Hasta Entonces, Guanajuato!

Well, darlings, I head off for home tomorrow morning--I have so very much enjoyed this ovely little city, and I shall certainly return, I hope. I feel that I've learned so much, even in a fairly short period of time, seen so many cool things, and met many big-hearted people. THe school's been grand, the city is charming. Mexico at its funky, fantastic best (if I may be a little bit trite)!

Yesterday, after our cooking class (in which we made garbanzo bean-flour quesadillas--very good), Mother and I ventured out to see the Alhondiga de Granadita, the grainary-turned-Spanish-stronghold that was overtaken during the war for independence, as well as the monument to El Pipila, the very fellow who burned the gates of the stronghold. On the way to the Alhondiga, we stopped to get horchata from a street vendor, which was served to us in plastic bags with a straw--! Granted, it was mind-bogglingly sweet, but an experience worth having nonetheless. The Alhondiga de Granaditas is an imposing stone structure, the interior of which has been turned into an extensive museum housing lots of precolonial art, photography, information about the revolution... it was fun to see, and quite important, I think, though the shere volume of information housed therein was rather daunting.

After the Alhondiga, Mother and I were both feeling a bit dazed by the 800 grams of sugar we had probably each consumed in the horchata. "I think we need a snack," said my mother. "Like what?" I asked. "Like... tacos." We looked at each other for a moment, then collapsed into laughter.


We set off through winding callejones in the direction we had come, past houses and a church (there are apparently something like 56 churches in Gto.), till we ended up back at the Plazuela de San Fernando, home of the creperie. We sat in the shade outside another restaurant, this one called La Esquina, I think, and ordered guacamole and a caprese salad. Mother had a margarita. We sat for a time in the comfortable leather chairs, enjoying the afternoon light, watched children chasing pigeons, dogs wandering past, rambling musicians, adults chasing pigeons... That plazuela, though quite central, was somehow perfectly imbued with a quiet peacefulness. We soaked it up, regaining our senses. The man at the table in front of us, working at a laptop, ate a plateful of empanaditas, fed the crumbs to the pigeons, drank black coffee with a lot of sugar, smoked several cigarettes. Mother ordered another margarita.


When we were feeling less sugar-stupid, we wandered back out into the busy street, and made our way toward the Pipila monument, a large stone statue that towers over the Centro. A little green car on steep, steep tracks,called the funicular, runs people up and down to it--it was rather mortifying, going up, feeling like you were just floating above the city, suspended by... not very much (we had ridden on something identical in Spain, at a little monastery in the hills outside Barcelona called Montserrat. That one was called the Cremallera). The view from above, though, was wonderful. Right in front of us was the very center of the city, Jardin de la Union, shaped, as a friendly tour guide pointed out to us, rather like a slice of pie. The whole city was spread out before us, all churches and houses the color of candy. I was gald we went up there, if only for the view. We opted to walk back down, as we couldn't quite stomack the thought of the slow-motion plummet of the funicular. We wound our way down many stone steps, past strange murals, only to be spat out on the most colorful street I've seen... Lovely. The sun sank into the west, and we made our way to the nearest underground bus stop.


Mother left late this morning, after we made stuffed squash blossom stew in our cooking class. This afternoon, I did some nostalgic wandering around, stopped for a coffee at Corazon Parlante, got a yogurt ar El Unicornio Azul, looked for some last-minute gifts and--in vain--for a cheap summer dress. It was a beautiful sunny day, no rain at all. In the Jardin de la Union, mariachis were playing full speed ahead (and beautifully), and the smells of meat and roasting corn floated through the air. I sat in the shade of the plaza and watched shrieking American children ambling about playfully. In the warmth of the late afternoon, I felt quiet and content, and perfectly satiated.

I honestly do hope to return to Guanajuato--it's such a sweet place. Mother was saying she wants to live here, so... you never know. At any rate, I'd perhaps like to make it a summer ritual to come down to the school for a few weeks. That would be lovely as well. Pues, veremos!

To San Miguel I Went, I Went...

Nearly a week ago, actually, and I meant to write about it then, but that was when I spilled tea all over my computer (which has since come back to life), and then I was rather distracted th rest of the week...


