October/December 2003
The Plan
I never really had an interest in visiting the Mexican interior. Mexico City, especially, has always been last on my list of third-world metropoli to visit – right down there with Sao Paulo, Kingston and Calcutta. The stories of crime, corruption, abject poverty, suffocating smog and extreme overpopulation (between 22 and 26 million inhabitants depending on who you talk to) were enough to keep me from ever wanting to set foot in this megalopolis. And by default, since Mexico City is the major hub for visits to other parts of the country, I simply wrote them off my list as well…
Man, was that a mistake.
Earlier this year, good friends of ours announced that they were going to be married in Mexico City, where the majority of their families live. After some pleading and many safety assurances from my wife and the bride-and-groom-to-be, I acquiesced and agreed to an extended two-week trip to Mexico — starting in Mexico City for the wedding.
In a successful effort to appease my inner travel agent, my wife Ursula let me do most of the planning. All of our travel arrangements were made via the Web. We would spend the first weekend in the City for the wedding. Then, we (along with our friend Ericka, who was also attending the wedding) would take a car to San Miguel de Allende for a week where we would stay in a private residence. For the second week, Ericka was heading home and Ursula and I were bound for Zihuatanejo on the Pacific coast – where I had arranged to rent an “eco-tourist.” bamboo hut in the jungle only 200 steps away from a crocodile infested stream and the beach.
But our adventures (and misadventures) in Zihuatanejo are best left to another story. For the purpose of abbreviation and descriptive nuance, I will focus here on our trip to San Miguel de Allende, where I learned several valuable lessons:
1) The amount of Spanish I'm capable of speaking is in equal proportion to the amount of Don Julio and Sangrita I drink.
2) Never take two American women into a men's only cantina in San Miguel de Allende at two o'clock in the morning.
3) We move way too FAST here in the states. One Mexican minute is worth an eternity.
These truths will make themselves evident as this story unfolds.
On the Road to San Miguel
The morning after the wedding and reception (which was a total blast – more on that in another story too), we had arranged for a driver to pick us up in Mexico City and transport us to the doorstep of our San Miguel de Allende house rental. Ricardo arrived promptly at 10AM and we wobbled (slightly “la cruda” from all of the tequila we drank at the reception the night before) to his awaiting town car.
The drive to San Miguel de Allende from Mexico City was relatively short – about 3.5 hours, with nearly one of those hours fighting traffic in an effort to escape the city. After saying “adios” to the last of many billboards on the road from the city, the view opened up to rolling green hills and spectacular views of distant, jagged mountains. As this was Sunday, the typically working farm fields were empty — completely devoid of the burros and caballeros we would spot during the week. The countryside was beautiful and reminded us of California, the Midwest and Tuscany all rolled into a single eternal vista.
Occasionally, we would drive through a remote, half-decaying roadside “village”, which usually consisted of crumbling raw-brick structures occupying seemingly vacant dirt lots. Invariably, these decaying, Mexican “strip malls” contained several “taquerias” (taco stands), one small market, hand-painted Sol Cerveza signs, dusty children kicking around a “futbol,” women cooking something that smelled really good, men sitting and drinking beers and dozens of squawking chickens perched precariously by the roadside.
As I scanned the brown, leathery faces of the beat Indian men and women watching us drive through, I sensed that time was somewhat different to these people. It was their Catholic god’s day of rest…and theirs as well. In this idealistic setting in the middle of the green Mexican countryside, no one seemed to be in much of a hurry or have really anything to do.
We arrived in San Miguel de Allende on October 5 – the last day of the three-week Mexican Independence Day celebration known as the “Festa de San Miguel.” As we entered the hillside town through steep, narrow, cobble stoned streets, the celebration was evident. Distant drums sounded from the center of town. Hundreds of people were winding through the alley-like streets on high, thin sidewalks. Small boys were dressed in little caballero (cowboy) costumes, complete with hats and play pistolas. The girls wore colorful traditional Mexican dance dresses. Men were dressed as Satan and other demonic costumes. After all, St. John prophesizes in the Book of Revelations that it will be “San Miguel” the Archangel who is to fight against the dragon, or Satan, at the end of days – the apocalypse.
Expats vs. the Mexican Minute
We stopped and parked on one of these bustling streets in front of our rental house, Casa Shelly. Here, we met our rental agent, Annie. Annie and her husband had just retired from Southern California to San Miguel five months ago, buying a house here, which they were currently renovating. Their main reason for moving, she says, is so that they can enjoy a slower pace, as time is definitely different here.
