Tierra de Tortugas

California Christmas 2012: San Ignacio

It was a very winding road that led up from Santa Rosalia as we left the Mar de Cortez behind us and headed toward San Ignacio.

The desert was stark and beautiful and wet from the recent rains, and the mass of Tres Virgenes volcano loomed just to the north. Rising 1,940 meters high (6,365 ft.) from the adjacent sea level, it's a major and unmistakable presence in this part of the Baja, and even visible from distant Kino Bay on clear days during the winter months.

Before long we see the entry to an eco/hunting lodge run by the Ejido Alfredo V. Bonfil, and we take a side trip, passing a large CFE solar electric array beside the narrow road. It's good to see solar power being adopted more widely. I've long been tired of the "You can't do that" attitude of the so-called 'smart money' types. I guess it turns out, "You can do that."

The ejido runs a simple lodge with picturesque wooden cabins facing nearby Tres Virgenes. A hunting group had left earlier to track the local bighorn sheep, and we were the only ones at the lodge. We relaxed over a fine omelette breakfast as cold winds whispered around the building. It was good to be inside, and not out there in the cold. Afterward we decided not to go further into the Reserve since it was hunting season, and retraced our way back to the main highway.

We arrived at San Ignacio only about a day late, due to the delayed ferry crossing, but with plenty of time to cool out for a couple more days.

We had reservations at Casa Lereé, a modest old adobe dwelling built originally by a wandering Frenchman. It's been restored and is now owned by Juanita, who hails from San Francisco. She's a wealth of local history and has collected much of it through oral histories, available for study in her reading room. She also runs a small bookstore with many volumes related to the Baja.

 

 

After checking in, we spent the afternoon meandering through various back streets and getting to know the place. There's a small Gringo contingent in the town, and we spoke to a few along the way. This charming remnant town seems to appeal to folks with a streak of artistic creativity, and who need little outside stimulation. 

 

 

Just half a block away is 'Tootsie's,' a recently-opened bar and restaurant. We headed there for dinner and seated ourselves at a large wooden table with comfortable chairs.

The place is run by a sparkly young woman named Tony who named the restaurant after her grandmother. A group of Canadians came in and we suggested they join us. Soon, we found out we were seated with Tony's parents and other friends. Then we realized we had also sort of invited ourselves to a birthday party for a lady named Ivonne. Tony had made some ridiculous paper crowns for the party, and she whipped out a few more for us! Jocularity ensued! And the baked ribs were fall-off-the-bone delicious.

In the morning. we took a long walk down the winding road through the palm forest and past the gorgeous lagoon to find a place called Ignacio Springs, where Juanita said they had the best breakfasts.

 

When we arrived at Ignacio Springs, we discovered it was run by Gary and Terry, the parents we had enjoyed time with the previous evening. Their Finnish-now-Canadian friend, Pekka, who was also at the party, was there too. After a hearty breakfast featuring fresh farm eggs and homemade sausage, we watched Gary stoke up the smoker to cure his own hams and bacon. Then he gave us a tour of the grounds and the very comfortable yurts they have for rent. Next we were off in an old pickup truck to gather discarded vegetables at the local market to feed the pigs and chickens and gather more eggs. Gary is a barrel of energy.

 

That night, we were again at Tootsie's for dinner, seated at the same fine large table, when another couple came in. Soon, they were seated with us and we compared stories.

They were from Palo Alto, and headed to their other home in La Paz for a holiday vacation. He was originally from Chicago, and she was from St. Louis (both of them widely considered to be suburbs of Carolyn's home town of Peoria, Illinois). Turns out she knew an artist friend of ours from St. Louis. Yet another 'small world' story to toss in the memory bin!

In the morning, after a modest breakfast at René's, it was time to hit the road for Guerrero Negro. But not before making friends with a few of the local dogs. There's always time for that.

 
—PRW

California Christmas 2012: Guaymas

A deep sensuous voice answered the phone at Casa Lereé. 

I was calling to book a room for two nights after we arrived in Santa Rosalia on the Guaymas ferry. The guidebook spoke of an historic old casa just off the plaza, with artistic touches by the owner. It sounded like a fine place to relax before making our northward trek to the border.

But we'd be arriving on the ferry. We had taken that ferry before several years ago,  and needed to discuss flexibility with our contact at Casa Lereé. Our previous trip had been cancelled and rescheduled for the next morning due to high waves in the Sea of Cortez. That might happen again. We may not arrive on the date we had chosen. We had booked an overnight passage, with a camarote (cabin bunk), and expected to arrive the next morning. From there it was a short drive from the old French mining town of Santa Rosalia, with its Gustav Eiffel chapel, to the frozen-in-time oasis town of San Ignacio. We had passed through this quiet town once several years ago and spent some pleasant moments enjoying the tree-covered plaza with its fine old church at one end. We had made a note to return some day.

We called ahead to reserve a spot on the ferry, then paid our passage at the portside office. The cost for two people, our car, and a camarote came to US$377. The ferry was scheduled to depart from Guaymas at 8:00 p.m., and we had to be at the dock for loading by 6 o'clock. We would be arriving about dawn the next day. I backed our car aboard without hitting anything, and then they packed two more cars, a semi-truck, and two more heavy trucks around us.

 

The Captain mentioned there were 'olas altas' on the Sea tonight and we'd be leaving at 6 in the morning, instead. We retired to our cabin for a good night's sleep and found no blankets. A deckhand was surprised when asked if there were 'cobijas.' We may have been the first not to know that you have to bring your own. We would make do without them by sleeping under our jackets. Also, a hand towel would have been a good thing to have along. This is not a cruise ship.

We each took a couple of ibuprofens and slept well enough. At 7:00 a.m. the boat dropped her lines and left the dock. She settled into a restful hobby-horse motion, and I hoped this would be the worst of it. Our friend, Bill Little had mentioned taking the ferry once with Paul Stanley and being sicker than a beach dog after a dead pelican lunch. 

An hour later we rounded a distant point where the open sea truly begins, and we pounded heavily into the remnant swells. It looked like we had a long rough day ahead of us. After a bit of this, the Captain brought the ship about and sent word that this was more than the ferry was built for. We would return to Guaymas and depart around midday for Santa Rosalia. We called the Casa Lereé to explain, and she said it was just as well because they had electrical problems to deal with. México can be like that.

We went to the tiny on-board cantina for a bite of breakfast, the choices being tamales or burritos. I had the burritos and Carolyn chose the tamales. We each had an instant coffee. It wasn't a gourmet breakfast, but it wasn't the worst I've ever had. A burly trucker shared the tiny table with us. He was a friendly sort, but his heavy Sonoran brogue was more than a challenge, and neither of us understood much of what he said. Life is always an adventure and this was just the latest leg. 

 

Guaymas is a working port, an industrial port. The throb of a diesel engine and a blast of horn carried across the water as a train of empty ore cars left the yard adjacent to the ferry dock.  A heavy black ore freighter backed away from a nearby dock, and a tug struggled to angle her stern around, pointing for the open sea and ports distant.  

We had plenty of time for reading, a lazy snooze, and a bit of writing. 

We finally departed about 9:00 p.m., and we each downed more ibuprofen for a good night's rest. The ship had a gentle motion, and we arrived about 9 o'clock the following morning. After we passed through the heavy stone breakwater, the Captain stood on the port side and gave orders to the Mate at the wheel, as the ship did a graceful ballet into the dock for us to unload.

He apologized for the weather delay and thanked us for being on the ferry. We understood that's how things go sometimes, but we had been aboard the ship for 38 hours and were ready for our land legs. 

 

But next, we had Customs to deal with. Baja pretty much acts like a separate country when smuggling is concerned. Even people arriving by boat from other parts of Mexico have to be processed. We presented our passports at the window, and then stood with the rest while soldiers scanned our vehicle with a sensor that acts like a dousing rod. It kept pointing to the small older truck next to ours. Or was it pointing to ours? I didn't think that taking pictures of the process would be the smartest thing to do, but I sure wanted to. We opened the car for the dog to have a good sniff through all the glass bottles (about a year's supply) that filled the car, headed for recycling in California. Hauling glass to the border for recycling is just one of the many odd things we do in life.  

The nice young officer in charge then came over and asked if we had "pastillas" (pills) aboard. I said we had about a month's worth of vitamins, and Carolyn had some 'girl stuff,' but I didn't know what it was. I guess we looked harmless enough after that because he waved us through. We were free to enter the old and eccentric French town of Santa Rosalia, with the towering remnants of its mining days along the main road, and then head north toward the border.  

The question arises,"Why did you take the Santa Rosalia ferry to go to California? Isn't it easier just to drive straight north to Nogales, or up La Costera through Puerto Peñasco?" Sure that's easier, but we don't often do things that way. We had not driven that stretch of the Baja from San Ignacio to Ensenada and decided this would be as good a time as any. And I also probably would not have written about this trip, but Yvonne Ward said I had to.  

—PRW

GUADALAJARA

We wait in the bus station in San Miguel de Allende with an entire bevy (is that the right word?) of nuns in beige who are being relocated elsewhere. They have all their earthly goods packed tidily in identical black bags. They fill one entire bay under the bus as we smile and hope there's room for ours. The guy loading the bus looks like he loads up large groups of nuns every day.

   

Soon the bus pulls away, we pass the old railroad station, and we're on the high road over the rocky hills, now painted with green from the summer rains. It's the same road to Guanajuato that I remember traveling on an old school bus long ago. But this time, the bus has far more horsepower and we learn new words in 'bus-driver-Spanish.' I had never realized before that "Curva Peligrosa" means "Speed Up" to a bus driver. But it's a swift and comfortable bus (when not leaning at a precarious angle) and we're generally quite happy to be on the next, and final, leg of our trip.