So, it was last Saturday that I went on a day trip on "Mexico's Idependence route," aka tourist trail. A rickety blue bus with the words "Transportes Turisticos de Guanajuato" hand painted on the side picked me up at the schoo a little late. I was one of the first to be picked up, and from there we went collecting various other, mostly older, tourists, until the bus was full of their chatter and laughter. (One of the women noticed a big beautiful piece of quartz the driver had on the dashboard. "I have a collection of rocks, and crystals that I use for crystal therapy," he said. He talked a bit about the crystals themselves, called "rosas" because of their petal-like structure. I have one with a drop of water inside," he said. "It has very good energy.") We stopped first to see the very colorful gravesite of Jose Alfredo Jimenez, a famous Mexican singer from the middle of the last century. The memorial consisted of a 15-foot-tall concrete sombrero, around which wound a brilliantly colored ridge of concrete, inlaid with pieces of Talavera tile to mimic the rainbow, representing both a sarape and a mountain range, apparently.


From there we proceeded to the town of Dolores Hidalgo, where, on September 16, 1810, Padre Miguel Hidalgo uttered his famous "Grito de Dolores," the call to action that served as the impetus of the Mexican war for independence. It wasn't really a very lovely town, but we got to see the the house where Padre Hidalgo had lived, as well as the church from which he gave the Grito. But--best of all--we were able to sample the myriad bizarre flavors of ice cream sold on the Dolores plaza. Things such as avocado, rose petal, mole, chicharron, tequila, beer... The list goes on. Admittedly, I was unable to bring myself to try the chicharron flavor, much as I love fried pork skin.


We stopped briefly at the church in Atotonilco, a very tine, very poor village between Dolores and San Miguel. The church, aside from being one of the places Padre Hidalgo stopped to rally his forces, also has a beautifully painted interior. What I liked best about it, though, was that there was a fluffy white cat wandering around inside, winding through people's legs, sitting on the altar irreverently--he obviously owned the place. On the way out, small, dirty children begged for coins...


San Miguel de Allende is known for being very touristy, filled with American ex-pats, and certainly, walking down the street, every other person seemed to be a tourist, and 3 out of 4 tourists seemed to be Americans. As such, the town has many amenities geared toward westerners. The vegetarian restaurant where I ate, for example (I had a large salad and fresh carrot juice--vegetables!), or the little walk-up cafe where I had on organic chiapas coffee. Granted, this means it's all a bit more expensive, too--I paid twice as much for my lunch as I've payed for any other meal here, which, by American standards, was still resonable ($8). I can see why people like San Miguel, though. It's pretty and colorful, there are live mariachis playing on the plaza. There are several art galleries and and kind of upscale funiture/decor-type shops. It's a very comfortable place, in that a good deal has been geared toward toward foreigners and tourists. It's charming, regarless (though I think I like Guanajuato better).


We left San Miguel around 6 or 6:30. Sitting nest to me in the van was an older Mexican woman who now lived in Texas. She was very friendly, and a bit sick from the altitude. We chatted a bit about the importance of being bilingual and various other things before she fell into a light sleep. The van wound its way through the dry, scrubby hills, passing the occasionan greener field, herds of cows, a herd of goats. In the west, the sun slipped behind clouds and the wind of the road blew through our hair.

Holy Mole! (from 6/6)

Mole, famous for having myriad ingredients and inumerable variations, is actually very easy to make--if you have six people working at it at once, that is... We made Mole from scratch today in our cooking class, which basically involved frying: onion, garlic, several different kinds of dried chiles, almonds, bread, corn tortillas, banana... We trew that all in the blender, added some chicken broth, added some chicken... Heavens. It was unspeakably good. It was like "Like Water for Chocolate." I rather felt like weeping openly upon eating it. I refrained, however, and contented myself with smiling broadly... In all honesty, it wasn't really that difficult to make, and wouldn't be even with only one person doing it. The thing is to have all your ingredients ready, which is quite a task unto itself, seeing as how they are indeed many.

After our delicious lunch, Mother and I headed for the Centro to do some further exploring. Our first stop was a Paleteria Michoacana for a mango-chile popsicle, a purely Mexican phenomenon, and a wonderful one. Sitting in the unbroken shade of the miticulously pruned box-shaped trees in the Jardin de la Union, we were accosted by a man draped in beautifully embroidered sarapes, wool rugs, handmade ponchos. "Senoritas..." He began. As he had caught us while we were sitting, it was rather difficult to avoid him with a simple "No, thanks." And he was not to be deterred.

