of the Americas).

Among the other artworks in the room are three equestrian portraits: one of Maximilian of Habsburg, painted in 1865 by French artist Jean Adolphe Beaucé; one of General Mariano Escobedo; and one of General Porfirio Díaz, painted by Spanish soldier and artist José Cusachs in 1901.

A detail of the intricate Baroque plasterwork inside the Sala Introductoria.

Sala Introductoria (Introductory Hall)

Behind the Carriage Room, Wally and I stepped into a long, narrow hallway with wooden floors and a gilt plasterwork ceiling. This elegant corridor is now known as the Sala Introductoria (Introductory Hall), and features placards that tell the stories of its most notable residents, including Maximilian and Charlotte, as well as Díaz. 

Querido Max (Dear Max) by Miguel Carillo Lara, 2003

During Maximilian’s reign, this space served a very different purpose. It was a skittles alley, a game similar to bowling, where players would roll a wooden ball or disc down the hall, aiming to knock over nine pins arranged in a diamond formation. 

Attack on the Castle Chapultepec, a print by Nathaniel Currier, 1848

History of Chapultepec Castle

Chapultepec Castle’s appearance was shaped largely by two men: Maximilian I of the Austrian House of Habsburg, who ruled Mexico from 1864 to 1867, and Porfirio Díaz, who took power in 1876 and held onto it for over 30 years. 

Maximilian transformed the castle into a lavish imperial residence, while Díaz, an avid Francophile, despite fighting against the French in the Second Franco-Mexican War, modernized and expanded the structure. The castle remained the official presidential residence until 1934, when President Lázaro Cárdenas relocated the residence to Los Pinos. 

Not long after, on February 3, 1939, Cárdenas declared that Chapultepec Castle would become the National Museum of History. It officially opened to the public on September 27, 1944, during the presidency of Manuel Ávila Camacho.

The Austrian Archduke Ferdinand Maximilian Joseph (future emperor of Mexico) and his wife Charlotte of Belgium

The French Intervention in Mexico 

So, how did Mexico come to have an Austrian emperor?

It all started in the 1830s, when France began eyeing Mexico as a place to extend its influence, most notably during the Pastry War (1838–1839), a brief conflict sparked by complaints over damages to French-owned businesses. Although France never established a formal colony, its cultural and economic presence grew, especially in cities like Veracruz and Mexico City.

After years of political turmoil, Mexico’s economy was in ruins. In 1861, President Juárez made a bold move — he suspended all foreign debt payments. European creditors were infuriated, prompting France, Spain and Britain to send troops, determined to collect what they were owed. 

But it soon became clear that France, under Napoleon III, had bigger ambitions than debt recovery. By April 1862, Britain and Spain, unwilling to be drawn into an imperial venture, withdrew, leaving France to pursue its grand designs alone.

Napoleon wanted to establish a French-backed monarchy in Mexico to boost French influence in the Americas and counterbalance the growing power of the United States. 

French troops marched inland, but on May 5, 1862, they ran into stiff resistance at the Battle of Puebla, where Mexican forces under General Ignacio Zaragoza pulled off a stunning victory — a moment still celebrated every Cinco de Mayo.

However, the French regrouped, and returned stronger. By June 1863, they captured Mexico City, and Juárez and his government were forced into exile in the north.

With Mexico under French control, Napoleon needed a suitable European noble to serve as emperor. He found his answer in Archduke Ferdinand Maximilian Joseph of Austria, the younger brother of Emperor Franz Joseph I. As the second son, Maximilian had lived in his brother’s shadow. He was idealistic, ambitious and increasingly disillusioned with his limited role in Europe. 

Departure for Mexico by Cesare dell'Acqua, 1865. The royal couple head out to rule Mexico — a reign that would be short-lived and would end with Maximilian’s execution in 1867.

Emperor Maximillian Goes to Mexico

At first Maximilian hesitated. But the promise of power and glory in Mexico eventually won him over. With the encouragement of his equally determined wife, Princess Charlotte of Belgium, he accepted Napoleon’s offer. On May 28, 1864, the couple arrived in Mexico to begin their reign as Emperorador Maximiliano I and Emperatriz Carlota of Mexico.

Settling into their new roles, Maximilian and Charlotte chose Castillo de Chapultepec as their imperial residence, overseeing renovations to transform it into a grand European-style palace. They saw themselves as enlightened rulers, destined to bring stability and prosperity to a nation fractured by years of war.

While conservative elites had initially welcomed the monarchy, many Mexicans remained unconvinced. Juárez’s supporters, known as Juaristas, refused to recognize Maximilian’s authority and launched a sustained resistance movement. In an effort to win public support, Maximilian introduced several liberal reforms. These included protections for workers, efforts to limit working hours, and the promotion of fair labor practices. He also issued decrees aimed at restoring land rights to indigenous communities, reversing some of the damage done by earlier liberal reforms that had led to the loss of communal lands.

L'Exécution de Maximilien (The Execution of Emperor Maximilian) by Édouard Manet, 1869

The End of the Second Mexican Empire

Ironically, Maximilian proved too liberal for the conservatives who had brought him to power. They hadn’t signed up for an emperor who challenged their privilege and wealth.

As tensions mounted, international pressure began to close in. After the American Civil War ended in 1865, the U.S. government officially recognized Juárez as Mexico’s legitimate leader and strongly urged France to withdraw support. By 1866, under increasing diplomatic pressure from the United States, Napoleon began withdrawing French troops from Mexico, effectively ending armed intervention and leaving Maximilian without critical support. 

Determined not to relinquish power, Charlotte sailed to Europe in July 1866, pleading with Napoleon III, Pope Pius IX and her royal relatives to continue supporting the empire. But her mission failed — and the emotional toll broke her. She suffered a mental breakdown  in Rome and never returned to Mexico.

Back home, Maximilian made his final stand in the city of Querétaro. On May 15, 1867, Republican forces broke through, after one of Maximilian’s own men, Colonel Miguel López, betrayed him. Captured along with his generals Miguel Miramón and Tomás Mejía, he was quickly sentenced to death.

Despite desperate pleas from European monarchs — including his own brother — President Juárez stood firm. Granting a pardon would have weakened his stance and undermined the republic. 

On June 19, 1867, Maximilian and his generals were executed by firing squad on Cerro de las Campanas, the Hill of the Bells, bringing the Second Mexican Empire to a dramatic and final end. (The First Mexican Empire, led by Agustín de Iturbide, had collapsed decades earlier in 1823, after barely two years of shaky rule following independence from Spain.)

A pair of alabaster vases, featuring the coat of arms of the Second Mexican Empire, sit atop pedestals flanking a grand bookcase, while the sideboard holds a bust of French poet and fabulist Jean de La Fontaine. 

Sala de Lectura (Reading Room)

Rooms on the ground floor are accessible from a gleaming black and white marble promenade and have been restored to reflect their appearance during the time of Emperor Maximilian and Empress Charlotte. 

After the skittles alley, the first room we saw was the Sala de Lectura (Reading Room), where Maximilian spent time reading, drafting decrees, and handling both official and personal correspondence. 

As we took it all in, something on the red damask-covered wall caught our eye: a dark, rectangular outline, like a shadow frozen in time. It was clear that a large painting had once hung there. Our curiosity got the best of us, so I did a little digging online later and found out it had been a full-length portrait of Maximilian.

To be honest, this is probably the least impressive of the palace rooms. It’s all uphill from here. Louis XV-style giltwood chairs and a settee, upholstered in Aubusson tapestries, depict scenes from Jean de La Fontaine’s fables. While the term “tapestry” is typically associated with wall hangings, Aubusson’s craftsmanship extends to rugs and furniture upholstery as well.

The set of tapestries depicting nobleman playing games, fittingly adorning the Game Room, were a gift from Napoleon III to Maximilian for his birthday.

Salón de Juego (Game Room)

The next room was the Salón de Juego (Game Room), which was about half the size of the Reading Room. Its walls were decorated with scenes of noblemen dressed in elaborate 16th century finery — frilly pleated collars, puffed-out pumpkin breeches and cloaks — engaged in games such as badminton, bilboquet (a cup and ball toy) and the aforementioned skittles.

The overmantle bears the eagle and snake coat of arms, while the sideboard features a pair of putti holding Díaz’s seal, ‘RM,’ which stands for República Mexicana.

Comedor (Dining Room)

Immediately following was the Comedor, or Dining Room. The fireplace mantelpiece and sideboards, masterfully handcarved from mahogany by Pedro Téllez Toledo and Epitacio Calvo, were commissioned during the 1880s during Díaz’s presidency. Above the topless caryatids, symbolizing Mexico’s agricultural abundance, hung another elegant Aubusson tapestry, this one depicting a fox and a duck.

The dining table was equally impressive. Tooled leather chairs with nailhead studs surrounded it, and the table itself was set with silver-plated serving pieces and candelabra from Maximilian’s own service — crafted by Christofle of Paris, no less, the same silversmith favored by Napoleon III. 

The Music Room includes chairs upholstered with tapestries depicting the fables of Jean de La Fontaine and two grand pianos.

Salón de Gobelinos (Hall of Gobelins)

Much to our disappointment, the Salón de Gobelinos (Hall of Gobelins) wasn’t named after mischievous little creatures from folklore, as we had hoped. Instead, it gets its name from the Gobelin family of clothmakers. Their Paris workshop became world-famous, and in this case, the name refers to the aforementioned Aubusson-woven textiles that cover the Louis XV furniture throughout the room.

Gazing back at us from the walls were full-length portraits of Maximiliano and Carlota by German painter Albert Gräfe, alongside those of Napoleon III and his wife, Eugénie de Montijo. In the center of the room stood two grand pianos — one French, the other English — which Maximilian and Charlotte once played.