We make a brief stop at Guanajuato, then we pass an odd Protestant temple and yet another Italian Coffee Company stand (they're common in Latin America), before venturing through part of Mexico's picturesque Lake District and many more acres of cropland like that we've seen on most of our trip. Considering all the corn we've seen growing in the countryside where corn was first domesticated, the recent announcement in Reuters of Mexico's record corn purchase from the US came as a surprise.

  

  

As we leave the bus in Guadalajara, the lady who was sitting quietly across from us with her young daughter gives Carolyn one of the decorated cookies she makes to sell. That's a sort of kindness that doesn't happen on a plane flight to a tourist hangout. Then we board a 'Death Cab' for a quick trip to our lodgings at an interesting-sounding place that Carolyn found online, called The Orchid House.

It takes a bit of looking to find the place, as it's on a quiet side street, there's no sign, and it's very unassuming from the street-side. But once through the door, it's apparent that Carolyn has booked us into a quiet place that is actually a private home, located in Guadalajara's elegant older 'Zona Rosa' neighborhood, and within walking distance to the Centro Historico. The home is filled with fine art and antiques,is owned by a courtly gentleman named Carlos who provides fascinating stories of his time as a bartender at the Hilton in NYC before retiring to Guadalajara. We stash our gear in our well-appointed room and head out to look for a fine dining opportunity.

 

Guadalajara is a sophisticated city with much to offer travelers who want to visit a place that's a little less 'colonial,' or 'ethnic.' In short order, we manage to find the "Hamburguesería Central," and settle in for burgers and beer. The meal was at least edible, and Carolyn spent time indulging her interest in the passing footwear. Overall the evening was well-spent as we lingered over a second beer to watch the people walking by. 

 

At the Orchid House, we are confronted each morning with a large and delicious breakfast. 

  

In fact, it's really more than we can eat although neither of us wants to leave food lying on the platter. Carlos is a more-than-generous host with a creative flair for breakfast. Soon, we're waddling off through the quiet Zona Rosa to find our adventures for the day. 

 

 

With a population of more than 4 million, Guadalajara is a very large city with much to see. On our previous visit, we spent much time in the Tlaquepaque and Tonalá districts, and several days in Ajijíc on Lake Chapala. This time we decided to stay in the inner city and get to know it better. So each day we try a different route, finding hidden neighborhood jewels on our way to various cultural sites, and we manage to find plenty of beauty and intrigue in our daily walks. Here, as in most large cities, crumbling older buildings around the downtown core provide cheap rental space for a variety of edgy alternative galleries, film venues, and other surprises. It's the endless process of urban regeneration described by Jane Jacobs in her 1961 classic Death and Life of Great American Cities.

 

And there are roaring and dangerous traffic corridors. As in much of Mexico, and frankly, much of the world, this city seems to have a love affair with speeding traffic. Nasty one-way streets are a dominating feature in some areas. Modern city planners know that slowing and impeding traffic can help rejuvenate blighted inner cities by encouraging young families to move in and renovate older homes. But most Mexican cities seem to be still working this out.

Soon we've dodged enough traffic to arrive at the Museo de Las Artes and a very challenging exhibit by Francisco Toledo. There are lots of disturbing lifeforms, including insects, involved in Toledo's work. It's not for the squeamish.

 

 

Fortunately, they've also included a more tranquil exhibit of fabric works by Sara María Terrazas that showcases her remarkable dexterity. I wouldn't know even know where to begin such an intimidating exercise. Building an entire house looks easier to me.

 

Outside, giant metal creatures are approaching the museum. We bolt away and leave the guards to deal with it.  

 

 

The ancient Santuario de Nuestra Señora del Carmen is a cool and welcome respite from the warming day. At the entry there are old brass plaques directing "Señoras" to the right-hand door, and "Señores" to the other side, to maintain a sense of propriety. It's a charming glimpse into 'old Mexico,' although it's ignored today. A horse and carriage trot by on the adjacent street.

We make our way onward past a huge night club called "Larva," where all manner of coming events are advertised on the outside walls. We manage to resist the temptation to buy tickets.

 

 

But we notice there's a soccer game on TV in every shop and store along the way, and we realize it's the Mexican national team playing in the quarter finals at the London Olympics. This is an event we are incapable of resisting so we find a sleazy bar up one flight of steps and settle in with all the requirements: cerveza, chicharones, and hot sauce. Soon Mexico wins, the entire city celebrates, and Mexico advances to face the dreaded Brazilians in a few days in the final battle for the Gold. Few Mexicans dare to believe their team can prevail against such a formidable foe. But who knows? It could happen….

 

 

Soon we're in the maze of large plazas that makes up the Centro Historico, and we're hungry. There's a fine little café under the huge classical portal at the gorgeous old Teatro Degollado, and there's an open table. Soon there's food on the table and we're again enjoying the daily street theater of life in a great city. There's even a Yellow Guy with a green face mask (ala "The Mask," with Jim Carrey) who will pose with you for a few pesos. BTW, Carolyn handed over some pesos not to get our picture taken with him.

 

 

Hunger abated, we go down wide pedestrian streets, past stores and fountains, and clackety Purépecha dancers. Mexican families are on summer vacation, visiting famous parts of their country, taking pictures. As far as we can tell, we may well be the only Gringos in the entire city. Carolyn stops to buy ten small muñecas (dolls) from a street vendor, but there are only three. The lady pulls out seven bald dolls and asks what color hair Carolyn wants.

 

At the end of the promenade stands the huge Instituto Cultural de Cabañas, originally an orphanage but now a school, cultural institute and museum. There are sculptures and displays, but the big event is the colossal and powerful series of murals painted here in 1938-39 by José Clemente Orozco, one of Mexico's famous 'big three' revolutionary muralists (along with Diego Rivera and David Siqueiros). It's an astounding achievement, and certainly worthy of a visit.

But afterwards, you may well find yourself to be thirsty and in serious need of a stop at the nearby Plaza de los Mariachis. Guadalajara is the home of mariachi music and the place to leave a few pesos behind as your contribution to the arts – both the musical arts and the beverage arts. There's a wonderfully sleazy saloon that opens onto the plaza if you need to research the topic in greater depth. (Check out Mariachi Vargas.)

 

   

We take our time heading away from Guadalajara's historic center, and decide to enjoy another of the city's broad byways, the Avenida Chapultepec. Along the way there's more sculpture, murals, protest signs, an Elvis fan's homage (stenciled vertically) to his hero. The broad avenue itself is an open air art museum lined by a number of up-scale shops – especially of the "Bridal" variety. Afterward, there's more sculpture, interesting houses, photographers documenting the city's older classic homes, gallerias – and the Yellow Guy again! (You know, I hope, that you can "click" on any one of the little thumbnail pictures and a larger version will pop up. There's just so much to see!)

   

   

 

 

 

 

As the sun recedes, it's time to make our way back toward the Zona Rosa to find another fine sidewalk café and watch the world go by. After dinner, we buy some not-great ice cream (oh well), then stroll past an intriguingly odd mansion that almost seems surrounded by mystery. It's immaculately kept, although it appears to belong somewhere in New England. It's certainly worthy of a double-take. (There are many legends about this house. It is called Clover Lawn, and if you do a Google search you will find many stories and comments, mostly in Spanish, telling of its complicated history. It appears to be unoccupied, though it is impeccably maintained. As you can imagine, it's often referred to as "haunted," and its ownership is a bit difficult to discover.)

The next morning begins with public necking. Not us. Just another young Mexican couple making out in public. It's commonplace everywhere we've been on this trip. Whatever. We're heading to the Ex-Convento del Carmen which is now an art museum with a small stone-walled grotto of a theater that shows art flicks and foreign language movies. After cruising through some excellent art (way more insects, and other critters), we relax with an afternoon flick.

 

Who can resist Antonio Banderas and Salma Hayek, back together again in "Bandido?" And who cares if it's a fairly ridiculous pot-boiler, like "Once Upon a Time in Mexico?" It's also got Steve Buscemi doing his usual great scumball, and Cheech Marin as another fine scumball supported by a cast of nasties. What more can you ask? 

 

 

(BTW, Mexico has lots of crumbling and picturesque 'ex-conventos,' generally a result of church land confiscations during the Reforma and further restrictions after the Revolution. The haunting ruins of the ex-convento in Tlaxcala are a prominent feature overlooking the city.)

 

Then it's time for dinner. On the way, we pass a car with lots of familiar looking stickers; some are even in English. Yes, again, we're in the Zona Rosa, with people walking by. Who could imagine? 

 

Our final day arrives and we have tickets to attend a classical concert in the magnificent Teatro Degollado. We don't know anything about the groups but we really wanted to experience the beautiful theater. We don't start off the day with a limo ride (although that limo-airplane in the back looked pretty intriguing!), and we don't go cruising in a kit 'Lamborghini,' or a classic bright yellow Pontiac either.

   

Instead, we hang out at the cool little "Plaza de Nueve Esquinas" (Nine Corners Plaza) for a quick bite, and spend the rest of the afternoon wandering our way to the theater. Carolyn sees more shoes (Cheap! Red!).

 

 

 

We stop at a Do-it-Yourself yogurt place where they charge by weight (!). I buy a 'Compay Segundo'- type hat so I can pass as a Cuban Musician. And soon we're back enjoying the nightly carnival at the plazas of Guadalajara. Small girls are strutting their most colorful dresses. Small boys are chasing bubbles. And a pair of young Aztecas are readying for a 'purification ceremony.'

