Oh Oaxaca!!

It's impossible to imagine a happier, more interesting Mexican city with friendlier people - both foreign and domestic - than Oaxaca. And the country that surrounds Oaxaca is full of its own charm - with small pueblos where indigenous artisans create stunning hand made jewelry, clothing, rugs, and pottery, and where surprises around every corner await a traveler like me.

The Bodas were the first Oaxacan surprise. Every Saturday afternoon, the Iglesia Santo Domingo in el Centro Oaxaca becomes a wedding factory - more productive and far more joyous than Las Vegas. A crowd forms outside closed doors of the the huge church at around 4:30 in the afternoon. The first clue that something will happen is a loud roar - a cheer from inside the iglesia at the end of the wedding ceremony. Doors open and out pour men and women dressed in skin tight satin, even tighter lace, and mirror sequins. Women wobble on stunningly high heels as they navigate the cobblestone square. The joy is palpable with brass bands tooting, drummers drumming, turkeys held high, and dancers of all stripes twirling while the bride and groom (sometimes two brides or two grooms) pour mezcal shots into small bamboo-like vials worn around guests' necks. Triple life sized puppets dressed like the brides and grooms lead a parade to the reception and gringoes are as much a part of the festivities as the wedding party. We are expected to smile, cheer, and take photos, as everyone marches down Calle Alcala to a final destination for an even bigger fiesta.

The Tlacolula mercado, a short drive east of Oaxaca, is a lesson in controlled chaos. Streets are filled with vendors selling rugs, jewelry, squash blossoms (the kind you eat), auto parts, and small ribbons with gold charms representing stomachs, kidneys, pregnant women, and other objects too puzzling for a gringo to describe. The purpose of said charms becomes apparent when you pass through the doors of Iglesia Santa Maria de Ascension. There, among statues of decapitated saints, is a small Jesus upon whose purple robe visitors pin ribbons with the aforementioned charms in the shape of various internal organs. The idea is to ask Jesus to heal friends and family who are ailing, to make love happen, or to bring babies to a couple trying to become pregnant. Magic is alive in Mexico where wishes just need to be acknowledged so they can be granted, and the beliefs of early indigenous cultures are woven into catholic dogma to show that even saints can lose their heads if ever they doubt

Although chaos is a constant, the Tlacolula mercado has two faces, One face is characterized on weekdays by a small and friendly community of locals, mainly women.  Here, abuelas (grandmas) are honored with distinctive ribbons woven into their hair and EVERYONE knows everyone else. Hugs are handed out and gossip shared while women pick through mountains of beans and piles of pungent chilis.

Abuela

Mercado magic is magnified on Sunday mornings when Mixtec, Zapotec, and people from other indigenous communities sell fresh chickens, sweet and savory breads, produce, and homemade delicacies like Barbacoa (goat or lamb cooked underground in coals) served "dry" with lime and an array of salsas or "wet" in a rich and delicious stew. The meal can be finished with a fruity and brilliantly red ice cream made from Cochineal bugs gathered from nopal cactus. It is perfectly balanced when served on top of a rich scoop of Mexican vanilla helado. Exchanges at the Sunday mercado just get more lively and interesting as the day progresses.

Tortillas and breads are fresh made by hand. But from time to time not everyone agrees on the quality or the conversation that accompanies the sale.

Customers can buy just a few peanuts (cacahuetes), pumpkin seeds (semillas de calabasa) or crunchy, salty crickets (chapulines) to sample. 

Semillas being shelled by the wind

Alternatively, local families carry out massive amounts of fresh made masa for making homemade tamales. I learned to make my favorite tamales from a fabulous Zapotec cook in Teotitlan. Under Reyna's careful direction, two other gringos and I wrapped each tamale in banana leaves that enclosed a thin layer of silky masa topped with rich dark mole negro and Oaxacan cheese or shreaded chicken. Once in its packet, we tied the tamales closed with corn husk strips like presents before  they were steamed. Scrumptious!