The spiral staircase adjacent to the elevator was designed by architect Antonio Rivas Mercado. He contributed to the castle’s neoclassical design, transforming it into a grand structure suitable for use as a presidential residence and a venue for official events. Mercado’s influence extended beyond architecture, though; while serving as director of the Academy of San Carlos from 1903 to 1912, he was responsible for granting the scholarship that enabled Diego Rivera to study in Europe for several years. 

The brass bed in Carlota’s bedroom displays the coat of arms of Maximilian’s empire.

Recámara y Baño de Carlota (Charlotte’s Bedroom and Bathroom)

The Recámara de Carlota (Charlotte’s Bedroom) was the first in a suite of three rooms once used by the empress herself. Decorated in blue and gold, it features Boulle-style furniture, characterized by intricate inlays of tortoiseshell and brass. At the center stood a brass bed, its headboard topped by an oval medallion featuring the coat of arms of the Second Mexican Empire — an eagle and a snake, flanked by two griffins — while the footboard bears the imperial monogram “MIM” for Maximiliano I de Mexico. 

Next to the bedroom was the Baño de Carlota, or Charlotte’s Bathroom, where we saw the massive freestanding marble bathtub commissioned by Maximilian for Charlotte. Hewn from a single block of stone, it was produced by the Fratelli Tangassi workshop, an Italian family of alabaster artisans from Volterra, and exported to the castle at great expense. Standing before it, I could only imagine how much water it must have taken to fill.

Behind the tub, tiles imported from China were delicately painted with peonies and cherry blossoms. 

Charlotte’s sitting room reflected her devout faith, with a rare bust of the Virgin Mary under glass and one of the earliest known images of Our Lady of Guadalupe in the castle’s collection.

Sala de Estar Carlota (Charlotte’s Sitting Room)

Beyond the bathroom was the Sala de Estar Carlota (Charlotte’s Sitting Room). 

As a deeply devout Catholic, she saw her role in Mexico as part of a divine mission, her religious devotion merging with a growing sense of connection to her adopted country. The room reflected her spirituality, with a bust of the Virgin Mary under a glass cloche, a painting of St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City, and a small painting of the Virgin of Guadalupe, a powerful national and religious symbol in Mexico.

With a green velvet tabletop and portraits of past leaders, the Salón de Acuerdos served as a formal space for cabinet discussions after the castle became the president’s official residence.

Salón de Acuerdos (Meeting Room)

Once Chapultepec Castle became the official presidential residence, there was a need for a dedicated space to receive cabinet members, and that’s where the Salón de Acuerdos (Meeting Room) comes in. Designed in the early 20th century, the green velvet tabletops and portraits of past leaders lining the walls make the room feel very presidential. Among those displayed are Presidents Francesco Madero, Álvaro Obregón, Emilio Portes Gil, Pascual Ortiz Rubio and Lázaro Cardenas.

The bronze grasshopper atop the Fuente del Chapulín was sculpted by Luis Albarrán y Pilego and installed in 1924.

Patio del Chapulín (Courtyard of the Grasshopper)

Before climbing to the second floor, we took a moment to explore the Patio del Chapulín (Courtyard of the Grasshopper). Framed by manicured hedges and anchored by the Fuente del Chapulín (Grasshopper Fountain), the courtyard opens onto a balcony terrace with breathtaking views of Mexico City below. 

Six statues dedicated to the Niños Héroes stand atop the balustrade at the edge of the Patio del Chapulín.

Standing atop the terrace balustrade are six statues of the Niños Héroes, created in 1942 by artist Armando Quezada Medrano. They depict the young military cadets who died defending Mexico during the Battle of Chapultepec on September 13, 1847, during the Mexican–American War. Note that these figures are separate from the Altar a la Patria (Altar to the Homeland) monument, also located in Chapultepec Park, although both honor the same brave cadets.

The sweeping Escalera de Leones (Lion’s Staircase) links the first floor to the terraced gardens above. Its steps, carved from Carrara marble, are flanked at the base by two marble lions modeled after Antonio Canova’s monumental mausoleum for Pope Clement XIII in St. Peter’s Basilica at the Vatican. One rests peacefully, while the other stands watchful and alert. 

The Escalera de Leones leads to the rooftop gardens and includes stained glass windows installed during the presidency of Venustiano Carranza.

At the top of the staircase, stained glass windows installed during the presidency of Venustiano Carranza (1859–1920) protect the stairwell from the elements. Their designs feature floral and vegetal patterns inspired by the Mexican landscape. One window depicts the glyph of a chapulín (a grasshopper, running with the theme), perched on a hill with flowing water beneath it. The other showcases the Mexican coat of arms. 

Above the treetops, the Tall Knight keeps watch — first as a military tower, then as Mexico’s gaze turned skyward in 1877, becoming a short-lived but advanced observatory.

Rooftop Gardens

Just beyond are the rooftop gardens designed by Austrian botanist Wilhelm Knechtel during the reign of Emperor Maximilian. At its center stands a tower called the Caballero Alto (Tall Knight), surrounded by neatly trimmed hedges and classical statues. This structure, built around 1842 as part of the Military College, was briefly repurposed in 1877 as an astronomical observatory, complete with meteorological instruments considered cutting-edge for the time.

Designed in the 1860s by Austrian botanist Wilhelm Knechtel, these rooftop gardens were part of Maximilian’s vision to bring European elegance to Chapultepec Castle.

Adorning the walls of the elevated garden are colorful frescoes of bacchantes — female followers of Bacchus, the Roman god of wine. Painted in the Pompeian style, these works were created by Santiago Rebull, the court painter of Maximilian and one of the few individuals close to the monarchy who managed to remain in Mexico and even thrive in the subsequent decades under the Republic. He completed four of the figures between 1865 and 1866 during Maximilian’s reign, and nearly three decades later, painted the remaining two in 1894 under the Díaz administration.

Nip slip! The bacchae depicted on the walls of the upper terrace were painted by Santiago Rebull in the Neoclassical style, inspired by the 18th century rediscovery of the ancient ruins at Pompeii and Herculaneum.

The day Wally and I visited, an orchestra and a vocalist were rehearsing an aria beneath the terrace pavilion.

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Díaz and Chapultepec Castle

During his extended rule as president, Díaz was determined to position Mexico as a modern, forward-thinking nation, and the castle became part of that vision. Under his direction, Chapultepec Castle saw some major upgrades, including the installation of its very first elevator in 1900. It connected the basement, main floor and rooftop, and at the time, it was cutting-edge. In fact, the castle was one of the first buildings in all of Mexico to be outfitted with electricity.

Díaz’s bedroom was appointed in French style with Louis XVI furniture.

Recámara de Porfirio Díaz (Bedroom of Porfirio Díaz)

Inside, the Recámara de Porfirio Díaz (Bedroom of Porfirio Díaz) reflects a refined French taste. Though not as lavish as Charlotte’s quarters downstairs, it still impresses with its Louis XVI furnishings: a stately mahogany bed and a pair of cream-colored slipper chairs with scrolled backs and elegant fringe.

The Galería de Emplomados is lined with stained glass windows created by the French firm Champigneulle Fils, and were installed in 1901.

Galería de Emplomados (Stained Glass Gallery)

Beyond Díaz’s bedroom is the Galería de Emplomados (Stained Glass Gallery). Installed in 1901, the grand corridor features five stained glass windows crafted by the renowned French firm Champigneulle Fils, celebrated for their work in churches, palaces, and civic buildings across Europe and Latin America. Spanning nearly 800 square feet, the windows cover half the length and height of the Alcázar’s eastern elevation. Each depicts a nature goddess: Pomona (goddess of fruits), Flora (goddess of flowers), Hebe (bearer of divine nectar and grantor of eternal youth), Diana (goddess of the hunt), and Ceres (goddess of agriculture). 

It would have been the perfect photo op — if not for one particularly self-important visitor, who had commandeered the gallery, barking orders at her poor friend and critiquing every shot like she was Anna Wintour on a Vogue editorial shoot.

The Salón de Embajadores features furniture in the Louis XVI style and plaster painted to look like marble.

Salón de Embajadores (Hall of Ambassadors)

The final Díaz-period room we peered into was the Salón de Embajadores (Hall of Ambassadors) a French-inspired room where Díaz met with diplomats to discuss international relations. Originally Charlotte’s study, the room was repurposed by Díaz as Mexico gained prominence on the world stage, and the castle became a key venue for hosting foreign dignitaries. 

Designer Epitacio Calvo incorporated Baroque and French Neoclassical styles into the room’s furnishings. 

Plan Your Visit 

The weather couldn’t have been better for our visit to this incredible landmark. We spent hours exploring its magnificent halls, grand stairways and stunning rooms, not to mention the breathtaking views from the top of Chapultepec Hill. If you’re in Mexico City, this place is an absolute must-see.

Hours:

• Monday: Closed

• Tuesday–Sunday: 9 a.m.–5 p.m. (Note: The museum begins clearing rooms at 4:45 p.m.)

Admission:

• 100 MXN (about $5.50)

• Free every day for children under 13, seniors 60+, students, teachers, pensioners/retirees, and visitors with disabilities with valid ID

• Free on Sundays for Mexican nationals and residents

Ticket Purchase:

• Tickets are sold at the bottom of the hill before the ramp — there aren’t ticket booths at the castle entrance.

• You can buy your tickets online as well.

Accessibility:

• The castle offers ramps, elevators and loaner wheelchairs.

• Visitors with disabilities or those seeking adapted educational tours can arrange assistance by emailing difusion.mnh@inah.gob.mx.

Food & Drink:

• Food and beverages aren’t permitted inside the castle. You must leave these in a locker at the bottom of the hill. Plan to eat and hydrate before or after your visit.

Chapultepec Castle

Primera Sección del Bosque de Chapultepec s/n 
San Miguel Chapultepec
Mexico City 11580
Mexico

Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo House-Studio Museum

The studio and home of prolific artists Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo at the Museo Casa Estudio Diego Rivera y Frida Kahlo wows as a striking example of 1930s Mexican modernist architecture. 