 

Inside, the Teatro Degollado is everything we expected behind such a majestic classical entry. We're told it's been compared to La Scala in Milan, but we'll have to take their word for it.

 

Soon the event begins and we're introduced to the excellent "Ensamble Lirico de Tijuana" in concert with the local "Coro del Estado de Jalisco." The acoustics are outstanding and the musicians are impressive. We had no idea that Tijuana had such a fine classical music scene. We may have to stop at the Centro Cultural Tijuana (with one of the world's largest 3D movie screens!) on our next trip through there.

 

But alas, our trip must end. In the morning we bid a fond farewell to Carlos and the Orchid House, and soon we're waiting at the airport for our flight. All TVs are broadcasting as the Mexican soccer team confronts the formidable Brazilians in one of the final events of the 2012
London Olympics. When they finally take the gold the crowd erupts into 'high fives' and smiles, a mix of intense pride and disbelief. Mexico's only big star player, Giovanni Dos Santos ("El Chicharito"), was sidelined with an injury, leaving the task to the remaining talented journeyman players. Working as a team (what a concept) they defeated the Brazilian 'prima donnas' and claimed the golden spotlight. It was a fine way to begin another day in Mexico.

 

Our small Brazilian-built (!) Embrayer 145 lifted from the runway giving us a nice view of nearby Lake Chapala, as we headed north to the dramatic knife-edge mountains around Monterrey, then a quick stop at the tiny airport in Ciudad Juarez, and a landing at our own modest airport in Hermosillo. It was time for 'temperature re-adaptation,' as we re-entered the hot Sonoran desert. We rolled our bags out the front door past waving taxistas and waited on the curb in the heat for over an hour until a crowded Costa bus arrived to deliver us home to Kino. It felt good to be back. — PRW

 

Want a bit more of Mexico?

Try the gorgeous exuberance of Luis Miguel on "¿Sabes una Cosa?"

 Or the funky grove of Maria Muldaur's "Gringo en Mexico."

 

SAN MIGUEL 2

We take another tour. 

 

This time, it's the famous, every-Sunday House Tour where the proceeds go to benefit local charity. We meet at the Biblioteca, a center of gringo life in San Miguel, to board buses that will take us to a glimpse of life behind those courtyard doors. Thankfully, there's a nice balance of gringos and Mexican tourists aboard. We make friends with a nice lady named Elsa, who's visiting from a town near Monterrey, in the state of Coahuila. As we wait, a madrigal band plays traditional music in the courtyard.

The bus caravan whisks us uphill, out of the historic center, to a very paintable (if I painted) view of the city. Our first stop is a spectacular "architect-designed" home with views into the surrounding barrancas and the city below. 

 

The home embraces the landscape to create numerous private areas and lush plantings. The "For Sale," sign bothered a few people, but I was glad for a look-through. I even got Carolyn to do her Bess Meyerson impression to show off the appliances.

Back on the bus (with its pink dashboard!) we're soon at another site featuring luxury Rental Suites. One glance tells us these are at least a step or two (and a Price Point or two) above where we're staying. Again, the whole thing is nicely arrayed around the landscape so as to encourage (or maybe require!) personal fitness.

 

 

The very innovative 'stove-in-the-round, in the main kitchen, causes a minor traffic jam as we swarm our way out to the rambling courtyard and the surrounding suites. 

Soon, the buses drop us back in the winding streets of the Centro, and we're walking past the old public lavandería on our way to an art gallery with rooftop rental suites featuring sweeping views over the city. To one side, there's a little Moorish-inspired dollhouse that the now-grown daughter used to play in.

 

After that, there's time for a slow meander past ancient walls and shop windows, back to our hideout in the Frida Room for a quick lunch, a bit of writing, and a nap.

 

Our next adventure entitled, "In Quest of Dinner," will find us walking maybe two blocks, and settling in for a fine repast beneath a craft piece paying homage to such important Mexican figures as Frida Kahlo, Emiliano Zapata, Diego Rivera, and Elvis(!?!). The lettering across the top reads, "The deceased that one loves never die."

 

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Every city, town, or village is a collection of indelible impressions. Each place has its distinctive character. The hilly streets of San Miguel lend themselves to vigorous hiking, charming courtyards, and spectacular views. As I write this, in the Frida Room, an old bus is grinding its way up nearby Calle San Francisco. The sound of old buses grinding uphill on rocky streets, their passengers jostling side to side, is one essential aspect of local life here. 

 

With so much stimuli at hand, it's easy to see why artists, poets, and writers have made pilgrimages to San Miguel since the 1930s. Here, it's easy to forget the political protests and other problems assailing the world. But could you actually live here? Or would always being "the other" and never really accepted into the local culture be a deal killer? Even though we've been residents of the northern Mexican state of Sonora for eight years now, the answer remains elusive.

 

 

Another uphill trek (aren't they all?) sends us in search of a home owned by Albuquerque friends Dick Hopkins and Lucy Noyes. Their friend, Yoko, has the key and will meet us, but we're sure there's so much to see along the way that we allow an extra hour to explore our way there.

 

We finally arrive, and it's a gorgeous place, of course. They offered to let us stay there, but we're only in town for a week and didn't want to be a hassle. Afterward, Yoko offers us a ride but that would take out much of the fun of exploring the challenging and circuitous alleys leading back (downhill, at last!) to the Centro.

We look up Bill Pearlman, an old New Mexico contact and poet, to meet over drinks and pizza at La Azotea, a rooftop bar just off the plaza. And yes, there's another gorgeous view over the city.

I remember Pearlman from poetry readings at the University of New Mexico campus in the 1960s, when he used to be the local wild man of letters. But this time we mostly talked about people we all knew "back then," and not too much about life in San Miguel. He seems to have found his groove in San Miguel, where he's been living and writing prolifically for the past 11 years. You can find his current writings and a touching memoriam for his former wife, Meredith Rice, at: http://roughroadreview.com/blogs/blog1.php

 

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Generally speaking, the Gringo presence in San Miguel seems understated. But we're here in the Low Season, and that's why there are so many good rentals available – even though the weather is pretty much wonderful. We don't know what it's like when bitter northern winters send snowbirds south, but during the summer season, there's still so much to do here that the oft-used term Gringo Disneyland does not seem unjustified.

 

VIGNETTES:

 

Along Calle Jesus we find the three essential food groups – containing Vitamins A, B, & C. (Art, Books and Chocolate). There's also raucous laughter spilling from a corner saloon, complete with scruffy swinging doors. The sign reads, "Work Hours. We open when we get here. We close when we leave. If you arrive when we're not here, it's that we didn't coincide."

*****

The Biblioteca has an intensive program schedule of films (we attended two, including "Gringolandia"), various classes, a chess group, a lending library (said to be the largest English library in Latin America), and a fine café in a quiet courtyard garden. A musical event featuring Tierra Mexíca costs only 25 pesos each for an evening of music from every part of Latin America. They did a fine version of "Moliendo Café," from Venezuela, and they sang the most beautiful version of "La Llorona" I think I've ever heard. When they played Mexican music with five or six thundering guitars and a violin, it gave the evening a very special feeling. We couldn't find a recording of theirs, but here's a good one by Lila Downs: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dh427_hGDRs

And here's a good link for "Moliendo Cafe: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6qE6Bu7waZI

*** 

 

There are plenty of fine small coffee shops (other than Starbucks!) to enjoy some of the best flavor that Mexico can offer. Try La Ventana, or the Casa de Café for a bit of quiet with a sandwich or pastry, your newspaper, and your thoughts. 

***

Carolyn has time to pamper herself with a pedicure, her now-beautiful feet adding to the local artistry.

***

We walk the streets on an architectural tour with Jay Moskowitz as he dispenses his personal quirky take on the already-quirky architectural history of the place, and the money goes to charity. We pause beneath a bell tower, and the air is rent with the rolling crash of heavy bells. There are three other history tours per week to satisfy the demand. 

***

 

 

A day trip to Dolores Hidalgo by bus takes us to a fine museum of Mexican history showcasing the lavish Centennial events hosted by Porfirio Diaz, shortly before the Revolution that would oust him from the country. And don't forget the famous talavera tile and those ice cream stands around the plaza.

***

Back in San Miguel, the Chamber Music Festival begins while we happen to be in town. It's the second oldest such festival in the country (after Guanajuato's famous Cervantino). We enjoy an evening of very fine music from the internationally-acclaimed Pacifica String Quartet. It all seems so civilized here. And that's not all bad, especially when you live in a small village at the end of a long road where the cultural offerings are much simpler.

***

 

The nearby quiet gardens of El Charco de Engenio are only a brisk hike uphill to the old dam and nature preserve. The grounds are filled with representative plants of Mexico, and wild birds add their songs to the day. It's a fine getaway.

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Several friends gave us contact information for people they knew in San Miguel. Alas, most of them were gone during our brief visit, but with the help of our friend Julie Steinbach we made contact with Joe and Diane Stevens who invited us to visit them on a Sunday afternoon. We walked the now-familiar streets toward the Instituto Allende area, and a visit to their gracious garden-filled home. We're not normally afternoon drinkers, but we made an exception for a few excellent margaritas as we enjoyed the afternoon while birds visited their fountains and flowers. It was one of those 'fine living in Mexico' moments worthy of a better photographer than your humble scribe.