"Here," he said to me, shaking a poncho in my direction. "Try this on, so that your mother can see." I stood up, rather hesitantly, to be draped with the cream-colored poncho. "I have one in a lovely grey, as well," he said. "Let me go and get it for you."Before we could respond, he had dashed off to where ever he kept his stash of woven good, leaving me standing there still wearing the poncho, obviously giving no thought to the fact that I could have been down the street and around the corner with it, had I been so inclined--which of course I wasn't. He rushed back with a new pile of rugs and throws, and started making us offers. "I'll tell you what," he said, signaling a poncho and a throw, "I'll give you these two for 800" (Pesos, or $80). "For me, that's not so good, but for you, it's an excellent bargain." In the end, we ended up buying a single throw. We certainly hadn't meant to do anything of the sort, but this fellow, as I said, was not to be deterred. He was making a sale, dammit, and he was making it now (granted, he was extremely polite and friendly).


We were feeliong a bit burnt out, I suppose from all the haggling, so we ducked into the Plazuela de San Fernando, a quiet, cafe-lined plaza set back from the bustle of the street. Mother and I sat down under a canvas umbrella at Cafe Bossanova, famous for its crepes (more on that later), and ordered coffee and tea, respectively. It was so pleasant there, quiet and cool, with a bubbling fountain and flocks of cooing pigeons. We sat there for a while, passing the heat of the day, listening to a few older men with guitars serenading diners. It was perfectly peaceful. We could have sat for hours...

When we were feeling revived and reinvigorated, ready to face the roar (albeit a farily dim one) of the main road once again, we set off toward the Mercado Hidalgo. It was quiet, really, on a Wednesday, but there were still plenty of neat things to check out. We also popped into a store selling goods from Oaxaca: beautiful beaded bracelets, colorful tin milagros, chocolate and containers of Mole paste... I'd be far better able to resist buying things here if they weren't so cheap, but as it is, I think I've really been pretty good. I haven't bought excessive amounts of tchotchkes (although it could be argued that any amout is excessive), and I never really shop for anything at home... Rationalize, rationalize!



We stopped for ears of roasted corn with lime and chile from a street vendor (yum), and then decided to go to mass at the San Diego Church, a small, gorgeous chapel. The priest, a slow stiff old man, was like the king in The Princess Bride: "Miimblewimble mummumble... Por losh shiglosdeloshfiglos Amen..." He said "vosotros," but I couldn't hear him well enought to ascertain if he was from Spain. There were few people at mass (it was a Wednesday), a few men and a group of off-key Carmelite nuns. It wa nice, though, sitting in that beautiful old church...

We actually went back to Cafe Bossanova for dinner--their crepes had sounded too tempting. While we were in mass, the sky had grown rather tempestuous--dark grey, emmitiing deep rolls of thunder now and again. We walked quickly to get there before the rain. We sat at a dim table under an umbrella, lit by a guttering candle. The wind blew through, extinguishing the flame entirely. I tried futiley to relight it. Really, though, we were fairly sheltered where we sat, looking out at the rainy, twilight plaza. We both ordered Cuitlacoche crepes. Cuitlacoche is a kind of fungus that apparenly grows only on ears of corn in Mexico, like a small, fuzzy mushroom. It's called Aztec Caviar. They were very, very good, rich and light at once, covered in a cilantro sauce. We watched the rain fall in the plazuela (or at least, it looked as though it was falling--though later the sidewalk wasn't wet at all... Strange). It was a lovely relaxed dinner, and we even went insofar as to have dessert: a "Cholobananacoco" crepe, which was, as it says, a crepe covered with chocolate, bananas, and shredded coconut.

Mother and I wound our way through the cool, shadowy streets to the subterranean bus stop. Ahead of us the Basilica loomed. In the distance mariachis sang, We hauled beck our purchases and were content.

Mother, you will note, appears in essentially all these photos--she is like the ubiquitous globe-trotting garden gnome in "Amelie."