Vendors at the mercados wear traditional dress. Zapotec women wear beautiful aprons embroidered with flowers in all colors of the rainbow. This woman in her beautiful lacy blouse was from another indigenous community.

Meat is butchered fresh, delicious chorizo hangs from stands in fat links, and chickens are sold alive so they make especially tender soups (sopas) or other tasty dishes.

The world outside of Oaxaca is...well...a different world. Hierve al Agua is the home of a petrified waterfall - a stunning limestone cliff formed by slow drips of water that trickle over the edges of sky blue pools making perfect clifftop swimming holes on warm days.

A short drive north of Oaxaca, San Augustin Etla blows cool mountain breezes over a weary traveler like me. Originally a factory town where yarn was made, Zapotec artist and Oaxacan arts patron, Francisco Toledo, transformed it into a community for other artists - giving creative people studio spaces in the repurposed factory and gallery that sits on a hill above the town. It was the perfect place for a getaway on a hot day in the city, and even with most studios empty during the Omicron surge, A friend and I found artists making paper using crystal clear water from an ancient aqueduct. 

Yesterday and today...

Eric and me in Puerto Vallarta in 2020 before his cancer diagnosis 

Shortly before leaving for Oaxaca, I discovered a card that Eric gave me many years ago. He had painted a rough circle and a crescent on the card's cover, and under it, he wrote, "I love you like the sun must love the moon." There is no replacing such deep and everlasting love from the romantic husband who made me laugh every day, but the people of Oaxaca introduced me to a new gentle vision of love that also fills my heart.

The morning crew and my Spanish language coaches

Each February day when I awoke in my little room at the perfect B&B, La Betulia. I'd join other travelers at the big outdoor table for freshly squeezed mandarin, orange/beet, or verde juice, homemade tortillas, salsas, and jams served up with a creative hot Oaxacan breakfast prepared the night before by our talented chef Diana and served by my Spanish coaches, Rosita, Patricia, Juanita, and Lori. Despite my stumbles, they suffered through my questions about what they had made, Quê haciste esta mañana? (notice my flawless use of hacer in the past tense!) Not only did they reply, but they patiently waited for me to formulate my next question and they worked as a team to pass through a fog of Spanglish to my intent.  

On one of my final days in Oaxaca, Evelio, a friend of La Betulia's manager, Daniel, and our frequent guide and taxi driver, proposed a trip high in the mountains to the pueblo, Santiago Apoala. We left early in the morning, and drove almost three hours to a small village where we could hike to a beautiful waterfall. Evelio is second only to Eric in his ability to talk for hours during a car ride. He insisted I speak Spanish, and the long trip gave me plenty of time to reach into the recesses of my brain for just the right words. Once at Apoala, Evelio and I shared a caldo of fresh, free range chicken soup while local people prepared goat for Barbacoa and neighbors gently shaved hair from a slaughtered pig's snout and hooves outside the back door - all for a Carnival celebration the next day. We hired Kevan, a 13-year old guide for the day and then set off into a lush oasis nestled between huge valley-framing limestone cliffs. First we crossed a clear stream to reach a cave with pictographs, and then we navigated a sharply twisting trail down to the promised waterfall. It was a wonderful day and by the end, Kevan had pumped Evelio dry of advice about becoming an adult guide and taxi driver.

Evelio and me at the Apoala waterfall

Barbacoa  and Carnitas for Carnival

Evelio called our route home from Apoala the "Oaxaca shortcut," but it was no road for street cars. We bumped along laughing while his little taxi showed how tough she was, and after a few false starts,  Mexico worked its magic again when a shepherd's directions showed us our path   

Driving back to La Betulia, I told Evelio about grieving in the midst of my efforts to move forward. He understood and said gratitude would be the key to a good life - daily offerings will help, and following Evelio's advice, I'll  celebrate Eric's life in November on the Day of the Dead by burning copal crystals to create a smoky path from our home and my heart to where he'll find everlasting peace.