This particular home (designed by previous owners) had no grand views over the city, but used its cloistered location to ultimate advantage as the interior design seems to flow directly into the extensive gardens with their sound of trickling water and singing birds. It's the sort of place almost any designer would be proud to have as part of their portfolio. 

The cloistered quiet of this space is well-suited to a novelist like Diane and an avid student of the world (and juggler!) like Joe. We look forward to seeing them again some day, on some other convenient continent.

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So after a fine visit and wide-ranging conversation, we retire to a bistro near the Plaza for The Last Supper, of good wine and victuals beneath thick walls filled with Mexican handicrafts. The one above my head reads, "(Expletive Deleted), What a Car!"

 

We walk through the plaza (they actually call it the "Jardín") in the growing darkness to savor that one last moment in San Miguel, and the mariachis are playing a very good version of  "Son de la Negra," probably one of the most famous of all mariachi songs. It's a nice way to end the evening.  

And in the end, we have definitely come to clarity on the one essential question that's dominated our visit: Could we live in San Miguel? After our brief but intense stay we have firmly decided that the answer requires more rigorous research, and we'll plan to return at a later date. 

But for now we're off to our final destination on this particular peregrination – a return visit to the very large and cosmopolitan city of Guadalajara.

— PRW

SAN MIGUEL de ALLENDE

We took the second class bus from Querétaro to San Miguel and that's how we met Maggie. She's a US citizen (with an unpronounceable Polish last name. "Just call me Maggie!") who left the field of architecture during the building slump and now runs several dance studios in Queretaro where she trains dancers for TV and film. She was on her way to San Miguel for one of her weekly 'milongas' (an evening of tango practice). She invited us to join her after we found our apartment and got settled in. So far, it appeared that San Miguel de Allende was going to be a much different experience than the rest of our trip. And probably a lot different that I had remembered it.

 

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I had not been to San Miguel de Allende in 40 years. It was in the early 1970s – not long after they found Neal Cassady's body along a railroad track outside of town. A friend of Kerouac, Ginsberg, Kesey, and Burroughs, he had a large impact on the life of his times, and his death put San Miguel on the map as an essential pilgrimage shrine for devotees of the Beat Generation. I came to see what it was all about.

I arrived on an old school bus (with a squealing pig tied to the roof) over the desert mountains from Guanajuato – but that's another story (The Bus to San Miguel). I had a few bucks in my jeans and a little time on my hands, trying to escape the New Mexico winter cold. I only spent a couple of days in San Miguel, wandering the streets with hordes of other gringo tourists. I remember having a dinner of beef medallions and a beer one night at a thick-walled place with a roaring blaze in the corner fireplace to ward off the modest chill of a Mexican winter. There were mariachis playing in the distance. I was the only one in the room, so I lit up a small cigar and enjoyed a glass of cognac to savor the moment.

The next day, I sat on a bench in the plaza studying the odd (for Mexico) gothic towers of the church when a pair of gringos passed behind me speaking very loudly in a heavy New York accent. A few minutes later, I walked to the bus station and bought a ticket for, I don't remember where, but somewhere back into the heart of Mexico where I would likely be the only gringo in town. I somehow missed communing with the spirit of Cassady and the Beats, or whatever I was supposed to find there, and it's taken me a long time to return.

With a bit of age comes tolerance. I now understand the difficulty most people find adapting to a completely foreign culture without keeping a foot well planted in their own. And the extensive cultural and artistic offerings of San Miguel today are an understandable draw. This town has much to offer a curious mind, especially since the gringo presence seems much reduced by recent economic events in the US, and Mexican tourists are more in evidence.

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After settling in to the Frida Room, with her large portrait watching our every move,  there's time to wander before meeting up with Maggie. It's a Friday night, and of course there's plenty going on. Just wandering the streets around any Mexican plaza in the evening usually offers much to appreciate: the cacophony of color and sound, the presence of deep history, the aroma of food and spice.

 

We wander down winding stone streets toward the milonga and encounter a procession led by a mariachi band and two towering 'títeres.'

There's a very long line of cars waiting to get by, but nobody is honking. At a doorway, one of the títeres bends over quickly to frighten a small girl who squeals and giggles, and hides behind her mother. Heavy clouds overhead, and the growing sound of thunder remind us it's the rainy season and we'd better keep moving.

We get to the milonga just before the clouds release their heavy load amid the crashes of nearby lightning. Soon it's dark, as we sit among the soft glow of candles and enjoy the music.

Picture-taking becomes very difficult (without the washed-out look of flash), but we settle in for a quiet evening punctuated by the roar of the cloudburst just outside the doors. Later, after it passes, we'll wander back through dripping streets.

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We generally try to live like the locals. So how do we start our first full day, a Saturday, in San Miguel? With a hot cup of Starbucks, of course. Then it's off for an extended wander as we make our way (slowly, with many diversions) toward the Saturday Organic Market, to buy delectables for the apartment.

Zumba!

 

 

 

After a while, we hear a couple behind us huffing their way along and speaking English. As they fast-walk past us, swinging their arm weights, I said, "You two look pretty organic. Where's the Organic Market?" 

They said, "Just follow us." So Dr. Art and Ellen led the way.

Soon we're in the middle of a familiar scene from other Saturdays at open air markets. There are all kinds of delicious cheeses, breads, spices, fruits, vegetables, aloe potions, and people with dogs and shopping bags, along with a rasta drumming and flute group. It's easy to see why gringos are attracted here. 

We left with bags of goodies, and plenty of time to lose ourselves in the narrow alleyways leading to Parque Juarez, as we headed slowly back to the apartment for a quiet lunch and a nap.

 

No, we did NOT paint that happy face on the picture! 

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The late afternoon finds us watching a clown in the plaza on our way to dinner at a nearby Lebanese (!) restaurant named Fenicia. 

We weren't a bit concerned that Fenicia is right next to a mortuary. Judging from the posted signs, I'd guess we'd found the headquarters of the Lebanese Pride Movement. We ordered two delicious kebabs with red wine, and topped it off with a shared tall glass of arak, a kind of Lebanese 'white lightning' that left us groping for the door.

 

As we stumbled away in a white haze, we thought we even saw a guy carrying a huge bass fiddle over his shoulder.

After huffing uphill for several blocks, we regained enough composure to join a 'Tuna' for a nightly musical wander through the streets. Tunas are traditional musical groups dressed in medieval madrigal wear, and they specialize in 'callejoneando' (alleying) through narrow streets and byways with crowds of happy people in tow. Again, there are lines of patient (or just resigned) drivers waiting for us to pass as we stop frequently for songs and general merriment.

We end up back where we started, near the plaza, and wander off toward the apartment. It's been another full day.

— PRW

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Carolyn takes you to dinner at the Instituto Allende

Someone had mentioned that if we wanted a really stunning view of the San Miguel Arcángel we should visit the Instituto Allende; so when we read about an art opening there on Sunday afternoon, we decided to go, and follow it with dinner in the Instituto's restaurant.

The opening was in a tiny gallery off an inner courtyard, the walls of which were covered with large, startling paintings by one of Mexico's most noted muralists, David Siqueiros. The exhibit was an eclectic assortment of very good pieces by well known artists (including a large Calder), all belonging to a 97-year-old woman who has lived comfortably (even opulently, it is said) in San Miguel for many years but now is having to sell part of her substantial art collection to make ends meet. Another victim of the global economic crisis, most likely. We had a nice chat with the exhibit curator, a local, and a woman from New York who has been coming to San Miguel for forty years and knows the owner of the collection. They talked about the shifting patterns of tourism and it's impact on things. They seem delighted with the fact that Mexican tourism is up, even as fewer visitors come from the U.S. And Canada. The down side, they say, is that the Mexican tourists don't buy anything! Oops! Neither did we!

From the gallery, we wandered on through the large, old building with its courtyards, portals, and murals, to find the restaurant. And there it was — a spectacular view of the cathedral San Miguel Arcángel silhouetted against a deepening cerulean sky.

Tables lined one side of the large patio facing the framed view of the city, but the cool breeze sent us inside the dining room. We picked a table with a window view. It was a good choice!

We ordered a couple of margaritas (the best we've had so far on this trip) and watched the sky darken as the lights of the city came on. 

The salsa that came with the freshly made corn chips was dark and smokey smooth; and the pico de gallo had just the right touch of cilantro, and enough jalapeño to give it a little bite.

While waiting for our meal, we took in the atmosphere: a lovely, long, narrow room with what we judged to be about a 20-foot high brick ceiling with dark wooden beams. The furniture was a collection of colonial antiques, rugs on the tile floor under every table softened the sound, and a high wooden bar filled with bottles stood at one end. Everything was hand-painted in lovely muted colors, with a decorative band to separate the deep olive green below from the dusty gold above.

Old and very good paintings lined the walls, and everything was beautifully lit to create an intimacy belying the size of the room. It felt as if it could have been there forever, and I contrasted it in my mind with the feeling of the huge and über-contemporary house we had visited earlier in the day when we took the Sunday home tour. 

Dinner was a delicious salad of mixed greens with grapes and goat cheese and an entree of chicken fajitas with rice, beans, and guacamole. Sounds like standard fare, but far from average!  

 

We were alone in the room, except for the bartender and a couple of barefoot little girls in tiered cotton flower-children dresses who floated in and out to the patio where their mother was sitting. It gave the entire experience a soft and magical feeling. 

Perry asked our waiter, a handsome, gracious man, about the incessant fireworks: why, for how long, and who is responsible? "The church," he tells us (covering the first and last), and "all the time" wraps it up. That sets him to talking about ritual in Mexico, which leads to culture, pride, and that "el araizado" nature of the Mexican people — a deep rootedness that prevails in spite of outside influence, politics, economics, and, for instance, the flood of gringos that has been part of life in San Miguel for several decades!  