You definitely have to tour Casa Azul and Anahuacalli Museum — but this site is also worth visiting if you have time.

When Wally and I talk to friends about our travels in CDMX, the conversation often turns to the places we’ve seen, and the places on our list for our next trip. 

One of the places I’d been wanting to visit was the Museo Casa Estudio Diego Rivera & Frida Kahlo, the former home and studio of two of the city’s most revered artists — though I’d argue that Frida has eclipsed Diego in fame since their deaths in the 1950s. It felt like a fitting comeuppance for how he treated her. But more on that later. 

“Whenever Frida wanted to visit Diego, she had to pull herself up an exterior floating staircase and cross a narrow footbridge.

Diego had specifically requested this to make it difficult for Frida to enter his studio (and see his adulterous dalliances). 

Their tumultuous relationship undoubtedly checked the “it’s complicated” box. ”

San Ángel: An Escape From the City

The historic house museum is located in San Ángel, an enchanting neighborhood southwest of Mexico City. Once a separate municipality, San Ángel served as a retreat for wealthy families who built grand country homes to escape the chaos of city life during the rise of the Industrial Revolution. Ancient lava flows shaped this rugged terrain, where its cobbled streets and colonial estates were eventually consumed by the ever-expanding sprawl of Mexico City.

Duke and Wally stand on the terrace by the walkway that connected Diego’s home to Frida’s.

We planned our visit to coincide with the Bazar Sábado, a weekly market held on Saturdays, where artists and artisans set up shop and sell their wares. 

Our Uber driver dropped us off at the museum’s entrance on Calle Diego Rivera. As we waited for our guide, we couldn’t help but notice valets dressed in traje de charro, the traditional attire of mariachis, running past us in pairs. They were undoubtedly heading to the entrance of the nearby San Ángel Inn to park arriving cars. Known for its restaurant, the historic inn is a favorite dining spot for both locals and tourists, especially on weekends.

O'Gorman's Mexican fence post cactus barriers (and modern aesthetic) pissed off his traditional neighbors.

Wally and I walked to the front of the property, which faces Avenida Altavista. In our opinion, the best view of the two buildings is from across the avenue. On the left is the big house, a boxy white and red structure with a distinctive sawtooth roof and water tanks, which once served as the residence and studio of the plus-sized muralist Rivera. 

It’s linked at roof level by a narrow walkway and contrasted by the little house, the vivid blue home on the right, which belonged to his unibrowed surrealist painter wife, Kahlo.

The building that now serves as the restrooms originally functioned as a darkroom for Kahlo’s father, Guillermo.

Not the Blue House: The History of Diego and Frida’s San Ángel Studio Home

When the site opened at 10 a.m., we met our guide, Fernanda, in the museum’s courtyard. She resembled a proto-punk Japanese schoolgirl, with her nose ring and dressed in a long-sleeve white shirt under a black sweater, grid-pattern miniskirt fastened with oversized buttons and shiny black loafers. Joining us were a couple from Alabama celebrating their pandemic-postponed honeymoon and a towering white-haired man on a business trip from Germany who had added a day for sightseeing. 

Before the tour began, Fernanda asked how many of us had visited Casa Azul, Kahlo’s family home in the boho Coyoacán neighborhood. She explained that a lot of visitors show up here thinking they’re about to see the Blue House.

“It’s important to understand the difference,” Fernanda explained, “because that’s the house where she was born and where she returned after divorcing Rivera in December 1939.” 

She continued, “Here, there isn’t much furniture — it’s more of a photographic history. But what makes this site significant is the architecture of these three buildings.”

Our charming tour guide, Fernanda, was an expert on O’Gorman, Rivera and Kahlo.

Kahlo only lived here for six years. The couple moved into the home in January 1934 after Rivera was essentially forced to return to Mexico following the controversy surrounding his mural at Rockefeller Center, Man at the Crossroads. The mural, which included a depiction of Vladimir Lenin, led the Rockefellers to order its destruction and terminate Rivera’s commission. Rivera later re-created the mural in Mexico City. This version, titled Man, Controller of the Universe, can be seen at the Palacio de Bellas Artes murals in Mexico City.

Kahlo and Rivera remarried in December 1940, a year after their divorce, at San Francisco City Hall in California; however, she never returned to San Ángel. Her declining health made it more practical for her to remain in the beloved house of her childhood, la Casa Azul, which now serves as a popular attraction. This house offers a comprehensive glimpse into her life, showcasing her furniture and personal belongings. Rivera, however, lived in the studio home until his death in 1957.

In 1981, the National Institute of Fine Arts (INBA) acquired the houses from Rivera’s daughter, Ruth Rivera Marín, and, after nearly 16 years of restoration, it opened to the public. And three decades later, INBA acquired the Cecil O’Gorman House and incorporated it into the museum campus.

You can imagine Juan O’Gorman’s bold modernist design didn’t go over so well with the neighbors, who lived in colonial-style homes.

Cecil O’Gorman House 

Thanks to his interest in sports, Juan O’Gorman was the first to discover that the pair of tennis courts belonging to the San Ángel Inn were for sale.

In 1929, the aspiring 24-year-old architect purchased the plot at 81 Las Palmas, now Calle Diego Rivera, using money he had earned as chief draftsman at Carlos Obregón Santacilla’s atelier. 

He then began constructing a revolutionary dwelling inspired by Swiss architect Le Corbusier, whose work he had studied at the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México (UNAM). The design adhered to the principle that buildings should be created solely based on their purpose and function. 

Nearly a century later, the structure remains one of the earliest examples of functionalist architecture in Latin America. Its stripped-back, utilitarian design was radical for its time, standing in sharp contrast to the surrounding 18th century colonial homes.

An exposed concrete spiral staircase swirls up the side of O’Gorman’s house.

By 1930, O’Gorman had completed the Cecil O’Gorman House, which, according to his autobiography, he designed as a home and studio for his father. 

But that’s not the whole story. 

His father, the Irish painter Cecil Crawford O’Gorman, was an avid collector of colonial art and antiques. He already owned a spacious hacienda nearby and had no interest in downsizing to the modernist glass box that his son had built. In reality, it’s likely that O’Gorman designed the house to showcase his architectural ideas and intended it to serve as a prototype for low-income housing, though the project never came to fruition.

Elevated on pilotis, slender columns that raise the reinforced concrete structure off the ground, this innovative construction method eliminated the need for traditional load-bearing walls, allowing O’Gorman to incorporate an entire wall of articulated glass windows. 

Access to the second floor is provided by an external spiral staircase, but unfortunately, it was closed during our visit due to the installation of an upcoming exhibition.

We weren’t able to go upstairs in the O’Gorman House because they were setting up for a new exhibition.

Like Rivera, O’Gorman had socialist inclinations and sought to challenge the norms of his time. He wasn’t just building a home — he was making a declaration of functionalist design amid the traditional architecture that characterizes much of San Ángel.

The neighbors were said to be outraged, demanding that his architectural degree be revoked. 

The locals didn’t care for the home’s curb appeal, either. Enclosed by Pachycereus marginatus, a tall columnar cactus, also known as Mexican fence post cactus, and landscaped with agaves, it reflected the aesthetic of an indigenous Mexican village rather than the prevailing manicured European style.

Rivera, on the other hand, appreciated O’Gorman’s vision. He commissioned him to construct a similar pair of homes for himself and his wife, Kahlo, on the adjacent lot. 

A model of the property inside the O’Gorman House.

Inside, what formerly served as the dining room and kitchen now holds a glass case with a scale model of the trio of buildings as well as a series of photographs by Cristina Kahlo-Alcalá, Kahlo’s grandniece. Among the photos are images of the hospital gowns Kahlo wore during her stays at the American British Cowdray Hospital in Mexico City, on which she often used to wipe excess paint from her brushes while she painted.

These doodles became the mural Entre Filosofía y Ciencia by O’Gorman.

In 2012, the museum’s restoration team uncovered the sinopia, or preparatory sketch, for the fresco Entre Filosofía y Ciencia (Between Philosophy and Science) on a layer of lime plaster beneath where the completed mural by O’Gorman originally stood. The fresco was purchased by Banco Nacional de México in 1957 and, when it’s not traveling, can be found in the Museo Foro Valparaíso.

Recall that Frida had leg and back issues, and imagine her having to walk up and down this floating staircase onto her roof and then across the walkway to get to Diego’s house.

Frida and Diego’s Complicated Relationship 

After we exited the Cecil O’Gorman House, Fernanda directed our attention to the floating staircase perched on the exterior of Kahlo’s house. Its tubular steel handrail leads from the second floor studio windows to the rooftop terrace. We couldn’t believe anyone would have used those stairs — especially Kahlo, whose chronic health issues significantly impaired her mobility. 

As a child, Kahlo contracted polio, which left her right leg weakened and deformed. Then, as a teenager, she was in a horrific accident when the bus she was riding collided with a trolley car. The impact left her with a fractured spine, and a handrail pierced her body, entering through her back and exiting through her pelvis.

RELATED: 9 Fascinating Facts About Frida

Yet, whenever she wanted to visit Rivera, she had to pull herself up those stairs and cross the narrow footbridge. Rivera had specifically requested this particular feature from O’Gorman to make it difficult for Kahlo to enter his studio (and see his adulterous dalliances). 

Their tumultuous relationship undoubtedly checked the “it’s complicated” box. It was a marriage strained by mutual jealousy and infidelity. Rivera didn’t fit society’s standards of handsome — Kahlo nicknamed him el Sapo-Rana (Toad-Frog) — but his fame, confidence and charisma made him irresistible to many women. 

Tour groups meet in the small courtyard in front of Diego’s house.