With gratitude for my Oaxaca friends:

Daniel

Diana

Double Trouble

Evelio and Teresa

Juanita

Karen & Ben

Lena & Tami

Memo

Minwah

Molly & Julian

Patricia

Rosita

Su and the Mexican guys at the Mezcal bar who bought pulque for us on our birthdays

Two sets of Suzys and Steves

Inline skaters, helado vendors, Zumba teachers in Parque el Llano

and many more including my lavanderia lady, the local dogs, and the abuela who greeted me every day with "hola, buenos dias" and sold me small bags of peanuts with chilis.

Thank you Oaxaca!

 

 

Laughing Waters

If you are up for an excursion in Mexico, and if there is a critical mass of Mexicans on board, be ready to dive right into the festivities. - or be thrown, your choice. The natives won’t have it any other way.

So, for instance, if you find yourself on a boat on its way to an island in the middle of a lake near mountainous Patzcuaro, with a couple dozen Mexicans on board, be ready to sing, dance, or at the very least clap along with whatever is happening. You won’t be able to retreat into that safe corner of Anglo Saxon stony-ness that many of us carry around for just such occurrences. You’re on, buddy and the more the chaos, the merrier.

So, there we were, our Anglo Saxonness torn to shreds, on a slow boat to Janitzio Island trying desperately to come up with something to sing, competently, in Spanish. Ah hah! La Bamba! The Mexican contingent vaulted into the music, hands clapping, feet stomping, and, even though our translations were shaky and our voices froglike, it didn’t matter anymore. We could have been singing Beethoven’s Ninth and no one would notice, just so long as we clapped and stomped in time.

That was Patzcuaro for us, the beginning of a party that pretty much lasted until we climbed on a plane for Portland. By the time we had left Guanajuato, we were ready for a change. Lynn had wrapped up five hard weeks of language school and Eric was recovering from the self-imposed isolation that comes with writing a book. And, despite our great experiences with Rogelio and son Emilio, we felt the urge to explore. Patzcuaro was the perfect antidote: just a beautiful, small, mountain town with a few Gringos milling about, but mostly just Mexican folks going about their business – just the way we like it.

We showed up on a Sunday evening as things were winding down in the zocalo, but there was still enough time to sip margaritas and watch the kids getting horse and family bike rides around the square while a local dance group spun through the crowd, drums beating. It was clear and cool and kind of perfect.

The next morning, with exploration on our minds, we located a cab driver that we had “interviewed” the night before on our way in from the bus station. He was Adrian Guzman, he spoke excellent English and had been born in the area, so we asked him to, essentially, take over our itinerary for the day. While it is always helpful to have a guide who can speak at least some English, when we have someone like Adrian, though, it really enhances the experience because we can get into the subtleties of what to do and see without having to just roll the dice and hope for the best.

Eric guapo in a handmade Patzcuaro hat

Adrian played his role perfectly. Thanks to him, we spent an entire day touring the lakeside pueblos near Patzcuaro, seeing master weavers, hat makers and mask makers plying their skills. All the while, Adrian was able to fill us in on the history of the area - as well as show us some of the most unusual pyramids we had yet seen in Mexico. These were the remaining public structures from the Tarasco people, who as Adrian explained, had never capitulated to the other conquering tribes like the Aztecs, but instead had maintained their mountain kingdom, unvanquished, until the arrival of the Spaniards. The sites of the main city are beautifully laid out and strategically placed to have a full 360 view of the surrounding lowlands- as well as having total command of the heights. The pyramid structures are unusual for Mexico, employing curved walls and abutments that are elegant and strong. 

We expected there would be busloads of people at the sites, but, as it happened, we were there with perhaps a half dozen Mexican tourists. We finished the day up with a promise that we would visit one of the islands in the lake- Janitzio.

The lanchas for the island are all within a short collectivo ride from Patzcuaro’s main square. Once you plunk your pesos down, you are in for the aforementioned party. The plan is simple: take the boat to the island, observe the traditional fishermen just outside the bay (who pose for photos then put down their nets and collect pesos from the photographers), land on the island, find a place to eat, climb the steep stairway to the statue of Hidalgo at more or less the top of the island, through bodega after bodega, street vendors waiting in good natured ambush, music, food and drink.  Boom. That’s it. That’s the whole enchilada. The climb was hard in the hot weather and the view station on top was closed by the time we got there, but never mind. We found ourselves just laughing at it all: the lancha named Titanic, the street musicians who are going to play you a song while you are eating WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT. A church with a bleeding Jesus covered with US dollars (still haven’t figured that one out), then the ride back with Mexican tourists who have been spectacularly overserved – hence the music, etc.