It explained so much, and you could feel what he meant in that gracious room; you could see it in his person — a permanence; an unshakable, timeless sense of self and place.  

It was good we sat inside, and fortunate we are to cross paths with such teachers! 

—CJK

TEQUISQUIAPAN

It's really Bitsy's fault.  

We would not have thought to come to 'Tequis,' as the locals call it, but Bitsy had been here for a few months and told glowing tales of its charm. She was right.

We caught the bus out of Querétaro for the one-hour trip through green fields and countryside. At the Tequis station we caught a cab to the plaza. We had no other plan. I left Carolyn at a cafe, nursing a hot chocolate and watching the luggage, while I went to look for a place to stay. She was surprised at my quick return, when I said, "I've found it."

I had walked a block and a half and turned into a doorway I'd noticed from the cab window. It was called "La Posada del Virrey" (Inn of the Viceroy).

Inside was a tranquil, manicured patio around a trickling fountain with rooms along the portals, an intimate bar, and a pool in the back. It was very charming, and probably expensive, but I thought I'd risk asking. The cost, MN$1080 (US$83) per night, was posted behind the desk and that certainly looked do-able – especially for a few days of excellence and repose. I told him we'd stay three nights. 

 

Then the manager noticed the price and said it was wrong. Since it was Sunday evening, the weekday rates of MN$900 (US$69) applied instead, breakfast included. I told him I'd be right back with Carolyn and the luggage. Normally, I wouldn't make such a decision without consulting the lady in charge. But this place was so sweet, it looked like a no-miss. We moved our stuff into the room and relaxed in the quiet. After hanging out listening to the trickling fountain for maybe half an hour, we consulted our calendar and decided to stay another two days.

I can't say we've lodged in any particularly unpleasant rooms so far on this trip, but some have been more utilitarian than charming. That's usually not a problem since we spend so much of our time out wandering. This one though, especially for the price, would be a fine place to just hang out and embrace the rich graciousness that Mexico offers.

We had arrived on a Sunday afternoon with the express purpose of locating Bitsy's friends Maruka and Paola, at the rooftop cafe where they sing. We found our way past several sleeping dogs, and kids running through the plaza, to our destination where two margaritas and lunch were soon on the table. Drinking at mid-day is not usually our style, but we pride ourselves on adaptability. 

 

It was a fine afternoon to relax and listen to the music as various audience members joined them onstage and took pictures. One little girl couldn't stop moving to the beat and jumped at the chance to be onstage with a kid-size tambourine. She'll probably have fond memories of this vacation.

 

In the morning we enjoy a leisurely breakfast before wandering off to take care of the laundry. Yes, such mundane chores remain an essential part of travel. There's a charming handmade "No Smoking" sign posted at the lavandería that reads "Did you know that the world measures 510,000,000 km. Then why do you come to this little space to smoke?"

After that we explore the narrow streets of Tequis looking for someone who can sew up Carolyn's old backpack that we bought somewhere in our travels long ago. The fabric is too heavy for a seamstress, but we find a shoe repair place that says they can do it. We'll return in a couple of days for it.

Meanwhile, our ramblings take us past several murals and any number of interesting places, including the spot that is the 'geographic center of the country.' I don't know what geographers have to say about it, but there's an impressive bronze plaque on the wall explaining that former President Venustiano Carranza liked Tequis so much that he declared it the center of Mexico. Hard to argue with that, I guess.

There was a tiny, sweet Museo de las Canastas showing all the materials and stages in the basket making process. And a shop. So, of course, we had to buy something!

After a good day's trek, it's time for dinner. Again. (What would these blogs be without fine pictures of food?). After that, a wander through the plaza at night, then making our way back to the Posada, being very careful as we pass under the hundreds of swallows that choose to nest on the overhead wires at only one particular spot in town. 

We sign on for another all-day tour.

First is an organic cheese-maker named VAI where Carolyn gets to count the drops of enzyme going into the vat – without dropping the bottle into the mix. Then we're down into the 'aging cellar,' which they explain is only for demonstration purposes because, dim as it is, there's still too much light for good cheese.

The lady says, "None of this will ever go to market." Next we visit some contented sheep, cows, and a curious goat (aren't they all?) before buying plenty of cheese to carry off with us. 

 

 

Peña de Bernal is next. The huge monolith (third largest in the world, and a New Age shrine) towers over this beguiling and artistic little town. It's our lunch stop, but Carolyn and I decide we'd rather go off exploring the place. There are any number of interesting side streets to choose from, and we wonder why guidebooks give it such short reviews. It seems like a quiet place worth spending time in.

 

Back at the main street, we buy a couple of "esquites," a delicious sort of corn chowder with lots of chile and cheese, and watch two young sisters as they earnestly prepare them.

The Freixenet wine cellars are next. This famous Barcelona-based company, long known for its champagne, is now a major presence in the fast-growing Mexican wine industry, and produces a variety of whites and reds.

 

This is a big operation, and Mexican tourists fill the building (we are the only gringos), although the guides mention that Mexicans generally prefer beer. It would appear, from our observations that the country's rising middle class is poised to challenge that old stereotype. We pass on the wine buying because we're looking forward to the next stop, a smaller winery named La Redonda.

The vines at La Redonda glisten green under the ample sunshine, and grapes hang in healthy clumps below. The winery guide is very enthusiastic about grapes and tells us far more than most us can remember, or even care about, while the hot sun beats hard upon our heads. After a while, some of the Mexican tourists are rolling their eyes and looking for a quiet shady place to sit down.

I find a stone bench where I can enjoy a pastoral view to the mountains beyond, while seated beneath a sign reading, "In this place, in 1892, nothing happened." My kinda place.  

On weekdays, the old part of Tequis is a little town of winding streets leading to quiet spots along the way. Or maybe the clank and squeak of a tortilla machine. Or a small café in a nearby alley. Or a chocolate under a broad portal around the plaza. Or an afternoon lunch with Maruka y familia.

 

Due to the abundant water available here, Tequis is a popular spa-town and vacation destination for families from Mexico City and other areas, although one resident mentioned troubling pollution from a nearby Kimberly-Clarke paper mill. It's a verdant area with many albercas (swimming pools) and winding tree-lined lanes. Sometimes the photos are the best way to tell the story...

 

We spend our last day walking along the little river, with its towering trees, and through some of the established wealthier areas, before retiring to the plaza for hot dogs (famously described by Ralph Nader as "America's most dangerous unguided missile.").

After a nap, we enjoy a conversation and drinks at the Posada's fine little bar, followed by an excellent dinner at nearby "Il Sapore Italiano."

 

We enjoy it while we can, because in the morning we'll schlep our bags to the bus again for the next leg. To San Miguel de Allende, land of myth and fable – sometimes called "Gringolandia."

— PRW

QUERETARO 2

Thursday, July 19, 2012 was a day to remember. 

On our morning ramble through the old stone streets and verdant squares of Querétaro we encountered a large political protest assembly in the busy Plaza de la Corregidora. We lingered at the fringes as the speaker, a PRD Senator, described the broad national dissatisfaction with the recent election. There is still plenty to dispute about the official results, considering all the allegations of fraud and manipulation. Then there's the fact that more than 60% of the voters cast their ballots for someone other than the alleged winner, Enrique Peña Nieto of the PRI. The country is strongly divided, and one wonders how this will play out.

In the early afternoon, I was in the hallway of our hotel checking e-mail when a young man came out of his room to do the same. We struck up a conversation about the Querétaro/Montreal International Jazz Festival currently in progress, and he turned out to be the bass player for the YolanDa Brown group from London that was playing that evening.

Carolyn joined us as we discussed music, philosophy (Hobbes vs Locke, The Great Conversation, etc.) and the politics of Nigeria, his homeland. Nigeria is known for its rich musical heritage and tradition of political activism, and few people symbolize this better than Fela Kuti. Although he's gone now, he was part of the Great Musical Conversation. He remains an inspiration to Jeremy and many others.

In the evening, we got there early to grab seats and enjoy the opening act, a very good group called the Vudú Chile Jazz and Blues Band, from nearby San Miguel de Allende.

 

But their set was interrupted by the protestors marching through the area and chanting, "¡Fuera Peña Nieto!" (Out With Peña Nieto!). At one point, about 60% of the jazz audience (around the same number as voted against the PRI) applauded the protestors, and several waved signs. It was looking to be a very interesting evening, with us in the middle, perhaps, of a history-being-made moment. But the protestors finally moved on, and their chants slowly dimmed as they marched away. 

This all happened well before YolanDa Brown began her set, and what a set it was! She plays, quite excellently, both the saxophone and the clarinet; and she has an outstanding backing band that kept the whole place hopping. She told the crowd in very good Spanish that this visit to Querétaro was her first opportunity to taste 'jamaica,' a popular bright red hibiscus drink. That was significant because her family is from Jamaica, and that country is currently marking it's 50th anniversary of independence.

She came down into the crowd and sat about five feet from us as she wailed on the clarinet.  And we were quite impressed with the bass playing of our new friend Jeremy (actually, Jeremiah Oluwambe Olaleye,  but we'll stick with 'Jeremy'). 

After a rocking evening of jazz, protest, more jazz, and a couple of encores, we retired to a nearby hotel restaurant for a drink (Cuba Libres), some passable food, and a fine Cuban quartet that played all the great Buena Vista Social Club numbers and more. A middle-aged couple got out there to dance, and for one brief, shining moment they were 23 years old again.