Annie is the first of many on our trip to tell us about the infamous “Mexican Minute.” According to Annie, a Mexican Minute may indeed be a minute, but could also be an hour…or even a day. As she talks, her sighs and the occasional eye-rolls make it obvious that time here is actually frustrating her more than it is releasing her. The lack of schedule and dependability here is tolerated however, Annie tells us, because a new Costco has just been built on the edge of town, specifically to cater to Annie, her husband and the 5 – 10,000 other ex-pats who now call San Miguel “home.”
Calling San Miguel “home,” however, takes money. There are no mortgages for Americans, Canadians or Europeans who choose to retire here. Real estate transactions are “cash-only” and a good home near the center of town currently runs anywhere from $250,000 - $450,000. During our stay, we saw plenty of older, wealthy ex-pats dressed in Sedona-style sarongs and the stylings of the cultural elite, attempting to look bohemian in expensive fitted clothing. Picture Kerouac with pressed pleats in his khakis and a $50 Perry Ellis tee.
We had arranged to rent Casa Shelly for the week over the Internet through San Miguel House Rentals (www.san-miguel-house-rentals.com). We had gotten a great deal, at only $650 for a week in this 3-story, 2-bedroom house, complete with a living room patio and roof deck. Casa Shelly was amazing! The American that bought the house had it entirely renovated and then decorated in the Moroccan style. The structure was built entirely of molded concrete, which provided cool respite during the warm days. The walls were painted coral, green and a myriad of other bright colors. The house was strewn with artwork; antique knick-knacks, art books, CDs and a note from Suzy Shelly, the house’s owner, instructing us to help ourselves to all of it!
Casa Shelly also comes with a maid, Celia, who visits three times a week to clean and do our laundry. Suzy’s note has also instructed us to treat Celia with kindness, as she and her family are like Suzy’s family. Her instruction is not hard to follow. Celia is a very sweet, middle age woman who doesn’t speak English, but somehow manages to communicate with us in a way that makes us feel welcome – as we are now part of her family too. Celia’s gentle, welcoming nature turns out to be a common trait among the other local inhabitants as well.
The Festa San Miguel
We grab a quick bite of marinated steak with guacamole in a restaurant terrace overlooking the Plaza Principal and then make our way to the market place to stock up on groceries and staples for the week. When we reach the marketplace, we realize that we are far from the land of Ralph’s, Vons and Albertsons. Fruit and vegetable vendors spill out of the decaying concrete market building and into the street. Inside, rickety old wooden stands display tomatoes, onions, passion fruit, squash and hundreds of other types of produce. The old women at the stands offer us bits and samples of their tasty wares. In the back of the building fish, sausage and meat vendors are removing their unsold inventory from the display ice chest and preparing to call it a day.
We unload our market bounty back at Casa Shelly and retire for an afternoon siesta – weary from travel as well as the previous night’s wedding reception tequila. After several hours of peaceful sleep and dreams, I awake and step out on our rooftop terrace where I am greeted with … FIREWORKS! The “Festa de San Miguel” continues into the night! I wake Ursula and Ericka and we head up the street to the center of town (which is only about 5 minutes away).
The Plaza Principal or “Jardin” is the center of most activity in San Miguel, and tonight is one of the biggest celebrations of the year. The beautiful tree-lined square is filled with hundreds of Mexican families eating jamon e queso tortas and sipping flavorful fruit drinks and horchata. A group of rowdy mariachis plays in the gazebo in the center of the garden. Fireworks strapped to bizarre 20-foot tall wire towers spin and dance throwing sparks out into the crowd. Every few minutes, we are startled by the BANG of new fireworks being shot into the cool night sky only 100 feet above our heads. The pink, gothic Parroquia, the city’s most-recognized landmark, is alit with flashing lights revealing shadows of drumming, dancing parades.
For the most part, it was more of a family celebration and not your typical US July 4th drunken brouhaha. After the fireworks ended and the last drum was banged, men, women and their children filed calmly out of the town square, into the connecting streets and toward their respective homes. Ursula, Ericka and I were approached, however, by two “barrachos” (drunks) as we leaned against a brightly painted yellow building and watched the families depart. One of the seemingly respectable middle aged men was attracted to Ericka, whose blonde, curly hair definitely stood out in the crowd of “mestizos” and Indians.
“I like, how you say?” he asked me, pointing to his hair.
“Curls.” I answered.