Rivera’s House and Studio

In my opinion, the most fascinating part of the museum is Rivera’s house. It still contains some of the original furniture and artwork from when he lived there. 

The bedroom has a set of small windows high on the wall, which limited the amount of direct sunlight and helped keep the room cool. Next to the bed, there’s a pair of shoes, an enamel bedpan and a leather suitcase sitting atop the woven coverlet, awaiting its next trip. An articulated gooseneck task lamp and a small bust of Chairman Mao sit on the olive green-painted nightstand, with a watercolor landscape by Rivera hanging above it.

Diego’s bedroom

Like his bedroom, the studio was mostly left as it was at the time of Rivera’s death. The main section, with its double-height space, was perfect for large works and transportable murals. The design facilitated easy handling of the panels, allowing them to be moved in and out of the studio through the folding windows.

Our favorite pieces among the personal items were Rivera’s collection of larger-than-life cartonería (papier-mâché) figures. Known in Mexico as Judases, these brightly colored effigies, with features like oversized or abnormally small heads and stubby limbs, commanded the room with their massive presence. Originally, these figures were depictions of Judas Iscariot, the apostle who betrayed Jesus Christ. Rivera’s collection includes devils, skeletons and other fantastical creatures, which were traditionally burned, exploded or flogged on the Saturday before Easter. 

Some of Diego’s collection of papier-mâché Judases in his studio

Many of these larger-than-life-sized effigies were created by the Mexican folk artist Carmen Caballero Sevilla. One Holy Week, Rivera visited the Mercado Abelardo Rodríguez and was impressed with Sevilla’s Judas figures and invited her to work in his studio in San Ángel. (He admired the working class, which is why he often wore overalls.)

Cool metal skeletons covered the walls.

Diego collected handicrafts like these Judases.

Brushes and trays with reserves of dried paint remain exactly as Rivera had left them, offering a glimpse into his creative process. Among them were shelves with jars of pigments that reflect his color palette — including Paris Green, a highly toxic emerald green powder made from copper and arsenic. 

Diego’s paints line the shelves of his studio but have long since dried up.

There are bookcases filled with pre-Hispanic and indigenous folk art. On one of the easels was a painting of the Latin American actress Dolores del Río, who was rumored to have slept with both Rivera and Kahlo. 

Diego painted Dolores del Rio, a beautiful Latin American actress who is said to have slept with his as well as Frida.

Fernanda pointed out a papier-mâché torito, a little bull, hanging high above us. She explained that this tradition dates back to the mid 19th century. These creations are mounted on a kind of scaffolding that rests on the wearer’s shoulders, stuffed with fireworks like roman candles and bottle rockets, which are set alight as part of the annual festival in the town of Tultepec honoring Saint John of God, the patron saint of (what else?) fireworks makers. 

Sound dangerous? It sure is — but that didn’t stop Fernanda’s brother from participating in one. And he has the burns to prove it. 

Our group followed Fernanda up the staircase to the second floor, where we could take in a full view of the studio. Fernanda explained that this was the very spot where Kahlo discovered Rivera with her younger sister Cristina — an incident that became the proverbial last straw, which led to their separation and brief divorce. It wasn’t Rivera’s or Kahlo’s numerous indiscretions that caused the rift; it was the fact that Rivera was having an affair with her closest confidant.

Just off the landing, we entered Rivera’s private office, a space with a desk and a typewriter and additional bookcases filled with pieces from his prolific collection of pre-Hispanic artifacts, an obsession that can be seen at the Anahuacalli Museum in Coyoacán. 

Diego’s typewriter and some of the pre-Columbian artifacts he loved to collect.

From Rivera’s office, a door opened onto the rooftop terrace and the narrow bridge connecting his former residence to Kahlo’s. However, Fernanda quickly dismissed any thoughts of taking the infamous floating stairs. Instead, we followed her back through Rivera’s office and down the staircase to the courtyard below.

Frida’s house leaves much to be desired — but at least O’Gorman painted it the vibrant blue of her beloved family home, Casa Azul.

Kahlo’s House

Our group paused outside Kahlo’s house as Fernanda pointed out an interesting feature: a carnelian red painted garbage chute extending from the second floor, connected to a steel drum barrel. Its purpose? To collect kitchen waste.

By this time, the site had grown much busier, with dozens of visitors streaming in and out of the buildings.

The rooms inside Kahlo’s house were noticeably smaller and compact than those in Rivera’s, in large part because there wasn’t an open studio space. Unlike her husband’s residence, Kahlo’s house was devoid of decorative objects or furniture, leaving the space feeling even more austere.

The tiny kitchen exemplified functional design, featuring a concrete countertop with a gas cooktop, a small sink, and the opening of the chute that connected to the steel barrel outside. 

A man from Germany insisted Wally pose for a picture in his bright T-shirt to contrast with the blue of Frida’s house, next to the kitchen garbage chute.

We peeked into the modest bathroom, the very space where Kahlo’s 1938 oil painting, Lo que el agua me dio (What the Water Gave Me), was conceived. Fernanda told us that there weren’t any good spaces for Frida to paint in her home, so she chose the bathroom, which had better lighting. 

Frida’s home is small and dark, so she preferred to paint in the bathroom. One of her most famous works, Lo que el agua me dio, came from this period.

Wally paused in front of a framed letter that Kahlo had written to Hungarian-born photographer Nickolas Muray, with whom she shared a decade-long, on-again, off-again relationship, and read this poignant sentence aloud: “Please forgive me for having phoned you that evening. I won’t do it anymore.”

One of the glass cases in Kahlo’s house displays an open copy of the book Complete Anatomy of Man by Martín Martínez, and included a handwritten dedication from Kahlo to Dr. Juan Farill, the surgeon who performed seven spinal surgeries on her. 

The final room we explored was her small bedroom — a fitting conclusion to our visit. The room was concealed behind thick black drapery that we had to pull aside to enter. Inside, an installation by Cristina Kahlo-Alcalá features numerous lightboxes  illuminating Kahlo’s medical records from the American British Cowdray Hospital. The air in the room felt heavy and still, with the slow rhythmic sound of a heartbeat emanating from a hidden speaker. 

We knew beforehand about Diego and Kahlo’s turbulent relationship. But standing in the dark, claustrophobic space Diego had O'Gorman design as her home was a different kind of gut punch. It was hard not to feel the weight of it — the realization that someone as fiercely powerful as Kahlo could be confined like this by a man who claimed to love her. It really shook us, and we didn’t linger.

Our group poses under the entrance to Frida’s house.

Know before you go

We purchased tickets prior to our trip through a site called Tiqets. At $30 per person it’s definitely more than the $2 price of general admission, but we felt it was worth it. 

Our guide, Fernanda, was charming and incredibly knowledgeable, offering all the insights we could have hoped for about the site. She didn’t shy away from discussing the complexities of Rivera and Kahlo’s relationship either. And even though the tour was scheduled to last an hour, she stayed with us for an hour and 45 minutes, never once making us feel rushed.

The museum is open Tuesday through Sunday from 10 a.m. to 5:30 p.m.

Admission is 40 pesos for adults, while children under 13 and seniors can enter for free. On Sundays, admission is free for everyone. –Duke

Floor-to-ceiling windows opened wide to allow transport of Rivera’s large-scale mural panels into and out of his studio. 

Museo Casa Estudio Diego Rivera y Frida Kahlo

Diego Rivera s/n
San Ángel Inn
Álvaro Obregón
01060 CDMX
Mexico

 

The Architectural Evolution of the Louvre: From Fortress to Museum

Explore the Louvre’s journey from a medieval castle to a world-renowned museum, uncovering its rich history, design changes and cultural legacy.

The Louvre, known for its iconic art collection, houses more than just masterpieces within its walls — it holds centuries of a stormy history and transformation. 

Originally a medieval fortress, the Louvre has been reshaped over the ages into one of the largest and most renowned museums in the world. This journey through its architecture not only reflects changing styles but also France’s tumultuous past. Let’s step through time and experience the evolving grandeur of the Louvre.

Where Did the Louvre Get Its Name?

First things first: Ever wondered why one of the world’s most famous museums is called the Louvre? You’re not alone, and, like many things in history, the truth is a bit murky. There are a couple of theories, though, both equally intriguing.

The first — and perhaps the most vivid — traces the name back to the Old French word lupara, meaning wolf. Legend has it that the Louvre might have started as a hunting lodge, a place where wolves once roamed, or perhaps a refuge for those hunting them. Imagine early Parisians chasing down these wild creatures in the shadows of what would one day house the Mona Lisa.

The second theory takes us in a different direction, connecting the name to the Frankish word leovar or leower, meaning a fortified place or watchtower. And this one holds some weight, considering the Louvre began its life in the late 12th century as a defensive fortress. 

The Louvre’s Early Years: A Fortress for Kings

The year: 1190. Paris is a thriving but vulnerable medieval city. King Philip II, wary of invasion, commands the construction of a fortress to shield the city from foreign threats. 

The structure — thick stone walls, a deep moat — was built to intimidate and protect. The cold, imposing silhouette of the Louvre Castle stood firm, safeguarding the kingdom’s treasures and its people. 

Yet, as the centuries passed, Paris evolved, and so did the fortress. By the 14th century, under the reign of Charles V, the once purely defensive stronghold began its metamorphosis into a royal palace, draped in the elegance of Gothic architecture, with soaring arches and intricate stonework. The rigid fortress had turned into a symbol of royal power and opulence, reflecting the splendor of the era.

Renaissance Transformations of the Louvre

The Renaissance breathed new life into the Louvre, reshaping it from a fortress-turned-palace into a majestic royal residence. 

In the 16th century, Francis I, a king passionate about art and architecture, envisioned a Louvre that would rival the finest palaces of Europe. He summoned renowned architects like Pierre Lescot to reimagine the building. Stone masons carved delicate sculptures, artisans crafted grand façades, and courtyards took shape — where once there had been utilitarian walls. 