 

(The table sign translates, charmingly, "No Smoking - Respect the Regulation 'Of the Law for the Control of Tobacco' or suffer the consequences of Having Broken Said Regulation")

 

It was a excellent way to end an eventful day.

 

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Friday was tour day. We signed up for two tours and spent much of the day busing around the city with a full load of Mexican tourists. The tour guide spoke so rapidly (all in Spanish) that I was soon left far behind. In situations like this, it's hard to keep up if you're not born to the language. And there's a tendency here – certainly among tour guides – to slur the speech and gloss over pronunciations. Words discard their 's,' 'o,' and 'a' endings and elide fluidly to the next word. A phrase like "Los edificios" (The buildings) becomes "Loedificio." "R" endings become "sh," so "No Tocar" (Don't Touch) becomes "No Tocash." It certainly adds color to the language, but (for me) it's far less understandable than the language spoken in Oaxaca or Mexico City.

 

Our guide speaks constantly for 15-minute stretches in an attempt to give the most information possible. I drift off in contemplation, writing this up in my head for the next blog; and a Mexican tourist compliments him on his very compete explanation! At times like these, I relish my rich inner life. But he was very animated, entertaining, and dramatic, and told lots of jokes that, judging by the reaction of the other tourists, were real knee-slappers.

So we saw the famous 'acueducto,' statues of famous people, narrow streets and fountains, and a beautiful park called the Cerro de las Campanas (Hill of the Bells) crowned by a huge statue of Benito Juarez. It was worth the money, even with the language issue (for me, not Carolyn so much).

 

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Querétaro is a large city and there's still lots of wandering to do. We soon find ourselves in the extensive gardens of the Alameda, where locals go to find a patch of green. There's a large and raucous street market at the entry, but signs prohibit "vendors, clowns, etc…" from the park itself. It's a place to wander down the broad center walkway; admire a statue of José Lopez Alavez, composer of the famous Canción Mixteca; feed the squirrels; or find a quiet place to talk and breathe the oxygen.

It's also a good place to meet a young man named Francisco who just wants to practice his English.

On our way back to the hotel (for a nap) we happen upon El Jardín del Arte, and somehow manage not to buy numerous essential items. I hope we'll survive.

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More wandering brings an encounter with Querétaro's modest ex-pat community. Barry Lippman, a former New Yorker, relocated to this city several years ago and now deals in real estate (blippman@queretarorealty.com).

Barry has a tasteful flat he's renovated extensively just a block or so from the center of town. We were fortunate to join him and his friend Ann, from Toronto, at his place for a drink before we all went out for dinner on our last night in town. They suggested a very good nearby Oaxacan(!) restaurant called María y Su Bici. It's a successful and fun family place where the music is loud, the portions are large, and there's a play area for the kids. 

We discussed the healthy economic growth the city has experienced in recent years, due to strong foreign investment. We had also noticed extensive and fine restoration work in the city's historic center. Barry mentioned the new assembly and distribution plants near the airport that are providing good jobs for the community, as well as the growth of suburban residential tracts around the city. He spends some time these days finding living quarters for incoming executives. In the daily newspaper, Diario de Querétaro, the outgoing Alcalde, María del Carmen Zuñiga Hernandez, mentioned the large colchón (mattress) of 400 million pesos her administration will leave in the treasury to finish out the year. It's nice these days to see a city with money in the bank.

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There's still much to see, and lots to remember from our time in Querétaro. On the surface, this appears to be a very livable city. There's a wide variety of newspapers and magazines to enjoy over morning coffee, there are daily (and nightly) street performers and book fairs; and cars actually stop if you look like you want to cross the street. There's an effective recycling program, and they have a regimen of constant street cleaning to discourage even thinking of tossing out trash.

 

And who can forget the oddly wonderful dog fountain (no, I didn't ask) in the Plaza de Armas?

There's a lot to see in Querétaro, but the time has come for us to push onward – to the charming spa town of Tequisquiapan, about an hour away.

— PRW

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But before we go, a bit more reflection from Carolyn...

Street life in Mexico owns me. Or perhaps it's street life in the Latin world — Mexico, Argentina, Spain.  I'm sure there are other places where vibrant street life can be found, but here it has a particular lushness and diversity. I often think I could no longer settle for living where the streets at night are empty and all the people are locked inside their homes watching television!

We had dinner two nights in a row on Queretaro's Plaza de Armas — one night at Chucho El Roto's (I think Perry is telling you a bit of Chucho's tale) and the next at a fine restaurant named 1810. The food was great at both; we enjoyed nice wines and listened to jazz drifting over from the performance tent nearby. Both nights we had tables at the edge of the plaza, with full view of the people and events, and in the 8:00 to 10:00 p.m. time frame, there was a lot to see! 

Families carrying/pushing/trailing small children, herds of teenagers in everything from skintight miniskirts and 6-inch platform shoes to goth black and studs, a little old tipsy man swaying to the music (same one was there both nights), elegantly dressed couples in leather and diamonds, beautifully colorful and quiet indigenous women selling baskets and dolls and bread and necklaces..., young couples necking on the benches, men carrying guitars, women in medieval costume, beggars, amputees in wheelchairs, blind people with white canes — it seemed the whole sea of humanity flowed by in a never ending, undulating stream. 

And often they would stop at our table — the vendors and the beggars, that is. Small children asking for pesos or if we would like to buy a little cotton "muñeca" or a "chicle." They look at you with large, imploring eyes and you wonder if they've managed to sell anything all day long.

I am so quick to say "no," especially after the nineteenth woman has offered the same shawl or straw bag, after the twentieth child has held out a grubby little hand asking for "un pesito." Perry is more reachable, at least until he's emptied his pockets of coins. (Perry's position: We are not rich, but we have so much more than they do.) He seems so generous; I seem so hard. I can barely look at them. But when I say "no!" it's not a rejection. It doesn't mean I wouldn't like to heal the wound for each and every one. It's just my way of temporarily coping with my own discomfort, my sadness. 

I remember my first exposure to real poverty in Peru nearly fifty years ago. It wrenched at me, tore me up, had me virtually paralyzed — seeing such hunger and illness and deprivation. I was so fortunate, and I had come with the intention to help; yet I could not fix this thing I was seeing.

Back then I could barely look that poverty in the face. It would have been so much easier to go back to my middle class comforts and "realize my potential." But luckily I had signed on for two years with the Peace Corps. I was committed to sticking it out. And by the time the two years were over, I saw things through very different eyes.

Living outside my culture and country of birth helped me understand that I had been born into a very privileged society and that I could as well have entered this world under very different circumstances. It was not entirely intelligence and hard work that gave me access to education and employment. I was in the right place, at the right time.

   

It's no less distressing, now, to look hunger and need in the face than it was back in 1963. But those things are so undeniably part of being human. And exploring other cultures has shown that there are many ways to survive, be human, and live life with dignity, whether rich or poor. For me it is a good thing to keep poking around in the world, checking out the street life in as many places as possible, experiencing how it's done by other people following other rules and speaking other languages, pushing my limits, testing my comfort zone. There's so much yet to learn!

Never mind that it isn't always easy! 

—CJK  

QUERETARO 1

We arrived in the historic and booming city of Querétaro on an ETN luxury coach with first class legroom.

It was a four-hour trip via the new cuota road that skirts from Puebla through green countryside past Pachuca, east of Mexico City, and then meets the main highway to Queretaro. The cost was MN$455 (about US$35) each. There was a tragic bus crash last week in the state of Nayarit, at 4:00 a.m. That's one reason we prefer to travel during the day: we figure the driver's usually more alert; and, besides, we can watch the scenery outside. From the station, we boarded one of Mexico's ubiquitous 'death cabs,' complete with rap music and a twenty-something at the wheel, for a too-rapid trip to the hotel in the historic center. The cost: MN$37 (US$2.85). After that we were, thankfully, pedestrians for the next several days.

We managed to arrive for the Festival de Santiago, and there's free opera tonight in a plaza called the Jardín Zenea. There are several plazas in Querétaro, but we find the right one and hang around the bandstand in a crowd, waiting for something to happen. Suddenly a gorgeous woman's voice begins singing a piece from Carmen.

We all look around to see where it's coming from and realize it's the orange-clad 'cleaning lady' we saw on the other side of the plaza. The crowd moves en masse to surround her. After she finishes there's another voice in the air and we all head in that direction. Between songs, we crane our necks trying to guess where the next singer is. I catch a glimpse of a large microphone wrapped in a Festival Program and grab Carolyn's sleeve. The next singer – he looks like a handsome young Placido Domingo – is standing right next to us.

 

Welcome to Querétaro, a city filled with art, culture, and surprise. There's even a guy walking down the street toting two kettle drums as a kind of 'drum sandwich,' on his way to a gig. 

After the opera, we make our way to a restaurant in another plaza called the Jardín de la Corregidora, and find ourselves dining in an unfortunate battle-of-the-bandsmusical din. The food's good, but there's some loud electronic noise from the other side of the plaza; there's some nice guitar music from the next restaurant over; and then some guy breaks in with a loud karaoke machine right near us. 

I have my opinions about karaoke. It's fine if you want to go out with your buds, have a few drinks, and act like Frank Sinatra. Everybody get's a good laugh, but it's not professional. The owners of the eatery should have sent their guy home and let the guitar player take care of both restaurants. We may have lingered over a second drink. As it was, we finished our meal early and left.