Ojala que llueva cafe en el campo... (from 6/5)

It's not really raining coffee (nor is this really the country), but it's certainly raining. It's positively a deluge, I must say. It's been raining nearly all afternoon, with the exception of perhaps an hour or so this evening, and not just sprinkling, either. At 2 this afternoon it was sweltering--I put some laundry out to dry on the clothesline on the roof of the school, thinking, at the rate we were going, it would be dry in twenty minutes. Well, within that amount of time, drops had begun to fall quietly and innocuously, though they quickly turned a bit more serious. Can't complain, and I'm certainly not--I'm from NM; I'll take rain anytime. "It'll take all the wrinkles out of you're clothes," said Mother, who arrived for a short visit on Sunday.



After my classes this morning (we made arroz con leche [rice pudding] in my cooking class--que rico!) we went to a Cafe/Gallery space down the street called Corazon Parlante for coffee. People were bustling about, bringing in large white-washed boards, bubble-wrapped paintings, taking down the current show. They were preparing for an art opening tonight.

When we had finished our coffee, we headed down the street to catch a bus to the center of town. We had plans to go to the Ex-Hacienda San Gabriel de Barrero, and old elegant Hacienda that had been made into a museum. Walking past the elementary school, a large white something splattered suddenly directly in front of me, and then another an inch to my right. I looked up, surprised--foul pigeons. "Little wankers!" I shouted into the trees above me.

By the time our bus got downtown, it was raining buckets. We ducked into a Papeleria to buy a five-dollar umbrella. "The finest umbrellas since 1902," Said the label. Then, in smaller letters, "Made in China." Of course. Regardless, it served. We hopped on another bus labeled "Marfil," the part of town where the Hacienda was located. My guidebook had recommended telling the driver to drop you off at the Hotel Hacienda Guanajuato, otherwise the bus might not stop. Upon boarding the bus, however, I was rendered rather stupid. "We're going to the Ex-Hacienda," I told the driver. "Cual?" he asked. The Ex-hacienda de... Who?" I turned to my mother imploringly. "Ah..." she said. "We need to be dropped of at the... Where?" I asked her again. She shook her head. "Pasenle, Pasenle," said the driver. Sit down. He'd figure it out, we hoped.

The bus wound its way out of the downtown area, onto winding city roads I'd never seen. We scrutinized our map, trying to figure out where we were. We came round a big curve that looked as though it would be right before the museum. We peered out the rain-streaked windows. "Is this it?" I said. "This is it, this is it." Before we had time to say anything, though, much less stand up, the bus had sped past. "I guess not," I said. "Next one, I guess." But the road was curving and lacked sidewalks, and the next stop wasn't for a while. It was alright, we figured. The bus would proabably go in a big loop, and we'd end up where we had started. "Well," said my mother, "we're really getting the nickel tour."


Next we knew, we were actually at the bus station, were all the other passengers were getting off. "We'd better just fake it," said Mother. We stood up, too, and, once at the front of the bus, asked the driver how best to get to where we were going. He hesitated a bit, and then told us that we could stay on the bus. It would go back the way it had come. So we did. It was rather fortunate, I think, all the time we spent on the bus, because by the time we got to the Hacienda, the rain had let up a bit and we were able to walk around the lovely gardens, a half-dozen at least, each one representative of a different part of the world. There was an Asian garden, a Spanish garden, a Mexican one, of course. It started to rain again, so we went to see the Hacienda part of the museum. It was gorgeous, really, an old, old estate with three-foot-thick walls, filled with period furnishings. The owner of the original Hacienda had apparently made his considerable fortune from one of the biggest silver mines in the area.



We made our way back to the school, stopping in the Centro for a snack of yogurt, fruit and granola. It was raining again in earnest. We made dinner in our room, as we blessedly have a small kitchen--rice and eggs, simple but satisfying. We but together quite a succulent salad with jicama and an orange that we had picked from a tree a the Hacienda (I'm qute sure that was not really allowed, but... It was a fruit tree, a laden one, furthermore...) This evening we actually went to the art opening down the street, which was fun. I liked the artwork quite a bit, and the opening had drawn a good crowd, considering that it was a Tuesday nights.

Some distanst church bell has just struck eleven, and the rain seems finally to have passed. It smells lovely like damp earth, and hopefully tomorrow will be fresh and cool--but not too cool to dry my laundry.