A puzzle - Jesus has dollars!

Before we knew it, Patzcuaro was in the rearview mirror and we were bound for an entirely different Mexico than we had experienced before: Gringo Fantasy Island.

View of Barra de Navidad from our little hotel

First stop: Barre de Navidad. Sunning, surfing, fishing, snorkeling, lanchas back and forth from fancy American and Canadian hotels, plenty of street vendors, good food, if a bit more spendy. Our budget hotel, El Delfin, was quiet and comfortable with a small swimming pool for the hot afternoons at $36/night. The beach was clean and it was the usual scene of thatched palapas in front of rows of seafood restaurants. There’s plenty to like about this place for just plain relaxation, but, at least to us, it didn’t have much of a Mexican feel to it. Sadly, Lynn’s brave attempt at snorkeling near the cliff rocks resulted in her collecting cut up feet as she found herself having to struggle against the tide to get back to shore. Eric, completely oblivious and ensconced in his palapa kingdom, was too busy operating a piña colada to notice his beloved’s dire straits. Typical.

They let the poor travelers order breakfast here!

The expat touring wagon

On the recommendation of friends we left Barre De Navidad to visit La Manzanilla, where we had booked an AirBnB. While the beach was excellent there as well, we found our accommodations too uncomfortable to stick around very long. What we did manage was some excellent swimming in water that was warm enough and with enough salinity for us to float effortlessly on our backs - just sliding over the waves as they rolled toward the beach. Heaven.

La Manzanilla swimming heaven

Finally, with just a few days left, we took a cab to Puerto Vallarta (PV). Thanks to the incredible generosity of two of our Portland neighbors, we were given the use of a sixth-floor condominium for our stay. 

Living the high life!

It was a huge condo that occupied the entire floor, so the two of us, used to mosquito nets, no AC, and double beds, were enraptured. Puerto Vallarta is, for all practical purposes, an American/Canadian resort pretty much staffed by Mexican people. As we mentioned before in a previous blog, this arrangement doesn’t seem to lend itself to the kind of contact that we had grown to enjoy. But, there was certainly plenty to do.

We decided, in fact, to take one last snorkeling trip out to Islas Las Marietas national park, some miles from PV. Once again, we found ourselves on a lancha filled with Mexicans. Chaos and hilarity ensued.

The excursion was all inclusive: breakfast and lunch, free alcoholic drinks, snorkeling, stand up surfing lessons, kayaking, and a “special” trip to a romantic beach. After a puzzling convoluted session with getting through the port – you pay some kind of tax and then stand in a long line -we climbed aboard a party boat, along with a few American and Canadians, and a load of Mexican tourists and headed out on lumpy waters for the promised island paradise. 

First up: snorkeling. Basically, the goal of snorkeling in Mexico is to not drown despite your own best efforts and that of the ocean and the creatures therein. Also, to see some really cool fish. To accomplish these goals, the Mexican crew put us all in PFDs, jammed about 16 of us in a 10-passenger transport, then motored us to a somewhat nondescript patch of water and yelled SALTA!  JUMP! Had the boat been filled with flexible young folk, steady on their feet and moderately coordinated, this would not have been a problem. But, considering that about half of the people in our tippy little raft were well past their days of youth and flexibility, the mass exit turned, well, ugly. For one thing, it is a much more complicated affair than one might think to hoist oneself out of a boat that seems to be on the very edge of capsizing at any moment. Add to that the rather bulky and unsteady elderly jubilado or jubilada trying to break down his or her exit into a series of dignified and safe steps, and disaster is bound to ensue. Ultimately, everyone made it out of the boat, but in a variety of attitudes. One rather large woman, simply stood up and fell face forward over the gunnels, creating a tsunami that hurled several other large passengers tits-over-teakettle into the water on the opposite side. The Mexican sailors just smiled. Once in the water, we were ordered to follow one particular fellow who was responsible for accounting for us - dead or alive. We promptly lost track of him until, through a series of well-timed screams and shouts, he managed to collect us all for a ragged, but interesting tour of the island’s coral reef. The return to the skiff was facilitated by a ladder, but almost everyone got tossed back on board.