The Cour Carrée, a resplendent square courtyard, emerged as a harmonious blend of Renaissance ideals. Classical columns and elegant pediments framed the space, signaling the Louvre’s new status. No longer a fortress of war, the Louvre was becoming a beacon of French culture, preparing to house not just royals, but the world’s greatest artistic treasures.

The Louvre as Museum

Fast forward to the throes of the French Revolution. The palace, once reserved for royalty, was swept into the tide of change. 

Interestingly, the Louvre itself wasn’t invaded or looted in the chaotic way that some other royal properties were during the Revolution. While many royal residences, like the Palace of Versailles, faced mobs and plundering, the Louvre largely escaped such direct violence.

Instead of looting, there was a process of “nationalization.” Artworks that had belonged to the monarchy, the Church and émigrés (those who fled the country) were legally confiscated and transferred to the Louvre. Revolutionary authorities essentially took over the management of the collections, treating them as public property rather than private royal possessions.

In 1793, the Louvre opened its doors to the public as a museum, a gesture that symbolized the democratization of art and culture. Citizens, for the first time, stood in front of masterpieces previously reserved for the most elite. 

Over the years, its halls would expand, as art from all over Europe poured in. 

By the 19th century, the Louvre was undergoing a new transformation — architects like Hector Lefuel extended and renovated its galleries, crafting the museum we recognize today. 

And then came the most daring addition of all: a modern wonder amid centuries of history.

The Glass Pyramid: A Modern Icon

In 1989, I.M. Pei unveiled his controversial masterpiece: the glass pyramid. 

At first, the contrast was startling. How could this sharp, transparent structure belong in a space so rich with centuries of stone? 

Yet over time, the pyramid became a beloved symbol of the Louvre’s embrace of both past and future. Its sleek lines rise from the courtyard like a beacon, inviting visitors into the heart of the museum. The sunlight streams through its glass panels, casting an ethereal glow across the underground lobby, an unexpected harmony of ancient and modern.

Experiencing the Louvre Today

Today, the Louvre could be considered a pilgrimage site for art lovers from around the globe. Housing over 38,000 works, including the enigmatic Mona Lisa and the timeless Venus de Milo, the Louvre offers not just a glimpse into the history of art but also a walk through the very evolution of Paris and France itself. 

As you wander its grand galleries, each wing tells a different story — of kings, of revolutions, of artistic triumphs. The very stones of the Louvre whisper of the centuries they’ve witnessed.

For modern visitors, the experience begins long before entering its halls. With millions flocking to its doors, securing tickets to the Louvre in advance is essential to making the most of your time. Booking your Louvre tickets online ensures not only your entry but also your chance to explore this monumental blend of history and art at your own pace.

Standing beneath the glass pyramid, surrounded by the architectural echoes of past centuries, you’re stepping into a story that spans from medieval fortifications to modern masterpieces. And when you visit, you’ll become part of the Louvre’s ongoing story. –John Cunningham

 

Seville Cathedral: Its Rich History and Stunning Architecture

A complete guide to a major part of Seville history, including La Giralda, Christopher Columbus, royal weddings and the Spanish Inquisition. 

In the heart of Seville stands a cathedral that defies simple description. Built on the ruins of a mosque, this massive Gothic masterpiece reflects the ambitions of a city eager to cement its place on the world stage.

Origins and Construction of Seville Cathedral

Seville in the late 14th century: a bustling hub of commerce and culture, still echoing with the influence of its Moorish past. The city is vibrant, filled with the sounds of merchants, artisans and the ever-present calls to prayer from the towering minaret of the Great Mosque of Seville, built during the Almohad dynasty, which dominates the skyline. 

Yet, beneath the surface, there’s a growing restlessness among the Christian rulers. They dream of an awe-inspiring structure that would not only dwarf the mosque but would also stand as a testament to the power of their piety.

In 1401, that dream begins to take shape. The city leaders, fueled by both ambition and a desire to solidify Christian dominance, gather to discuss the construction of a new cathedral. During one meeting, a church elder boldly declares, “Let us build a church so beautiful and so grand that those who see it finished will think we are mad.” 

The decision was made: Seville would build the largest cathedral in the world, a Gothic masterpiece that would leave an indelible mark on history.

The Transition From Mosque to Cathedral

But before this vision could be realized, there was the matter of the mosque. Built in the late 12th century, the Great Mosque was a symbol of Muslim rule in Seville. With its elegant arches, intricate tilework and towering minaret, it was a marvel of Islamic architecture. 

In the wake of the Reconquista, when the Christian states recaptured territory ruled by the Muslim Moors, the mosque was consecrated as a church. For over a century, it served as the city’s cathedral — but it was clear to the Christian rulers that something more magnificent was needed.

The decision was made to demolish most of the mosque, though the minaret and the Patio de los Naranjos (Courtyard of the Orange Trees) were spared, becoming integral parts of the new cathedral. This wasn’t just a practical decision but a symbolic one, blending the old with the new, and honoring the complex cultural history of Seville.

It certainly wasn’t the first time such appropriation took place. Spain in particular had a tendency to transition from mosques to churches, reflecting the shifts in power over the centuries. La Mezquita in Córdoba, with its blend of Islamic and Christian architecture, is not only one of the most striking but also the earliest example of such a transformation.  

Architectural Challenges and Triumphs

As construction began, the scale of the project quickly became apparent. The builders faced immense challenges, not least of which was the sheer size of the cathedral. 

At its peak, the construction site buzzed with hundreds of workers — stone masons, carpenters, artisans — all toiling to bring the ambitious vision to life. The air was thick with dust and the sound of chisels striking stone, as massive blocks of limestone were shaped into the soaring arches and ribbed vaults that define the Gothic style.

Key Figures in Seville Cathedral’s Creation

Behind this monumental effort were some of the most brilliant minds of the time. Master architects like Charles Galter and Alonso Martínez, among others, brought their expertise to the project. Galter, known for his work on other Gothic cathedrals in Spain, was particularly instrumental in the design of the soaring nave and the intricate stonework that adorns the exterior.

The artisans who carved the statues, the stonemasons who shaped each block, and the laborers who worked tirelessly day after day were all part of this grand endeavor. Their collective effort created something far greater than the sum of its parts.

The Grand Unveiling and Seville Cathedral’s Legacy

The construction of Seville Cathedral, or Catedral de Sevilla, took over a century to complete, with work continuing long after the original architects had passed away. But when the cathedral was finally finished in 1528, it was clear that their bold vision had been realized. When you visit the Seville Cathedral, you can only marvel at its scale, its beauty — and its audacity.

To the average Sevillano, its sheer size would have been overwhelming, a towering monument that seemed to reach up to Heaven itself. Its intricate details — gargoyles, statues of saints and other elaborate carvings — invite closer inspection, revealing new wonders at every turn.

La Giralda: From Minaret to Bell Tower 

The mosque that once stood here was the pride of the Islamic world, and its minaret — the future Giralda — was a marvel of engineering. The city’s Muslim residents would pause in their daily routines as the call to prayer echoed across the rooftops. The minaret was a spiritual beacon, guiding the faithful and asserting the dominance of Islam in the region.

It would remain a spiritual beacon — just for those of the Catholic faith now. In the 16th century, a Renaissance-style belfry was added to the top, transforming the minaret into a bell tower. 

At the very top of the tower stands El Giraldillo, a bronze statue that functions as a weathervane. This figure, representing Faith, stands with one foot firmly planted on the tower, while the other seems to step into the air, as if ready to take flight. 

Because the statue could turn with the wind, the tower itself came to be known as La Giralda, meaning “The One That Turns” or “The Spinner.”

La Giralda also plays a part in the eerie legends of Seville Cathedral, when a scorned bride-to-be cursed the bell tower and all those who dare to be unfaithful in its vicinity.

A Stage for History: Seville Cathedral’s Role in Historic Events

Royal Weddings: The Joining of Crowns and Countries

It’s October 18, 1526. The cathedral is adorned with tapestries, lit by the flickering flames of hundreds of candles. The air is filled with anticipation, as the people of Seville gather to witness the wedding of the century: the marriage of Holy Roman Emperor Charles V and Isabella of Portugal. The union of these two powerful figures promises to shape the future of Europe.

The bride and groom exchange vows beneath the towering altar, surrounded by the highest nobility of Spain and Portugal. The grandeur of the ceremony reflects the power and wealth of the Spanish empire at its height.

But this wasn’t the only royal wedding held in Seville Cathedral. Over the centuries, the cathedral has hosted numerous royal ceremonies, each one adding to its legacy as a place where the personal and the political intersect, where the fate of nations has often been decided at the altar.

The cathedral hosted the royal weddings of Philip II and Elisabeth of Valois in 1559; Philip III and Margaret of Austria in 1599; and Philip IV and Elisabeth of France in 1615, each marking significant political alliances in European history.

The Spanish Inquisition: A Dark Chapter

However, not all of the cathedral’s historical events were moments of celebration. The Spanish Inquisition, a dark chapter in the country’s history, also left its dubious mark on Seville Cathedral. During this time, the cathedral served as a setting for the public sentencing of those accused of heresy, events known as autos-da-fé (Portuguese for “acts of faith” — a euphemism if there ever was one). 

Picture it: The cathedral, normally a place of worship and reflection, is transformed into a courtroom. The accused, dressed in penitential robes, stand before the altar, their fates hanging in the balance. The atmosphere is tense, as the Inquisitors pass judgment in the name of religious purity. 

The results were horrific: Over 700 people were burned at the stake, and more than 5,000 others faced imprisonment, forced penance and the stripping away of their social status. 

These grim proceedings unfolded in public spectacles where fear and fanaticism reigned supreme, forever marking Seville as a place where religious zealotry took its darkest form.  

