The Camino Real Hotel is about to host a graduation ceremony in its grand ballroom overlooking the Castillo. Meaning: flat-tummied, blue-blooded Mexico City teens in teeny-kinis have taken over the central garden pool. On the manicured lawn next to it, a boy and girl inexplicably launch into what looks like a pairs figure skating lift, without the skates. The sodden frolicking attracts spectators up and down the courtyard’s yellow cube balconies.

I was already dubious about a Mexico minus the beach and now my pool plans have evaporated in this exhibition of taut, bronzed skin. I head to the Blue Lounge just off the lobby where a pool of a different sort—a pebbly water feature—glimmers under the suspended glass floor. Close enough, I think, ordering a mojito and submerging myself into an azure Harry Bertoia chair.

My Plan B turns into dinner at the hotel’s Maria Bonita restaurant, featuring the cat-eyed likeness of Mexican diva Maria Felix on its curved mosaic wall. My waiter talks me into some authentic cantina grub (pun intended): escamoles, or ant larvae. Spooned into fresh corn tortillas, they are slightly crunchy and deliciously buttery. I follow my foray into uncharted culinary territory with a more traditional house specialty, a savoury stew of flank steak, nopal cactus, panela cheese and cambray onion in a smoky basil and cactus-milk sauce, served in a traditional molcajete (a heavy, three-legged lava rock bowl used historically as a mortar). I love that sophisticated, modern Mexico continues to embrace the humble origins of its cuisine. Near midnight, I finally collapse onto the chaise on my room’s balcony overlooking the moonlit, vacant pool, I’m beginning to see why chilangos (as the city’s residents are called) rave about the DF (short for Distrito Federal, as Mexico City is known).

The next day, a long series of gallery visits in the Bosque de Chapultepec proves enlightening for my soul but painful for my feet. I cab it to the W Hotel in the upscale Polanco district for some horizontal healing in the Away Spa. There’s a modern version of the traditional temazcal sweat bath, where guests sit inside a domed lodge while fragrant herbal tea is poured over hot volcanic rocks. I opt for an antioxidant facial as retaliation against the Mexico City haze.

Afterwards I pop into the nearby glass-and-chrome Habita, another one of the boutique hotels that marks the DF’s arrival on the jet-set circuit. The rooftop Area Bar overlooking the pool is Latin-American sultry, despite the decidedly un-Mexican sake-tinis and projection of Metropolis on an adjacent building. The saketinis lead to some small talk with a pair of architects from Juarez, followed by another round. My new friends and I take a stroll down Polanco’s answer to Rodeo Drive, Avenida Presidente Masaryk, and stop at the chic Izote restaurant for some contemporary Mexican cuisine. Full-bellied and deeply content, we part ways with promises to keep in touch.

I spend my last day, a Sunday, wandering through the Parque México, where thatched palms tower over art deco fountains. The surrounding Condesa neighbourhood is a laid-back bohemian haven of design shops and galleries, revived after a ravaging during the 1985 earthquake. On Sundays, the stylish locals walk their dogs or linger in streetside cafés. It’s hours before I tear myself away from patio-side people-watching, just in time to make my flight home.

I didn’t come back golden brown as I’d hoped (in fact, from traipsing around in various strappy tops, my tan lines were downright weird). But I had the sense of fulfillment you only get from soaking up the vibe in one of the world’s great cities. That’s something the all-inclusives just can’t deliver.