While that might have been enough adventure for some of the passengers, we were not done. There was the compulsory visit to the romantic beach, which was already pretty much filled to capacity by another tour boat that showed up around the time we did. Nevertheless, the Mexican crew was adamant. We were going to the goddamn romantic beach and we were going to LIKE IT. And how were we to get there? Surprise! Our friendly and oh so deadly skiff motored alongside. As luck would have it, the same folks who chose to go snorkeling also thought it would be a good idea to see a romantic beach. So, a terrifying loading process began, with the skiff slamming the side of the party boat as it rode the waves up and down. Again, us passengers found interesting ways to slither, crawl, leap, into the boat. Once therein, it was explained to us that it was too hazardous for the skiff to pull up on the beach, so we would have to jump out in the water about 20 yards away and swim to it – through a rippy tide, sharp rocks, and a dumping surf. 

So, once again, we all went overboard and swam for our lives. Getting everyone on the island was a team building exercise at its finest. And, at last, there we were on the romantic island of …… penguins. Well, not real penguins but humans that were doing a credible impression. The romantic island, like some bird breeding ground, was chockful of people all jostling for their one romantic picture of hugging and kissing in the surf, moments before being bashed against the rocks. Then, on command, the skiff reappeared, and we were ordered into the water again to negotiate the terrifying surf to the boat. It was like trying to climb onto a demented rocking chair. 

Humpback whale show

Again, the Mexican sailors just smiled. Somehow, with a few minor injuries and our dignity reduced to shreds, we remounted and roared back to the party boat, where everyone was immediately medicated with strong drink and entertained by the crew who decided to crank up the music and pole dance all the way back to port.

Booby fishing

It was a special kind of crazy, to hell with it, makes no sense, type of fun. We met a wonderful couple of Brazilian doctors, cracked jokes with the crew, got tipsy, watched whales fight and breach, saw yellow footed boobies soar and dive for fish, took pictures and, basically, did what we were told. Perfect!

Luckily, we had almost all the next day to recover before we hopped on a late flight back to Portland. We’ve decided that we’re (probably) going to hold off on visiting Mexico for a while. We love the place and undoubtedly, we always will. But there is just so much more of the world that we want to see. To try to summarize what Mexico has meant to us would require many more blogs and, no matter what, would feel incomplete. We sincerely hope that, if we’ve managed to do nothing else, that we have, at least, made Mexico worth a second look. There is so much here!

The Mexican Onion and the Man on the Bench

Start peeling the Mexican onion and the first layer you find is what we call Brochure Mexico: fantasy pictures of quiet beaches, quasi-naked sun gods and goddesses disporting on empty white sand beaches. And, with the exception of weekends, few Mexicans. Puerto Vallarta’s beaches, for the most part, are Gringoland Fantasy Island.

Dos Americanos in Puerto Vallarta

The reality, in such a place, beautiful as it is, seems to be that the Mexican/ Gringo relationship is one of caretaking i.e. the Mexicans take care of the gringos – clean the houses, wait the tables, drive the taxis, massage the bellies and backs. Meanwhile the Americanos and Canadianos roast like chickens in the sun, eat and drink, swim, surf and fish and otherwise keep to themselves. The Mexicans do the same. No need for Spanish here. Practically everyone can speak English.

Take off another layer in, say a city like San Miguel De Allende, you may find a similar hierarchy - though there are fewer English speakers among the natives. This layer requires at least a 20 or 30-word Spanglish vocabulary and some interaction with the locals to navigate to bathrooms, order stuff from menus, hail a taxi to a Pueblo Magico. Possibly, here, there is some cultural exchange: friendships, charities and other good works that are maintained by both populations. Still, it’s the gringos more or less on top, more or less cloistered in ex-pat barrios.