A Witness to the New World: Columbus and the Age of Exploration

Seville Cathedral also played a significant role during the Age of Exploration, when Spain was at the forefront of colonizing the Americas. The cathedral was the site of numerous ceremonies celebrating the successes of explorers like Columbus, whose voyages expanded the Spanish empire and brought immense wealth and influence to the crown.

One of the most poignant moments in this history occurred in 1502, when Columbus, known locally as Cristóbal Colón, then an old man, attended a mass at Seville Cathedral before departing on his fourth and final voyage to the Americas. 

Standing in the very same spot, you can almost imagine Columbus, weary yet resolute, contemplating the journey ahead. The cathedral, with its vastness and grandeur, must have seemed like a fitting place to seek divine favor before embarking on such a perilous and uncertain journey.

Semana Santa in Seville 

During Semana Santa, or Holy Week, in Seville, the streets fill with processions led by hooded nazarenos from various brotherhoods. Dressed in long robes and creepy pointed hoods known as capirotes that cover their faces, they carry candles or crosses in solemn silence. The color of their robes — black, purple, white, red or green — reflects the symbolism of their brotherhood. Massive, ornate floats (pasos) depicting scenes from the Passion of Christ or the sorrowful Virgin Mary are carried through the streets, held up by hidden penitents called costaleros. The air is filled with the sounds of traditional music or the haunting cry of a saeta, a flamenco-style song, creating a deeply spiritual atmosphere.

The processions begin and end at the cathedral, reinforcing its status as the spiritual heart of Seville. 

A Beacon of Resilience: Surviving Earthquakes and Wars

Seville Cathedral’s history is also a story of resilience. Over the centuries, it has withstood natural disasters and human conflicts that have threatened its very existence. One of the most significant of these was the 1755 Lisbon earthquake, which caused widespread devastation across Portugal and Spain. The cathedral suffered considerable damage, with sections of its roof collapsing and the Giralda tower sustaining cracks. 

Yet, the cathedral was repaired and restored, standing as a testament to the city’s determination to preserve its cultural treasures.

Then, during the Spanish Civil War, the cathedral was once again at risk. The conflict saw many religious buildings across Spain looted or destroyed — but Seville Cathedral was spared, thanks in part to the efforts of local citizens who recognized its importance to their heritage. 

A UNESCO World Heritage Site: Acknowledging Its Global Importance

In 1987, Seville Cathedral was designated as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, alongside the Alcázar palace complex and the General Archive of the Indies. This prestigious recognition is a testament to the cathedral’s global significance.

As a UNESCO site, Seville Cathedral is recognized for its architectural splendor, its historical importance and its role as a center of cultural heritage. The designation also brings with it a commitment to preservation, ensuring that future generations will be able to experience the cathedral’s beauty and history as we do today. The recognition has helped to elevate the cathedral’s status on the world stage, attracting visitors from every corner of the globe who come to marvel at its grandeur and delve into its rich history.

A Symbol of the City

Today, the cathedral stands as a symbol of the resilience and enduring spirit of Seville, a city that has weathered the storms of history, adapted while honoring its past, and emerged stronger each time. –Wally

Centre Pompidou Málaga: A Modern Art Marvel

El Cubo, as locals call it, a museum located in Málaga’s vibrant port, is anything but boring. This dazzling structure, designed by Daniel Buren, houses a captivating collection of avant-garde art.

The surprising multicolored cube on Málaga’s port is a branch of the Centre Pompidou, Paris’ modern art museum.

When I was in high school, my French class took a trip to Paris, and it was there that I first laid eyes on the Centre Pompidou. The building’s exterior, with its industrial ductwork winding up like a scarlet-bellied serpent, and a pair of cherry red lips spouting water in the fountain, captivated my youthful imagination. 

But if you thought the Centre Pompidou was just that quirky building in Paris, think again. The avant-garde behemoth has spawned a sibling in Málaga, Spain; the city famous for its hometown homeboy, Picasso, and amazing Moorish landmarks like the Alcazaba and Gibralfaro, got a bit of Parisian modern art chic.

“The project was initially conceived as a limited five-year venture.

It has proven so successful, Málaga has decided, with Paris’ agreement, to extend its lease until 2034.”

Various sculptures are put on temporary display outside of the museum.

Why Málaga?

The project was initially conceived as a limited five-year venture between Málaga’s mayor, Francisco de la Torre, and the Centre Pompidou’s president, Serge Lasvignes. The French institution agreed to lend its brand name, curatorial expertise and artworks from its Paris HQ to the chic port city of Málaga in the South of Spain. This cultural experiment provided the perfect canvas for the Centre’s first foray outside France. It has proven so successful, Málaga has decided, with Paris’ agreement, to extend its lease until 2034.

Daniel Buren came up with the whimsical design.

The Colorful Genius and Bold Design of Daniel Buren

The Centre Pompidou Malaga isn’t just a museum — it’s a statement. You can’t miss it. Its design is as bold as its Parisian parent’s. But instead of resembling a building turned inside out, the Pompidou Málaga looks like a giant Rubik’s Cube made of glass was plopped down in the city’s port. It’s the brainchild of French artist Daniel Buren, renowned for his use of bold colors and geometric patterns.

Buren takes an in situ approach, which is a fancy way of saying he integrates his pieces directly into their environments, creating site-specific art that interacts with its surroundings. And that’s certainly the case with El Cubo (the Cube), as the Málaga Pompidou is affectionately called. A transparent, multicolored structure serves as the entrance to the subterranean museum space. Its design is a sharp contrast to the traditional Spanish architecture around it, making it a standout landmark. 

Buren’s use of color and light transforms the cube into a dynamic piece of art, changing its appearance with the movement of the sun and the seasons. It’s as much a work of art as those found within. Try walking by at different times (sunrise or night, in particular) to see how light plays upon the façade.

The museum opened in 2015 for a short stint — but it has obviously done well enough to extend its agreement through 2034.

The Pompidou Málaga’s Opening Act

When it first opened in 2015, the Centre Pompidou Málaga was met with a mix of excitement…and skepticism. Art critics and the public alike were curious about how this Parisian transplant would fit into the cultural tapestry of Málaga. But The Guardian gushed, “The Centre Pompidou in Málaga represents a bold cultural experiment, bridging the artistic ethos of Paris with the vibrant spirit of southern Spain.”

Meanwhile, El País highlighted the architectural contrast: “Daniel Buren’s colorful cube stands as a beacon of modernity against Málaga’s historic skyline, symbolizing the city’s commitment to contemporary art.”

Wally and Duke can find modern art to be hit or miss — but the Centre Pompidou Málaga was filled with cool, thought-provoking works.

Art and Exhibitions at the Pompidou Málaga

But the Centre Pompidou in Málaga isn’t just a pretty cube — it’s a treasure trove of modern masterpieces that would make any modern art lover swoon.

The permanent collection is a curated selection of works from the vast repository of the Centre Pompidou in Paris. It spans the 20th and 21st centuries, showcasing iconic pieces from celebrated artists such as Francis Bacon, Frida Kahlo, Joan Miró — and, por supuesto, Pablo Picasso. 

Lipstick by František Kupka, 1908

Bal au Moulin de la Galette by Raoul Dufy, circa 1943

Children and Lanterns by Tadé Makowski, 1929

These works are arranged thematically rather than chronologically, providing visitors with a fresh perspective on modern art movements and their interconnectedness. The themes often explore major artistic movements and their cultural contexts. You might find rooms dedicated to Cubism, Surrealism or Abstract Expressionism. This approach not only highlights the evolution of styles but also the ongoing dialogue between artists across different periods and geographies.

Hollywood Sleep by Jean Cocteau, 1953

Suddenly Last Summer by Martial Raysse, 1936

During our visit, we caught the temporary exhibition Un Tiempo Propio (or Time for Yourself for those of you who don’t speak Spanish), a spirited rebuke of the relentless demands imposed by our digital calendars. Showcasing the works of 90 artists, the exhibit delved into the theme of leisure, encouraging a pause from the daily grind. It served as a refreshing reminder to reclaim our time and disconnect, if only momentarily, from the buzz of notifications and schedules — a true celebration of the art of relaxation and the simple joys of free time.

We Stopped Just Here at the Time by Ernesto Neto, 2002

One of our favorite exhibits in Un Tiempo Proprio was by Ernesto Neto, the Brazilian maestro of the bizarre: We Stopped Just Here at the Time. This artwork was a captivating display of suspended bags filled with aromatic herbs like rosemary, parsley and thyme. The installation reminded me of a forest of hanging testicles (paging Doctor Freud!), creating a whimsical and immersive environment that invited visitors to bask in the earthy fragrances and stare, mesmerized, at the organic forms swaying gently.

Ettore Sottsass’ Flying Carpet Armchair

Sottsass’ designs are somehow retro and modern at the same time, like this minimal mint green cabinet.

We also enjoyed the Ettore Sottsass: Magical Thinking exhibition, which showcased over 100 pieces of Sottsass’ groundbreaking work. These retro-futuristic items in bright colors reminded me of Fisher-Price children’s toys, highlighting the designer’s playful approach. Sottsass was a key figure in the Memphis movement of the 1980s, which revolutionized design with its bold use of color, geometric shapes and whimsical patterns. The postmodern movement rejected minimalism in favor of a more expressive, emotionally engaging style. The exhibit captured this ethos, blending fun and sophistication in a way that made each piece feel both nostalgic and cutting-edge​. 

The Basilico Teapot

Cherry Model Teapot

it wouldn’t be a modern art museum without a creepy clown.

Discovering the Unexpected at the Pompidou Málaga

Duke and I were thoroughly impressed with the Centre Pompidou Málaga, where we encountered a captivating variety of art that was both thought-provoking and immersive. We spent a delightful couple of hours there, exploring the museum’s strange and intriguing pieces, each offering a unique perspective on modern art. The experience exceeded our expectations and was a refreshing contrast to what we consider the less inspiring exhibitions that the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago has featured in recent years. 