“YES, koorlz!” he replied. Although harmless, Ericka was slightly put off by his white-coated tongue and the spittle at the corner of his mouth, indicating a day of drink, probably of “pulque,” or unrefined tequila, a sour, working-man’s affordable alcoholic concoction. He asked to see her camera to take our “peetchors.” Ericka, fearing potential theft, kindly declined.
Eventually, we parted ways with the men and headed to the rooftop terrace of the “Char-Rock” bar, which had been filled with a number of revelers only an hour ago. Now, it was empty, and we sat nursing Indio beer, Don Julio tequila and Sangrita, enjoying our birds-eye view of the equally empty Plaza Principal. Later, we were treated to a couple of sets of classic rock music played inside the bar by a three-piece local band. After playing covers of the Eagles, the Stones, Van Morrison and others, the lead singer/guitarist greeted applause from the audience with a comical “Muchos graciaaaaaaaas,’ through a grit-toothed smile. It was the first of many live music performances we would enjoy during our week in San Miguel.
Okay, so three Americans enter a Mexican Cantina…
When the Char-Rock closes at 2AM, we amble down the dark, yet very safe, cobble stoned streets toward Casa Shelly (we had noticed dozens of very polite, young, attractive, unarmed policia patrolling the streets during the Festa). On the way, Ericka spots the simply named “Bar San Miguel,” complete with old-west style double saloon doors, which she has never walked through, though it has been her lifelong dream to do so. We enter the establishment, which has the appearance of a run-down cafeteria from the fifties with a simple, hand-made linoleum covered bar. Instantly, the 24 sets of brown male eyes in the bar are on my two obviously American female companions.
I had read in the Lonely Planet travel guide for Mexico City that there are hundreds of “men-only” cantinas throughout the region, where hard drinking, loud singing and sometimes-exuberant pistol shooting occur. I wondered if this was one of them, and asked the bartender in my broken Spanish if this was the case here, “Hombres uniquo?” He (and the rest of the male patrons, mostly local drunks and cowboy-hatted ranchers) assured me that it was not, although later I figured out that this was probably untrue. The myth of the “loose” American woman loomed hazily in their drunken minds and two seemingly prime examples had been delivered from Dios to their hole-in-the-wall cantina.
A young, 30 – 35 year old Indian immediately befriended us. With his very dark skin, high cheekbones and straw like black hair, he appears to be more of Central or South American descent than Mexican. This ends up being the case. He tells us in broken English that he came from Guatemala, traveled up through Mexico and into Austin, Texas, and was then escorted back into Mexico by “la Migra,” US Customs officers. We drink some tequila together and strike an instant rapport. We end up pumping pesos into the jukebox, discussing the virtues of Latin music as well as other western artists represented, such as “Los” Beatles. We agree that Selena was very talented and met an untimely death. We both loved Creedence Clearwater Revival, select “Proud Mary,” and proceed to sing it together at the top of our lungs. Shakira? We agree. She’s totally HOT.
In the meantime, both Ursula and Ericka have experienced the “dirtiest bathroom in Mexico” and have performed baño acrobatics to relieve themselves of the night’s drink. A handsome young man in a 70s-style yellow sweater has also entered the bar and is in the middle of giving Ericka a vigorous foot massage. He made it clear to Ericka that he was “not like the rest of the men in here,” and warned her and Ursula of the lecherous ranchers that began to close in all around them, “They want to take you to live on their ranches. Watch out for these men.” Later, we dub Ericka’s debonair suitor the “Mexican Hugh Grant.”
As we drank more tequila together, my Guatemalan friend confided that he was actually Nicaraguan, and had fled to Mexico and the States in the late 80’s to avoid the bloodshed that was occurring. He indicated that the CIA-backed Contra rebels had kidnapped him. He took my bandanna and covered his eyes to drive the point home. He pulled up his shirt and pants legs to show the many bullet and shrapnel wounds he had received as a hostage during the struggle.
We were engaged in a fluent Spanish discussion of the conflict. My Spanish is very limited and I never studied a second language. The tequila and the fervor of the cantina intensified my soul, however, and I was almost able to keep up. “Gracias, Señor Reagan,” I empathized. “Y Señor Bush, tambien!” he added. Nicaragua indeed was an early attempt by our still-governing empire at nation building, and all of the ties that the Contras had to the former Bush Sr. administration are still unknown. My new friend was another testament at our failure to provide “global security.”