Querétaro is a sizable city, with a population of 730,000. Thanks to recent major investments by Ericsson and other large companies, its economic growth rate is among the highest in the country. It's also a very important part of Mexican history.

This is where the conspirators first met in 1810 to plot the overthrow of Spanish rule at the home of la Corregidora, the Mayor's wife. It's where the long-ruling PRI was born. And it's where the National Anthem was first sung due to a certain 'mishap.' That event was supposed to happen simultaneously all across the country, but somehow the clocks were set 10 minutes early in Querétaro.

Walking these ancient and narrow stone streets is similar to wandering through a large museum. We will find that we don't end up visiting even a single history museum while we're here. This is a very cosmopolitan city, and there's just so much else to do. Like lingering over a fine lunch at the Toulouse Lautrec Gypsy Jazz Café and reading a couple of short stories in an old book from the shelf. There's no actual jazz at the 'jazz café,' but the food is very tasty and the ambiance is excellent. 

 

Because of its history, Querétaro is an important destination for Mexican tourists. And there are lots of them boarding the tourist tranvias for city tours each day at the Plaza de la Corregidora. This is not a major gringo hangout, and we're even here during the gringo low season. So, except for a small number of ex-pats who live here permanently, we appear to be the only gringos in town. That leads to a few amusing double-takes – but we're just part of the show. 

The weather is excellent during our July stay in Querétaro, warm with afternoon showers. At almost 6,000 ft of elevation, this artistic city feels much like Santa Fe in the summer.

This part of central Mexico, from here to Guadalajara, is often called "The Land of Eternal Spring." So even in the winter, it still feels like Santa Fe in the summer. It's just right for wandering cobblestone streets during the day, reading a newspaper over afternoon coffee, and lingering in the plazas at night.

There's plenty of art, and the exhibits are not all 'old Mexico' stuff. Along one street, there's a gallery holding an exhibit with a crashed cars motif. They're well-done, super-realistic oil paintings of cars that the artist has crinkled before mounting in frames. He's even provided insurance damage 'claims.'

On another evening in Queretaro, we're in a much quieter plaza at a restaurant named "Chucho El Roto," after a famous bandit (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chucho_el_Roto) whose enduring legend has long outpaced the reality.

We're enjoying a fine meal with a bottle of good Monteviña wine from Parras, Coahuila, and watching the world wander past our table. At the other end of the plaza, a fine jazz band from Montreal is playing, as part of the International Jazz Festival that we also just stumbled into. We order two good dishes to share – a large salad (Carolyn) and a steaming Molcahete de Pollo (me).  We'll switch plates at the more-or-less halfway point and pour another glass of wine, as we enjoy the evening's music and the parade of people passing by, including a couple of 'Jazz Guys' who are just hanging out. The total bill will amount to MN$477 (about US$37), and the nightly street show was free. This is an excellent, an affordable, way to explore fascinating Mexico.

 

So far, Queretaro seems to be the 'hippest' place in the country, for Spanish speakers anyway – not counting the endless A-List delights of Mexico City. An ex-pat named Bill, from Kentucky, says, "There's always something going on around here!" Lonely Planet mentions the vibrant gay bar scene and I guess that says something about the degree of tolerance here, but we didn't really check the 'Gay Bar Index' (or whatever) for Oaxaca and Tlaxcala. 

We decide to stay over for another couple of days, and pity those who are afraid to leave home.

— PRW

 

OFF TO TLAXCALA

Morning arrives on our last day in Oaxaca and there's just time for a quick breakfast in our little rented home. Then we wheel our bags down the cobblestone streets to the ADO bus station for the next leg of our trip. Bus travel in Mexico (and Europe, and S. America) is different than the US. It's the choice of Mexico's students and the growing middle class. It's a nice way to travel, it's usually far cheaper than air travel, and it often takes the same time or less than dealing with all that airport hassle.

During our travels in Mexico south of Puebla, ADO was always the bus line of choice. They maintain a very high level of service and comfort on their luxury class Volvo and Marco Polo buses, and their stations are clean and modern. This time we were on OCC, an ADO subsidiary, and it was also a good choice. 

 

Initially we rode north through the verdant farmlands of the central valley of Oaxaca, past open fields and charming villages ringed by tall mountains. Then we entered the barrancas that separate Oaxaca from the state of Puebla. It was a dramatic trip before settling into the rich farmlands around Puebla.

There was occasional discomfort when we passed a 'pipa,' one of those two-trailer fuel trucks, on the curves. There had been an article in the Oaxaca newspaper about the frequent accidents involving 'pipas' and their 'cowboy drivers' on back-country mountain roads. There were graphic pictures showing the latest wrecks and descriptions of how all the victims ended up 'calcinados' (fried). We were on the newer, and safer, 'cuota' road, but you still wonder….  

Our arrival at Puebla's large and frenetic bus station was a departure from the tranquility of Oaxaca. We found the Verde Line and boarded one of the VW buses (much larger than that good old 60s version; there's a huge VW assembly plant at Puebla) that leaves every 15 minutes for Tlaxcala. 

 

Tlaxcala was once a very important city in Mexico (before the plague), and still retains a prominent place in Mexican history. When the Aztecs finally wised up to Cortez and drove him from their capital (an event called, "la noche triste"), he sought refuge with the Tlaxcalans. After initial resistance the Tlaxcalans, ancient enemies of the Aztecs, became his allies and enabled his conquest of Mexico. They later led uprisings against the tyranny of the Spaniards. I read this long ago in W. H. Prescott's book, The Conquest of Mexico. Now I had come to see it firsthand.

The road from Puebla to Tlaxcala is unenticing at best, as it passes through the usual urban chaos and confusion common to much of the country. A sign on the bus reads, "Velocidad Controlado." That's more a result of the endless 'topes' (speed bumps) than the bus driver. But the colonial core of the city, with a population of only 72,000 and the capitol of Mexico's smallest state, turned out to be modest and sweet. 

It's raining as we settle into our cosy and charming (if a bit dark) room at Posada La Casona de Cortez. It would rain for most of the three days we stayed in Tlaxcala. And at an elevation of 7500 feet, it was often cold, as well. The local people were wearing down vests and fur-lined boots. We'd headed south to central Mexico during the rainy season to escape some of the summer heat of Sonora, but we hadn't expected it would actually be cold! In July! We were not well prepared. 

 

In the mornings we greatly enjoyed wandering the streets in our usual explorations, umbrellas in hand. But the afternoons were met with astoundingly violent lightning storms and biblical quantities of rain. We sat under the portal to write, but the very nearby crashes of lightning soon sent us scurrying to the safety of our small room, where there was no comfortable place to sit.

Nevertheless, we enjoyed ourselves to the fullest in this interesting and under-visited small city. The first order of business: a warm red 'hoody' for Carolyn, and a nice warm place for dinner.  And then, after a good night's sleep under extra blankets (in July!) we were ready to wander. 

First stop: Zumba in the zócalo. Well, in our case, watching Zumba in the zócalo, on our way to breakfast. 

It's a rainy Sunday morning, but there are signs of life in the plaza. And there are signs of the ongoing electoral protest taped to the bandstand. They read "Sale on the Presidency: Lowest cost at Soriana" (a reference to all the Soriana gift cards passed out for votes), "Sufferage with 'efectivo' (cash) is not an election," and many others.

 

 

In recent years, Mexicans have had their hopes raised for a more democratic future, and they are becoming more active in demanding it. The post-election period is likely to remain turbulent for awhile. 

Meanwhile, as in centuries past, daily life continues and families start to appear in the plaza. The tall trees offer some shelter from the diminishing rain, while the merengue-like Rococo facades of the buildings offer visual delights.  We wander onward, past the Paroquia de San José and toward the river, enjoying sights along the way.

At the river, where beautiful blue flowers are dropping from the jacaranda trees, we find the Museo Vivo de Artes y Tradiciones Populares. It's truly a 'Museo Vivo,' with artisans to explain many things on display. The 'viejita' in the Smoke House was keen to explain everything in sight, and delighted to answer questions. She, like most Tlascalans, is very proud of her heritage. I was intrigued by the woven horse hair screen hanging on the wall. So that's how they sifted stuff before somebody invented wire!

 

 

 

 

 

A short walk further along, we find the large and well-equipped 'Youth and Families Park.' It's nestled nicely into a forested glen and has basketball courts, an enclosed soccer facility, a very active skate park, bicycle trails, a long walking trail, and other facilities. Plenty for the kids to do besides, well, whatever….  

 

By the time we got back to the plaza, it was filled with people enjoying their Sunday out; someone had removed the water-logged protest signs. We stopped at an art exhibit.

 

There were buff young guys doing handstands, twirls and back flips (it made us feel old!). And there were young couples making out on the benches. Based on what we've seen so far, making out in public may well be central Mexico's favorite outdoor sport. 

The lobby of the Palacio de Gobierno, on the northeast side of the plaza, is well worth a visit. It's filled with extensive murals depicting just about every aspect of Tlascalan history, rendered in great detail.

 

After a nap (to escape the afternoon showers) it was time again for dinner. We found a warm place on the plaza, with bull heads on the wall and a Mexican talent show on the TV. Then it was time to retire again for the night under warm blankets. It had been another good long day.

 

 

 

Morning dawns, with another few hours of sunshine. We find a broad intriguing pathway off the corner of plaza Xicohténcatl (!) that leads up to the ruins of the old Ex-Convento Franciscano de la Asunción. It also overlooks the bull ring (which now more resembles a lake!) and gives a nice view over the city. We pause for a moment to enjoy the 'charming' translation on a sign, and the modified VW parked across the street.