The variety of exhibits at the Centre Pompidou Málaga ensures that whether you’re a seasoned art critic or a curious traveler, there’s something that will capture your imagination and perhaps even challenge your understanding of what art can be. So, the next time you find yourself in Málaga, make sure to descend into El Cubo — you just might discover your new favorite artist or a whole new way of looking at the world. –Wally

There are lots of different areas to explore at the Centre Pompidou Málaga, but they can all be done in a couple of hours.

The lowdown

The Centre Pompidou in Malaga is located in the city’s vibrant port area, making it easily accessible. 

Hours of operation

Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday: 9:30 a.m. to 8 p.m.

Saturday and Sunday: 9:30 a.m. to 8:30 p.m.

Tuesday: Closed (except on public holidays)

Holidays: Open with extended hours; always check the official website for up-to-date holiday hours.

Admission costs

General admission: €9

Reduced admission: €5.50 (available for seniors over 65, students under 26 and large families)

Free admission: For children under 18, unemployed individuals and visitors with disabilities (with one companion)

Special free hours: On Sundays from 4 p.m. to closing, and all day on certain designated dates (such as International Museum Day)

Exit through the gift shop.

Tips for visitors

Advance tickets: It’s a good idea to purchase tickets online in advance to avoid long lines, especially on weekends and holidays.

Guided tours: Consider booking a guided tour to get the most out of your visit. Tours are available in multiple languages and offer deeper insights into the exhibitions.

Accessibility: The Centre Pompidou is fully accessible to visitors with disabilities. Elevators and ramps are available, and wheelchairs can be borrowed at the information desk.

Photography: Photography without flash is allowed in most areas.

Coat/bag check: Leave your bags and coats to make it easier to enjoy the exhibits unburdened.

Gift shop: Exit through the gift shop, where you can pick up some cool souvenirs or gifts.

Centre Pompidou Málaga

Pasaje Doctor Carrillo Casaux
Muelle Uno
Puerto de Málaga
29001 Málaga
Spain

 

Plaza de España: Where History Meets Artistry

Discover the stunning tile alcoves in this iconic landmark from the 1929 Ibero-American Exposition (and a Star Wars movie).

There’s talk that city officials might actually start charging admission because of overtourism in the Plaza de España.

It was love at first sight. Wally and I were instantly captivated by the cuisine, history and diverse architecture of Andalucía, the southernmost region of Spain. On our first trip there, we spent a couple of idyllic days with our friend Dan in Sevilla. We both agreed that when we returned, we’d plan to spend more time in the capital city of Andalusia.

Even the railings of the bridges are gorgeous in the Plaza de España.

Earlier this year, we got our chance and stayed at an incredible Airbnb in Seville close to the Casco Viejo, or Old Quarter, with a rooftop view of the Catedral de Sevilla. One of the places we wanted to revisit was the Plaza de España, which was within walking distance from our accommodation. The city is quite walkable, flat and easy to navigate. Of course, this will depend on your level of mobility and whether you’re willing to walk (we always are).

Unlike other expositions, where most structures were temporary and torn down after the event, the elaborate Andalusia Pavilion was built to be permanent and was constructed using traditional materials such as brick, ceramic, iron and wood.

A Brief History of the Plaza de España

The Plaza de España includes the Pabellón de Andalucía (Pavilion of Andalusia), which was built to showcase Spain’s industrial and technological achievements at the 1929 Exposición Ibero-Americana (Ibero-American Exposition). 

This popular destination is nestled among the trees and flowers of Parque María de Luisa, which was formerly the private gardens of the Palacio de San Telmo. The land, donated to the city in 1893 by Infanta María Luisa Fernanda de Bourbon, Duchess of Montpensier, now serves as the city’s primary green space.

One of 48 portrait medallions from ceramicist Pedro Navía’s Triana studio depicting illustrious figures from Spain’s history, including this one of King Alfonso X “el Sabio” aka the Wise, who ruled from 1252-1284. 

The idea of hosting a fair in Sevilla was first proposed by civil engineer Luis Rodríguez Caso in 1908 as part of an extensive urban development project designed to boost economic growth and improve trade relations with Spain’s former Latin American colonies. 

Construction began in 1914 under the supervision of prominent architect Aníbal González. Unfortunately, World War I interrupted these plans, and delays were further exacerbated in 1918 by a particularly virulent strain of the H1N1 virus, estimated to have claimed 260,000 lives in Spain before waning a year later.

The plaza currently houses numerous administrative offices. Our friend Jo, an expat from the U.K. living in Spain, admitted to us that while the space is gorgeous, it also reminds her of the hours she spent in a bureaucratic nightmare of immigration red tape.

Stunning architecture and rich history come together at the iconic Plaza de España in Sevilla.

Visiting the Plaza de España

The Plaza and Fountain

The monumental structure, covering 538,196 square feet (50,000 square meters), was designed by González in the Regionalist style, which combines elements of Baroque, Mudéjar and Renaissance Revival. The grand fountain, added by architect Vicente Traver y Tomás, rises from the center of the plaza courtyard and was inspired by the Montjuïc fountain in Barcelona. (It was off during our visit due to a severe drought that had lasted for most of the year.) 

The porte-cochère acts as the grand entrance of the Plaza de España, now home to administrative offices.

Flamenco dancers often perform beneath the columned central portico of the Pabellón de Andalucía at the Plaza de España.

Head to the upper gallery for a shaded walk and a great way to see the beauty of the plaza unfold below.

The original plans for the plaza didn’t include a fountain, but town officials insisted on adding one, much to González’s dismay. And according to local lore, that’s why the statue of González, standing at the axis of the pavilion’s crescent, faces away from the fountain.

Local lore has it that the likeness of architect Aníbal González is turned away from the fountain —added by Vicente Traver y Tomás — because he wasn’t a fan of the feature.

The main structure is capped by a pair of domed towers that were originally planned to be much taller. However, concerns arose that they would end up dwarfing La Giralda, the iconic bell tower of the Seville Cathedral. To ensure this wouldn’t happen, they were shortened to 243 feet (74 meters) high — 77 feet less than La Giralda.

The South Tower of the Plaza de España stands about 243 feet (74 meters) tall.

Between 2007 and 2010, the plaza underwent a meticulous 14 million euro renovation, which included the installation of ceramic lamp posts and railings around the canal, restoring the landmark to its former glory. About €5 million was used to replace the pipes and update the canal’s water supply system. While the building’s various government offices aren’t open for tours, you can still admire the interior colonnade and access the upper floor balconies to take in a view of the plaza from above.

In the Córdoba alcove, the hand-painted azulejo mural portrays the moment the city surrendered to King Ferdinand III of Castile. The Torre Campanario of the Mezquita-Catedral de Córdoba is visible on the left, while the Torre de la Malmuerta stands on the right.

The Tiled Alcoves

As you walk around the central plaza, vibrant color is everywhere — every possible variation and combination of greens and blues, ranging from the aquamarine of the shallow shore to the cerulean blue of the deep ocean, with a visual jolt of cadmium yellow.

The outer rim of the plaza’s pavilion has 48 alcoves with plinth-style benches, clad in azulejos, glazed ceramic tiles produced in Triana, a neighborhood renowned for its ceramic artists, across the river from Sevilla’s historic center. 

Among the four dozen tile and ceramic murals representing the provinces of Spain in Seville’s Plaza de España, the painted tiles from Ciudad Real show Don Quixote in armor, as the noble knight he imagined himself to be, preparing to battle windmills alongside his squire, Sancho Panza.

Each shrine-like space is dedicated to a different Spanish province, and includes a tile map of its territory, its coat of arms and a tableau depicting a historical event or cultural scene from the region.

Pillared shelves topped with pináculos, ceramic finials, flank the alcoves. Initially, I assumed these shelves might have been for holding votive candles, but I learned that they once held pamphlets with information about each province during the exposition. 

This vibrant alcove at the Plaza de España features a colorful tableau for Badajoz, depicting King Alfonso IX of León’s recapture of the city from the Muslims in 1230 CE.

Beautiful details cover almost every inch of the plaza, many of which are the work of ceramicist and sculptor Pedro Navía y Campos. His craftsmanship can be seen in the 40 portrait medallions honoring prominent figures from Spain’s history that adorn the spandrels of the porticoed gallery.

Charming rowboats glide across the canal, offering a unique and serene way to experience the beauty of Plaza de España.

The Bridges

The Venetian-style footbridges that gracefully arch over the canal add a picturesque charm to the plaza and beautifully complement the symmetry of the pavilion.

Elegant bridges span the canal, blending Moorish, Renaissance and Spanish architectural styles.

They’re named after the four historical kingdoms of Spain: Castile, León, Navarre and Aragón. These bridges connect the open courtyard to the main building and galleries. Their blue and white balustrades were crafted by ceramist Manuel García Montalván. The administrative building is surrounded by a 1,690-foot-wide (515-meter) moat, where visitors can rent rowboats and leisurely paddle around. Wally and I haven’t done so yet — but we plan to in the future. 

Star Wars fans will particularly love visiting the Plaza de España, as it was a filming location for Theed Palace in Naboo where Anakin and Padmé fall in love during Star Wars II: Attack of the Clones.

Movies Filmed at Plaza de España

The Plaza de España has been used as a filming location for a few well-known movies, including Lawrence of Arabia (1962), where it served as a backdrop for Cairo, Egypt, and Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones (2002), when Anakin and Padme, followed by R2D2, arrive on Naboo and walk through the colonnade of the Palace of Theed. Most recently, it appeared as the palatial complex of an eccentric autocrat in The Dictator (2012) by Sacha Baron Cohen.

Plaza de España, a stunning architectural marvel in Sevilla, boasts a grand semicircular building, vibrant ceramic tile decorations and a serene canal, making it a captivating symbol of Spain’s artistic and cultural heritage.