Suddenly, Ursula was yelling across the bar, “Uh, Scott, get OVER here. NOW, please.” I went over to the table where she was sitting. She was desperately trying to offer an Altoid to the 60-year old rancher that seemed to be on the edge of invading her personal space. I sensed something was wrong with this curiously strong transaction, and knelt down between them, looking him in the eye. He immediately stood and rejoined his rancher friend at another table. Ursula told me that he was getting very friendly and kept putting his hands on her knees, trying to spread them apart. When the atmosphere in a bar starts resembling a visit to the gynecologist, it’s definitely time to go. The mood of the cantina had become loose…too loose.
I stood, pointed at Ericka and then Ursula and intoned in a loud voice, “Tu y tu y yo… vamanos!” I stood to leave and was immediately accosted by four or five Mexican men, all about half my height and girth. “Mas tequila! Mas tequila!” they pleaded. With an assertive surge forward, I shook them and escorted the girls out of the Bar San Miguel and into the dark cobble stoned night.
Yellow Sweater had followed us out onto the street. He asked if he could come back to our place. Ursula and I looked toward Ericka. He was her new friend, after all, and it was her decision. “No, I don’t think so.” Disappointed, Yellow Sweater turned and walked away. We stumbled down the street to Casa Shelly and fell drunkenly into our beds, full of adventure from the day and night we’d just experienced.
The Governator, Real Men and Karmic Analysis at La Gruta
The next morning, I turn the television on for the first and only time the whole week. It’s official. The celebrity-mongering hoards of California have recalled Gray Davis and have voted Ah-nold Schwarzenegger as the next Governor (or “Govenator”) of California. During voting exit polls, those who voted for Arnold are asked how they feel about his stand on specific issues. Most voters polled don’t even know where he stood on any issue. Typically, this is due to common voter ignorance. But Arnold, indeed, has thus far made only vague soundbites and puns from his movies (“Hasta Luvista to special interests in California.”). This reinforces my belief that we are more interested in personality than substantive political stances.
We decide to take a taxi about 10 kilometers out of town to the “banaleario” the region’s natural hot springs, said to contain minerals that enrich the body and skin while soothing the soul. Our taxi driver has a small passenger already in the cab – a small boy in the front seat leafing through a History textbook. “A Escuela?” I ask the driver. “Yes,” he replies in Spanish, “this is my son.” The son is dropped at a corner in town and we drive to the country another 15 minutes to “La Gruta.”
“La Gruta” is purported to be one of the better banalearios in the area. I have read about the popular gruta, or grotto: a manmade cave in the hot springs from which water flows out of the walls to replenish the warmth of the spent hot spring waters. The place is innocuous at first. Just a gravel parking lot with a huge, poorly hand-painted and decaying “billboard” letting you know that you have arrived.
Upon entrance, however, the place seems more like a wonderful, chaotic garden. There are lush tropical plants and cacti among hand-hewn stone walls that appear almost ruinistic. As we wind down the main walkway we eventually find the two main spring-fed pools that look very much like swimming pools with their light blue paint and smooth sides. We change into our suits and step down to the pools.
Wandering away from Urse and Ericka, I find that one pool is nestled against a stone wall that contains a narrow water-filled doorway. Upon closer inspection, the doorway is the portal to a 100-foot passageway about chest-deep in spring water. I wind through the passage, which leads me to…La Gruta! La Gruta is a large, kiva-like domed room made entirely of precariously placed natural stone. With the warm spring water, it has a very primal womb-like appearance and feel. Light streams in from ventilation holes in the ceiling.
I pause for a few minutes to empty my mind and mediate on the sound of water dripping from the ceiling. I then exit the cave to find Ursula and unveil this discovery. At 3PM, hot, fresh spring water gushes in from a gash high in the stone wall, providing a hydro neck and back massage if you stand directly beneath it. Another idyllic setting.
As we meander back out the tunnel, we are accosted by Annabella, a self-proclaimed spiritual healer and “Karmic Analyst” from Mexico City. Although she is a somewhat attractive woman in her 50’s, her teeth are rotting in their cavities and many of them are missing. After a few minutes of conversation, she senses my skepticism and focuses on Ursula. She asks what her zodiacal and Chinese signs are. She then pitches her healing services for a mere 750 Pesos (about $75/US). She is ready to come to Casa Shelly tonight to perform a karmic analysis.