 

 

From there it was back down in a loop to the plaza and onward up another hill to the ornate Capilla del Pocito de Agua Santa (Chapel of the Well of Holy Water).

At the very top is the Santuario de la Virgen de Ocotlán, an important pilgrimage site to where the Virgin supposedly appeared in 1541. There was a funeral underway when we arrived, so we decided against taking pictures. We walked a bit further and caught the procession (mariachis and all) as they made their way down the hill.

Somewhere along the way we found another meandering street and a curious dog who checked us out from under the gate.

We headed back down toward the plaza to a delicious organic lunch at a little place called Zana-Hora. The place was empty when we got there, but was full long before we left. 

About then the afternoon clouds were building, but we decided to chance it and walk in a completely different, more modern, and more commercial direction. That's when we came across a beautiful old music school surrounded by a sculpture garden, an oasis of green quiet in the heart of a bustling city. Young people were practicing their violins under the trees, and the sounds of other instruments drifted from the building.

 

As in most of Latin America, a good classical education is highly regarded and we were happy to chance upon this facility. Good things can happen when you wander and, as they say, "All those who wander are not lost." That applies to us. At least part of the time. And the rest of the time we probably are lost.

 

But in the summertime in Tlaxcala, "Those who wander too long get wet." We got back to our room just before the daily afternoon deluge, and considered what to do for our last night in town. After a nice nap.

 

The rain abates to a drizzle and we head out to a place we saw earlier in the day, a place that sells "pulque curado." No visit to Tlaxcala would be complete without stopping at a 'pulqueria' for a taste of the local fare. They call it 'curado' when it's mixed with fruit juice to make it more palatable. Otherwise, it's an 'acquired taste.' We ordered a 'piña colada' and a 'fresa.' They arrived in traditional clay pots, and the young bartender convinced us to order a plate of chalupas to go with it. Carolyn said hers tasted like pineapple-flavored beer, and mine was like strawberry beer. Really not all that bad, and the chalupas were good. 

 

Pulque, made from agave, is the ancestor of mescal and tequila. It is said that in the old days, women would chew the pulp and spit in into a vat where the saliva would cause it to ferment. We did not want to know how the pulque we ordered was made, so we talked to the nice young bartender about the Tigers versus Angels baseball game that was playing on the TV. After that, we moved on. In the rain.

 

We'd had our eye on a nice last meal at a fine-looking place called "Vino y Piedra," so we headed there next. We sat down next to the in-floor wine cellar at a table with a peek-through to the bar. But after the pulque and chalupas, we weren't very hungry, so we settled in for tapas and glasses of good wine to top off a night of drinking. Very cosmopolitan of us, no doubt. The young Mexican couple at the next table told us we needed to check out La Redonda winery when we get to Tequisquiapan. We assured them we would. 

 

 

There was more than enough to do in Tlaxcala to warrant staying another day or so. But frankly, we were cold and decided to go looking for summer. Our next stop would be Queretaro. In the morning we caught a lift to the bus station. It was raining as we left.

 

(BTW: Our Canadian friend Peter Manchester waxed eloquently about the joys of climbing La Maliche, the 14,600-ft dormant volcano that towers over the city of Tlaxcala – during the dry season. During our stay, we never saw the cloud-enshrouded, rain-drenched mountain, and there was a search on for four hikers who'd gotten lost out there. Sorry we missed out. Maybe next time.)

— PRW

 

OAXACA FAREWELL

After a couple of days of whirlwind, fact-filled tours, it's nice to relax into the rhythm of the community. It's good to simply wander the streets wherever our feet happen to take us. Maybe we'll get to that museum this morning; or maybe that will happen tomorrow. After that second cup of coffee.

As I write this, in an upstairs studio/bedroom (there are two, besides the main bedroom) enjoying that second cup of coffee, a cowbell in the street announces the guy who buys scrap metal. Farther away, a voice calls, "Tamales!" I've just returned from the sastreria down the hill where I had my old and durable traveling pants repaired (again) for 30 pesos.

 

There's a little 'alebrije' mouse (or whatever it is) that watches us as we climb the stairs several times each day. I'm listening to an excellent Oaxaca radio station playing a mix of classical music and rich traditional songs. We're very lucky to be here, to be doing this. Life can be very sweet if you have the luxury of time to enjoy it. It's one of the great gifts of retirement.

 

(Our good friend Peter Manchester, well-traveled but still working, writes, "Dang you two!" from his northerly redoubt in New Brunswick. That so well sums up our situation we're planning to rip it off and keep it as a slogan! Check his art at: http://petermanchester.ca/ )

 

There are some real advantages to renting a small house for two weeks within walking distance of the zócalo in Oaxaca de Juarez (It was the home of Mexico's great Reformer). For one, it can help to keep your daily lodging costs within reason (US$35 per night, for us), and you can even cook a few meals 'at home.' There's the daily exercise, of course (If you're not in good shape when you get here, you probably will be when you leave). And finally, it's a great way to get in contact with 'la vida cotidiana,' the daily life of the community. That alone will take you out of mainstream 'hit-and-run' tourism, and give you a depth of experience you might otherwise miss.

Temperature-wise, Oaxaca is a welcome relief from the intense summer heat of Sonora. Between the altitude (around 5000 ft) and the summer rainy season, daytime temperatures remain in the very pleasant 70s and 80s. There are afternoon showers (carry an umbrella!), but it's not as wet as Seattle. Nighttime temps usually require a cover for comfortable sleeping, with the sound of local tree frogs in the air. It's really about like Portland in the summer, very pleasant.

We wander down a winding street to drop off our laundry and pass a modernist Biblioteca Infantil (Children's Library) tucked nicely into the streetscape. The entry walls feature an engaging tile design. The reading rooms open onto landscaped courtyards. Fanciful designs decorate the ceilings. The guard turns on the fountain hidden in the roof opening that lights the entry, and young children stand with their parents, watching the water suddenly pouring from the sky.

A further along, there's an old aqueduct crossing a stream. It's a nice place to read, or talk with a friend, with the quiet whisper of water in the background.

And there are some nice murals along the way. 

 

None of this is on the Tourist Maps. You really need about 2 or 3 weeks, maybe a month, to fully experience the essence of 'hidden Oaxaca.'

On our return, we find there's a 'Mexican Standoff' at the corner where three, narrow, one-way streets intersect. After much horn honking, engines are shut off, drivers emerge to discuss the situation and everyone organizes a solution. Then life continues apace.

 

There's graffiti here, as in every modern city – much of it the usual brainless 'dog-pissing-on-wall' variety. But there's quite a bit of thoughtful artistic content, a modern extension of the great muralistic tradition of Mexico. This is a very literate and politically activist city.

Every Saturday, there's an organic farmer's market just up the hill from our place at the Iglesia de Santo Tomás. We shared a delicious fresh tlayuda (a large local taco with special local cheese, chicken and spinach) and enjoyed the day. We topped off lunch with a tall glass of chocolate, freshly mixed in a bicycle-powered blender. Central Mexico is the place that introduced chocolate (it's a Nahuatl word!) to the world. We bought several more small chocolates to enjoy later after dinner with some finely aged mescal.

 

And later that evening we went back up to the little church for a fine concert to celebrate the 20th anniversary of the Oaxaca Symphony Orchestra. A Haydn symphony and an interesting piece by a Mexican composer (I didn't catch the name) were a fine way to end the evening. 

 

Art is important to daily life in Oaxaca, and we actually got to most of the fine museums in town. A walk through the magnificent Museo de las Culturas at Santo Domingo gives a great overview of Oaxacan history (it's all in Spanish). As a bonus, it overlooks the fine Ethnobotanic Garden which is also worth visiting.

 

 

The Museo  de Arte Contemporaneo houses some fine, and challenging, recent works. The Textile Museum and the adjacent Master's Gallery are well worth a stop to see some of the best art around. And there are several nearby art galleries to peruse.  

 

 

  

 

Then there's the food. Oaxaca has its own very distinctive world-class cuisine. People come here from distant lands just for the food. It may be why the Aztecs and Cortez came here in the first place! When the food is this good, word gets out. We managed to sample as much of it as possible during our stay. 

 

And who can visit Oaxaca without savoring some delicious roasted 'chapulines' (grasshoppers) with chile, along with a good shot of Mescal? For the record they're very tasty, and a bit crunchy, although the little legs tend to get stuck in your teeth.

 

Toward the end of our stay, we spend a fine evening with fellow Kino-folk, Bill and Nancy Berg. Somehow they've managed to rent a mansion in the verdant hills just outside the city. It's part of a very tastefully designed complex, with a pool and guesthouse.

 

We relaxed on the veranda overlooking the jungle, with some good mescal to wait for dinner to arrive – they've paid a local lady to conjure up some culinary magic! It doesn't get much better than this.

On our last night we attend a 'bohemia,' an evening of favorite music with only a singer and a guitarist. It was another one of those free concerts we find from handbills or wall posters, and an excellent way to spend the evening. There were three fine lead-in duos to the main event, which turned out to be a tribute to Álvaro Carrillo, who composed "Sabor a Mi" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B90KHiZYlEs&feature=endscreen), among many other songs. His son, Mario, sang a version that included a verse in Zapotec (!). At one point they started passing out long shots of mescal to all the adults in the place. The reason became clear when we bought one of the CDs called "Eso Merece Un Trago (This Deserves A Drink)." While the singing was excellent, the playing was a master class in the guitar music of central Mexico. It was a night to remember.

But alas, all good things must end...

...and it's time to wander onward – to Tlaxcala.

— PRW