Please forgive the delay; we are currently experiencing technical difficulties...

Namely, I spilled tea all over my laptop last night, which now, needless to say, has ceased to function. I am hoping that it will resucitate if I leave it to ddry for a while. Unfortunately, the tea had milk and honey in it, which rather adds to the element of suspense... and fear. But, I´ve got my fingers crossed. If not, I´ll have to use the school computers, which aren´t so bad, they just aren´t acceible at night or on the weekends, and I wouldn´tbe able to include any pictures... So, hopefully my computer will be all right--at any rate, I´ll do my best to keep this up to date!

Solo que quiero es un burrito...

As I made made my way downtown to see a dance performance Thursday night, I saw a pair of tourists in front of me whip out their cameras to photograph something across the street. There, in the shade of a few small trees, were tetheres four or five donkeys, all with sacks full of something tied to their backs. A short old man in a cowboy hat was going from door to door, unloading whatever it was his donkeys were carrying. Slowly, theymade their way down the street, the donkeys dusty and sweet in the evening light, and infinitely preferable to a FedEx truck as a way to make deliveries.

The dance performance I was on my way to see was that of an amateur contamporary group called Genesis. It's an art form that seems to just now be catching on in this part of the world. I, along with a few other students from my school, were some of about 20 or 30 people in the audience. The dancing itself was pretty good as well, for it being an amateur group. There was one woman, who might actually have been the choreographer/director, who was very good, seemingly entirely wrought of muscle, captivating to watch for the amount of control she had over her movements. The theather, El Teatro Principal was fun to be in. It's one of the old theaters in Gto, with and impressive facade, and a very comfortable interior--much more comfortable than the Lensic, I must say.


Thursday is apparently the day when most students go out in Gto, and a few of the girls I was with wanted to see what was happening at a bar called Zilch, run by an American couple and going out of business (that's what happens when you name your business Zilch, I suppose). The bar was dark, lit only by a few tall saint candles and rope lights, and entirely devoid of furniture. At the rear of the room sat a most curious amalgam of musicians. Seated on folding metal chairs were several men playing African drums. Behind them, on the floor, and almost invisible for the dark of the place were: a black kid with a guitar, a small woman with an accordion, a man with a clarinet, another wooman with some sort of instrument I couldn't really make out in her lap, and a bald white man with a trumpet (at left you can almost make out some of the musicians). Their music was entirely improvised, and sounded somehow snake charmer-ish. A mixture of young, hip locals and older ex-pat types danced, or mostly just observed, in the flickering light of the candles. We sat for a while on the floor, mesmerized by the beat of a bass drum. After a while, the time came for the owners to make speeches, thanking their employees, the people of the town, and promising that the endeavor to spread art and music would certainly go on. They were greeted my loud applause and the flashing of cameras. With that, the duena was hoisted in the air on a couch, one of the few furnishings in the bar, people took up the candles, and the entire group paraded throgh the streets of downtown Gto, on their way, of course, to another bar.

Yesterday I went to Leon with the director of the school, Jorge, and another American woman named Katelynn who is here helping the school update their webpage. They had some business to do there, and for some reason had asked me to accompany them, which I was glad to do--see something different, etc. Leon, a hot, industrial city, and the fifth largest in Mexico, is about 45 minutes from here. The drive was windy, as the car we were in had no air conditioning. The first stop was a restaurant that Jorge said was one of the best in Gto. state called El Rincon Gaucho. Their spaecialty was Argentinian-style slabs of meat... steaks, that is. And as far as that goes, I suppose it was quite good. I'm not big into slabs of meat, honestly, but it was well done, it was tasty.

From, we went to, of all places, Wal-Mart, bizarrely enough. Jorge needed to find an inflatable matress for his mother.Now, I don't think I've been to a Wal-Mart in the US in probably six years. I'm not a huge fan, really. Regardless, it was interesting to see a Wal-Mart in another country, to observe the diferences and similarities, see what types of food they have in the grocery section, what sort of shampoos they sell. At any rate, it was not nearly so much of a madhouse as the ones at home usually are. From there, for some reason, we stopped at a mall, a centro commercial. (Jorge had needed to get some panes of glass cut as well, but the place was closed.) Jorge for some reason thought it would be interesting for us to see, which it was, I suppose, despite the fact that I really don't like malls at all, really, something I had the good sense to refrain from saying. Again, though, it was interesting to see the similarities and differences (mostly the former, though) between that mall and American malls. Same fast foo joints, same kind of clothing shops, lots of shoe stores. The little carts in the middle of the aisles were mostly the same kinds of things: Candy, sunglasses, cell phone, Kama Sutra books--What?! No, no, you definitely don't see Kama Sutra stalls in malls in the US, or at least none that I've ever been in. This being Mexico, it was a family run sort of thing--there was a two-year-old girl sitting on the counter, hair in pigtails, flowered dress on...