Further, Annabella is very passionate about our new Governor and claims that he is a “real man.” Further, she eschews that “…today’s men have forgotten how to be men.” She tells us that she just did a radio show in Mexico City on this very subject. I feel like I’m on the spot now and have to defend my fellow men, and myself but have no desire to argue this point with her. I wade off and hope that Ursula declines the karmic analysis, not wanting to have our peace invaded by this middle-age new age pseudo-shaman.
True to form, my also-skeptical wife declines. I’ve always found that most women of this age that are new age practitioners typically suffer from problematic pasts and find solace in the ritual of their belief system (not unlike many practicing Christians). Most are full of shit. Does a true “guru” seek fiscal gain from fellow devotees? The Buddha would only impart wisdom when sought by a seeker. These new age hacks pitch their services in the most peaceful of places when you just want to relax and enjoy the experience of being/now.
After my soak, I dress and retire to La Gruta’s simple outdoor patio to enjoy a cheap lunch of flautas con pollo, avocado salad and Dos Equis beer, enjoying the natural surroundings of the place as the rain starts to drizzle down.
We had arranged for our taxi driver to return to pick us up when La Gruta closes at 5PM. As the last of the customers and staff drive out of the parking lot, he still has not shown. Several offer us rides back into town, but we decline, just in case he does arrive. By now, it’s nearly 6 and we decide that we’ve been abandoned in the middle of the countryside, which is actually not a bad situation. I try hitchhiking, but eventually, a bus stops to pick us up. For fifty cents each, we are dropped at the San Miguel bus terminal. From there, a 20 Peso cab fare gets us back to the Plaza Principal – our starting point. Cheap transport.
Polly Want Some Pollo?
The next day, Ericka suggested that we tour the southern part of town near Benito Juarez Park. During this excursion, we see another side of the town. The area is very green and dense with foliage. The park itself is extremely overgrown (not in an unsightly way), shady and reminiscent of the best parts of Manhattan’s Central Park. After school, dozens of teenagers congregate in the park. Young lovers seek solitude at the bottom of centuries-old stone steps near a trickling stream.
Most of the more expensive hotels are in this part of the city, built largely from former Spanish Colonial homesteads. We enjoy a cerveza in the courtyard of one of these hotels and take in the colorful stone walls, courtyard and central fountain. A beautiful place, but relatively pricey for Mexico at 2000 Pesos per night.
Eventually, we find the steep stone staircase up to “El Chorro,” the highest point in San Miguel with a view of the entire town below. “200 steps” the Maestra of the art school at the bottom tells us. We trod up, Ericka leading the way into a nameless restaurant and cantina once we arrive at the top. The restaurant has a huge patio with the best view possible of the town La Parroquia is in clear view, as is the entire town center. If it wasn’t for trees, we would be able to see Casa Shelly from here.
We sit for cerveza and Don Julio with Sangrita. After learning that we are from the US, our friendly waiter confides, “I leeved in San Antonio for awhile. I was embarrassed to speaka e pocito Engleesh.” I tell him that his English is a hell of a lot better than our Spanish and we have instantly made another new friend. Along with our drinks, he brings around the house Parrot to keep us company.
At first, Percales the Parrot is somewhat aloof and tries to peck at us when we slowly move our fingers under his feet so that he can perch. He snacks on our tortilla chips and finds a good hiding place nestled in the green ironwork legs under the table. When we order fajitas of beef, chicken, chorizo and Nopale cactus, Percales emerges to help himself to our buffet. At first, he tries the chicken, but then decides that it may be cannibalistic and proceeds to munch down no less than 10 pieces of the carne asada.
Now Percales is happy and has warmed up to us. I’d feel the same way if a table of strangers let me eat half their meal and then laughed instead of shooing me away. He especially likes sitting on my head atop my bandanna. He sings happily in the sunlight, moving down to my shoulder and warbles “Cooloo” in my ear, proceeding to shit on my shirt. Thanks for the warning, amigo!
An excellent guitarist begins to play slide blues in the corner of the patio. He also has a harmonica strap and whales into it to accompany the guitar. After the first song, he asks us if we have any requests. “Any classic rock is bueno!” I tell him. He then whips out an awesome bluesy rendition of Cream’s “Sunshine of your Love” followed by some Robert Cray. Afterward, he comes over to our table to talk. I ask if he would like a beer and he says he’d rather have tequila. My kind of guy. I call the waiter over and order two more Don Julios with Sangrita. The musician tells us that he is supposed to go to LA soon where he will record a new album with his daughter. He just happens to have some shrink-wrapped copies of their previous CD, which we buy to listen to later on. When we do, we’re a little disappointed. The CD is mostly electric pop/rock and way overproduced. We prefer his “unplugged” set at the restaurant.