The Lowdown

While we were exploring, we witnessed a wannabe influencer who clearly expected everyone to move aside as she directed her husband to take a photo of her standing on the stairs as if she were the only one there. When the crowds didn’t clear for her to get “the perfect shot,” she had a meltdown and stormed off, leaving her husband with their baby and stroller to chase after her.

Don’t be this woman. She threw a tantrum when other tourists refused to step aside so she could get her perfect shot.

The Plaza de España is located near the entrance of Maria Luisa Park across from the Universidad de Sevilla (University of Seville) and is about a five-minute walk following Avenida de Isabel la Católica. 

Even the staircases of Plaza de España are adorned with exquisite tilework.

If you’re planning on visiting during the daytime be sure to wear sunscreen to prevent sunburn and bring bottled water to stay hydrated, as the majority of the plaza is open and exposed. 

There aren’t any public bathrooms within the main pavilion, but there are pay toilets in a compact building at the front of the plaza, which cost 60 céntimos to use.

Paseo de Isabel la Católica offers a peaceful stroll amid lush greenery, with Plaza de España on one side and Parque de María Luisa on the other.

The Plaza de España is currently free to enter, but concerns about managing overtourism and the costs of preserving the historic site have prompted city officials to consider imposing an entry fee for non-citizens. 
Whatever the outcome may be, we suggest spending a lazy afternoon admiring this special place. –Duke

 

Las Setas de Sevilla FAQ: Seville’s Wooden Wonderland

Everything you need to know about the futuristic mushroom marvel Metropol Parasol in Plaza de la Encarnación.

One minute you’re walking down one of the shopping thoroughfares of Sevilla, Spain, and the next you come upon a plaza with mesmerizing, undulating woven wooden structures that look like a grove of gigantic mushrooms. It’s as if you’ve stepped into a fairy tale (or a Dr. Seuss book).

That’s exactly why this quirky sculpture, officially named Metropol Parasol, will always be known as Las Setas, or the Mushrooms, to locals and tourists alike. (Sort of like how no one calls the iconic silver sculpture in Chicago by its real name, Cloud Gate — it’s the Bean.)

“It’s as if you’ve stepped into a fairy tale (or a Dr. Seuss book).”

Here are some of the most frequently asked questions about Las Setas.

Why is Las Setas called Metropol Parasol?

Las Setas (aka Setas de Sevilla) is officially named Metropol Parasol. “Metropol” highlights the sculpture’s urban significance and integration into Sevilla’s cityscape, while “Parasol” refers to its umbrella-like structure, which provides much-needed shade in the scorching Andalusian climate.

What is the history of Las Setas in Seville?

The history of Las Setas de Sevilla begins with the need to renovate la Plaza de la Encarnación, which had become neglected. (You’d never know it now, as it’s surrounded by boutique shops and restaurants.) 

In 2004, an international competition was held to redesign the square, and German architect Jürgen Mayer’s innovative wooden structure took the prize. 

The project, completed in 2011, aimed to revitalize the area by combining modern architecture with the preservation of historic Roman ruins found during construction.

Las Setas de Sevilla is more than just an architectural wonder; it’s a lesson in urban transformation. It’s about taking risks, breaking molds and creating spaces that blend the old with the mind-bogglingly new. Sevilla’s got its historical charms — but Las Setas shows it’s also got its finger on the pulse of modern innovation. The once-sleepy Plaza de la Encarnación is now wide awake. 

When was Las Setas built? How long did it take to build?

From groundbreaking in 2005 to its grand opening in 2011, Las Setas’ journey was more of a marathon than a sprint. What accounted for the delays? Blame it on the unexpected yet fascinating archaeological finds beneath its feet. Turns out, building over centuries-old ruins isn’t exactly a walk in the park.

What are the architectural ruins below Las Setas de Sevilla?

Beneath the whimsical wooden canopy of Las Setas lies a treasure trove of ancient history. As the construction for this modern marvel began, builders unearthed significant archaeological ruins, revealing Sevilla’s layered past. 

This subterranean wonderland, known as the Antiquarium, showcases remnants from the Roman Empire, including mosaics, pottery and foundations of buildings dating back to the 1st century CE. Visitors can also glimpse traces of a 12th century Islamic Almohad house, bridging Sevilla’s Roman and Moorish eras.

What inspired the design of Las Setas?

Imagine what would happen if the vaults of the Seville Cathedral and local ficus trees had a baby. That’s Las Setas for you — a unique design that not only catches the eye but also connects nature to urban life.

Mayer wanted the sculpture to be not only striking but functional. “How do you approach a space that’s supposed to become the revitalized heart of a city?” he asked in 032c magazine. “The biggest asset that one can have, for three quarters of the year, is shade. So we tried out different geometric ideas, and in the end we decided on these circular elements that counter and respond to the variables of the square in a flexible way. It doesn’t seem rigid.”

What is Las Setas made of?

Las Setas de Sevilla is made of laminated timber. It holds the honor of being the world’s largest wooden structure, crafted of pine from Finland and coated with polyurethane for durability. 

The intricate honeycomb design consists of wooden lattices draped over columns. More than 3,400 wooden and concrete pieces were fit together like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle.

Who knew a bunch of wood planks could look so cool?

How much did Las Setas cost to build?

The construction of Las Setas de Sevilla cost about 100 million euros — ballooning significantly from its original €86 million budget. This substantial investment covered the innovative design, the use of high-quality laminated timber and the various facilities housed within the structure, including an archaeological museum, a market and event spaces.

Can you go to the top of Las Setas in Seville?

Yes, you can go to the top of Las Setas.

An elevated 380-yard (350-meter) walkway allows you to saunter around and through the parasols, offering dizzying views of Sevilla’s classic rooftops and plazas. The walkway culminates at the topmost mushroom cap, almost 80 feet (24 meters) high, featuring a viewing platform where you can pretend you’re royalty surveying your kingdom below.

Visitors can access this area via elevators housed in the concrete columns of the structure.

How can I buy tickets for Las Setas de Sevilla?

Ready to explore this mushroom wonderland? Tickets to visit the top of Las Setas start at €5 (free for kids under 6), with options to add a sprinkle of virtual reality or a dash of audio guide to your experience for €3 each. 

You can buy them online, or onsite in the lower level.

What are the opening hours of Las Setas?

Las Setas de Sevilla is open from 10 a.m. to 11 p.m., making it the perfect spot for both early birds and night owls. Just keep in mind it’s closed on major holidays — because even mushrooms need a day off.

Where to eat at Las Setas?

The dining options at and near Las Setas de Sevilla are as eclectic and exciting as the structure itself. Here’s a rundown of some spots that range from casual bites to more refined dining:

1. La Mala Brunch: Located right under Las Setas, this gem serves up Mediterranean and healthy bites for a casual brunch or tapas session. Think avocado toast (with oversized wooden mushrooms).

2. Ibericos Vera: Right inside the Mercado de la Encarnación, this stall offers traditional Spanish tapas. Good for a quick, delicious bite.

3. Cervecería La Sureña: Serving up cuisine from the South of Spain, this bar is great for an affordable lunch or evening drinks with a killer view.

4. Tropiqual: Tired of tapas? If you’re craving sushi or steak, this upscale option works for when you’re feeling a bit fancy.

5. La Gorda de Las Setas: Offering Mediterranean and Spanish dishes, this spot is perfect for enjoying tapas with a side of architectural awe.

6. LaSanta: A short walk from Las Setas, this spot serves international and Mediterranean dishes in a casual setting.

7. Burro Canaglia Bar & Resto: Dishes up Italian food in a stylish atmosphere. Perfect for when you’re wanting pizza or pasta.

8. Patio San Eloy: A casual bar serving tapas. Great for a budget-friendly yet tasty meal.

9. Doña Encarna: This chic spot offers traditional local fare that’s even better than your abuelita makes.

10. Virgen Coffee: The best place to grab a quick coffee break, making some of the best lattes in Seville.

11. Tablao Flamenco Las Setas: Combine your meal with a show. Enjoy live flamenco performances along with signature cocktails and traditional Andalusian flavors for an immersive cultural experience.

What’s there to do at Las Setas besides enjoying the view?

Really, Las Setas de Sevilla is a cool urban square to hang out in, people-watch or read on a bench. Children ride bikes and clamber about the small playlot. 

But beyond its spectacular views, Las Setas is a treasure trove of history with the Antiquarium, where ancient Roman and Moorish artifacts are displayed. Tickets are €2.

And don’t miss the light show — a nightly spectacle that turns the structure into a glowing piece of rainbow-hued art.

Where is Las Setas located in Seville?

Las Setas is in the Plaza de la Encarnación, a central square in Sevilla. It’s about a 10-minute walk due north of the cathedral. 

What events are held at Las Setas in Seville?

Las Setas hosts a variety of events throughout the year, including cultural performances, art exhibitions, concerts and markets. The elevated plaza and the shaded areas below are versatile spaces used for different types of public and private events, making it a vibrant community hub in Sevilla.

Why was Las Setas controversial?

Las Setas didn’t sprout superfans overnight — it also grew a fair share of controversy. Critics argued that its modern design clashed with Sevilla’s historic aesthetic. Plus, the project’s high cost — rumored to hit the €100 million mark — didn’t sit well in a country there the economy was taking a siesta. 

And the local Muslim community thought the Mushrooms looked a bit too phallic for their tastes. 

Despite the initial pushback, Las Setas has ripened into a beloved icon of the city, showing that even the most divisive fungi can find their fan base. 

Las Setas: Sevilla’s Fungal Fantasia

So, there you have it — Las Setas in a nutshell. It’s weird, wonderful and unapologetically Sevilla. Whether you’re a history buff, an architecture enthusiast or just someone in search of the perfect Instagram backdrop, Las Setas is a can’t-miss spectacle. –Wally