We sat for a short while in the mall. Katelynn had suggested I try a mango-chile popsicle from Paleteria La Michoacana, one of the more common popsicle places in this area. It was bizarre, and very good. I can't honestly recall the last time I had had a popsicle. Not for years and years, I know. "We will have to mark this day, June 1st, as a celebration, the day when Maclovia was reintroduced to the popsicle!" said Jorge. Then, the dusty drive back to Gto, and the school, where very quickly I fell into a long slumber, despite the sounds of dogs and diesel buses that mark a Friday night.

The beat goes on... indefinitely.

Presumably because today is University Student Day here in Guanajuato, there's been a party going on at the house above and behind the school (that's how things are structured here in Gto--due to the hilly terrain, each building seems to be rather perilously perched not quite directly on top of the one below it) since about 2 this afternoon. It doesn't bother me, really; it sounds as though they're having fun, and whatever they're cooking smells good. There's essentially been a party going on throughout town since around 2 this afternoon, as far as I can tell. I ventured twice into the Centro, only to be rather overwhelmed my hordes and hordes of young people, many decked out in their finest Vaquero outfits, all heading in the opposite direction. I'm very cutting edge and daring, I suppose, battling my way through the crowds. Or foreign and lost, more likely.

Once I got downtown, having avoided being trod upon by any dangerously pointy boots, I stopped in at El Unicornio Azul, a small healthfoodish shop, where I was able to get a cup of yogurt, half an inch of honey at the bottom, piled precariously high with sliced fruit and sprinkled with granola--$1.40. I wandered around downtown for a bit, under a soft mid-afternoon sprinkle, throught the strangely quiet streets--Everyone had headed uphill, I thnk, to take part in the festivities.

I returned to the school a little before six in order to attend the intercambio: Mexican students learning English meet with us Falconians, as I suppose we might be called. We get to practice our Spanish, and they their English. It was quite fun really; I ended up staying an hour and a half talking about politics and politicians, both Mexican and American, with John, another student of Spanish, from Colorado, and a Mexican fellow, probably 30 and balding, whose name escapes me. He likes Calderon, Mexico's new president, who very narrowly defeated Lopez Obrador, the more liberal candidate; this surprised me, as I had only every heard him be slammed by Amy Goodman. As far as I'm concerned, his opinion is just as valid--he is, after all, Mexican.

After the intercambio, I again headed into the Centro to find some sort of dinner. I took a bus down, which was most likely no faster than walking, but easier. We putted past the stadium where the majority of the festivities were ocurring. It looked packed. Mariachi-style bass thumped and throbbed. I ended up eating again at Truco 7, mostly for the convinience of not having to search for somewhere else. Needless to say, it was much busier this evening, but the waiter remembered me. "Enmolejadas de queso?" he asked, impressively. I had only been in once, and he probably saw 500 people everyday. Regardless, I decided to try something different: green chile cheese enchiladas. I must say, our green chile in NM is hotter (although this place probably caters largely to tourists). Nonetheless, they were quite good. at the table across from me two Gramita-ish types (who might very well ahve been mother and daughter) were eating soup and drinking beer. When their main courses arived, they argued about sharing food, they younger one trying to putt some of her food on the older one's plate, only to have it returned. "No lo voy a acabar. Pruebelo," the younger woman urged, to no avail.

As it had grown dark by the time I was done, I opted for a taxi back to the school. On the radio played lovely, calm guitar music. The cool night air rushed in through the open window, fresh and cool (except in the tunnels, where it was flat and smelled of gasoline. Have I mentioned all the subterranean roads? Madness.).

In the distance, there is still the sound of music, the surefooted booming of the bass.