Several hours later, we stand to leave. The staff is genuinely disappointed to see us go and are further saddened that we are leaving on Friday and won’t be back. Our new friend the waiter shakes my hand and says, “From now on, this is your casa.” He is very sincere and my appreciation of the openness of the locals moves me. He has trouble removing Percales from my head. I stand next to his large, black iron cage, however, and he jumps right off — singing his goodbyes as we exit into the nighttime streets.
On our way home, there are mounted police outside of the neighborhood pharmacy. A dozen locals are milling about, taking in the action. I ask an older woman in broken Spanish what has happened. She tells me that the pharmacy has been robbed by “banditos.” She then motions over to the shantytown perched atop the high, sloped concrete wall that leads down to the open sewer, or the “river of shit” as I’d referred to it earlier. I surmise that the bandito was a shantytown resident.
I think nothing more of the incident. We happily smoke as we settle in to Casa Shelly for contented sleep…at least until 3AM.
Won’t You Take Me To…A Shantytown!
At 3AM, Ursula and I awoke to very loud banging sounds coming from outside near Casa Shelly. The BANGs were intermittent, about one every 30 seconds or so. After rubbing some of the sleep from our eyes, we started cracking up with every BANG, speculating what the noise could possibly be at this hour. To me, it sounded like large sheets of corrugated tin being kicked down the street.
After about 15 minutes of speculation, we could take no more. We got up and looked out our window and saw…large sheets of corrugated tin being kicked down the street! About 10 local men were at work completely dismantling the shantytown, one sheet of tin at a time. Several mounted policemen were overseeing the process, but were doing nothing to assist the men, who were performing the demolition without tools. It was dangerous work. Juan or Mañuel could very easily have fallen back when pulling off a tin roof and suffered serious injury.
The sheets of tin were being dragged up the street and thrown into a waiting truck bed. We surmised that the residents of Shantytown had overstayed their stay. Squatters are tolerated in Mexico to an extent, but the robbery earlier acted as the signature on their eviction notice.
All Good Things…
Our final day in San Miguel is relaxing but mostly incidental. We walk the streets for our final time and Ericka and Ursula spend time in a number of interior design shops. I really dig one shop in particular that is full of antique wood furniture and accessories. The owner takes us to the front of the shop and shows us his tarantulas. His shop is colorful and vibrant.
As we meander through the town, I take pictures of the cool old beat doorways on the street in front of brightly-colored concrete facades and plan to use them as art in our house later. When we first arrived here, I asked Annie the rental agent where we could see a bullfight. She indicated that it was on a normal street behind a seemingly innocuous door. “That’s the great thing about San Miguel,” she intoned, “you never know what’s behind these thick old wooden doors.” Indeed, that is just part of the town’s charm.
While out for drinks that evening, we run into a group of people from the US that are in town for a friend’s wedding. They are festive, but after spending a week interacting mostly with locals, I notice their (and probably our) hang-ups and attitudes as obviously different than those of the town locals. They are from Texas. One guy in particular strikes up a conversation with me and we head to the bar for a drink. They are doing shots of Cuervo Gold. I tell him about the far-better Don Julio and the tradition of drinking Sangrita with it. He does not seem impressed or ready to try something new. They shoot their Cuervos. I sip my Don and Sangrita. We part ways and head back for our final night at Casa Shelly.
After a week in San Miguel de Allende, what I first thought of as a small, hovel infested, poverty-stricken town has now transformed into a friendly and magical place. The trip up to this point has been extremely memorable — comparable in enjoyment and experience to our month-long trip to Europe in 2001. I admit that the town has gotten very much “under my skin.” I understand the appeal to Norte Americanos that have chosen to move or retire down here.
Sure, the place itself is colorful and full of history. The lifestyle is slower. However, it’s the people (locals) that have made the biggest impression on me. Everyone smiles and greets us warmly. Our hosts at restaurants, bars and artisan shops have been amiable and treat us like family. The entire town seems to take a great deal of civic pride in keeping the streets clean, gardens well-kept and welcoming, and the visitor happy and comfortable. For one of the few times in my life, I feel that I could easily integrate with this community (more with the locals than ex-pats, who seem to keep very much to themselves and congregate in places that cater specifically to them).
One Mexican minute is indeed worth an eternity. We will be back.