 

Christmas Mass in Guanajuato

One more layer down you might begin to feel like a stranger if you cling to English only. The working cities like Oaxaca or Guanajuato, or San Cristobal seem to have fewer ex-pats, more interaction with the locals. It helps to have minimal fluency. For those who can manage the Spanish, there are lots of opportunities for integration. You can blend in and just be a dude or dudette. You can hop a collectivo out to a small village, chat with other passengers, get a bit of inside info on places to go and things to see, comfortably explore the scene. Here you can crack a joke and get a laugh from a native and, in general, really begin to practice the cultural fluency that is essential to Mexico: when to use the formal tense, when it’s OK to hug, what you can talk about and what you should avoid talking about.

Tzintzuntzan cemetery after Dios de los Muertos

Then you come to the tender skin: the small villages, some of the pueblos magicos like Tzintzuntzan, Cuetzalan or Pátzcuaro, and communities that are tucked deep into mountains and jungles where even Spanish might be the second language.

Masked dancer from Tocuaro

Here, you can feel like you are standing on the moon. Here you can meet a man who fights the devil every night outside his village (after a few shots of mezcal). Here you trek to a secret waterfall in the jungle passing still buried ruins of ancient cities. Here you see the brujo for illness and realignment with the universe. Here is the place of smiles, nods, open palms, birds, jaguars, monkeys and mosquito nets. There is not much else, but it can feel like everything.

Eric employs the "wedge"

To negotiate all of these places, we’ve tried to put together a “wedge” over the last few years - some way in. For Gringoland, the first layer, there’s not much we feel we can do. The patterns of interaction seem fairly well set. It’s fine. No judgment here. it’s what some people want and that’s completely cool with us.  So long as the conduct is respectful, there’s not a thing wrong with a margarita under a palapa, a few steps away from a coral reef that you can snorkel to.

But to lift those first layers, to get a little further in, we employ our wedge on cab drivers, street vendors, and what we call the Wise Old Men. By now, both of us have developed a patter by which we can move, carefully, a little closer. After a few formalities, we ask about family – always family- and listen carefully to what they say. Invariably, the pictures come out. The stories begin, the hopes and fears find expression. We exchange. It’s a manipulation, for sure, but one we think is well intentioned. We really want to know and we just can’t figure out any other way to start the fire.

$1000 MX - $55 US hired Adrian & his taxi for a full day tour & conversation about the Patzcuaro pueblos 

Now and then we get lucky and spot a congregation of Wise Old Men. In a city like, say, Puebla or Merida, we migrate to the zocalo – the main square. Usually, if we are there at the right time of day, we’ll see them: tables shoved together, a cloud of cigar smoke, laughter, maybe five or six or ten caballeros all talking at once. Slyly, we pull up a chair at table nearby and wait, like predators, for our chance. Sometimes all it takes is a smile and a nod and, Boom, we’re in. Or, failing that, Lynn might whip out her trusty camera and ask permission for a photo (she plays the white-haired tourist so well, saying "guapo!" to charm the men). One way or another, we buzz them like flies until they invite us in or swat us away. No telling what will transpire, but it’s usually served up with laughter. One guy once asked Lynn to help him contact an old girlfriend somewhere in Oregon (she tried but no luck), or another time several WOM conferred with Eric over local cures for UTIs (corn silk was voted most likely to succeed). Most often these folks are fire hoses of information that we can only dip into.

Rogelio, Emilio, and Eric in Morelia

And then, once in an azul moon, you find the Man on the Bench, as we did this time in Guanajuato (GTO). He was Rogelio, a trade and customs lawyer, fluent in English, familiar with Oregon, hilarious story teller, who just happened to be sitting on a bench in Plaza Maxiamora – near our casita – when we attacked. Before long, we were making plans for a dinner with his 15-year old son Emilio. Within a week, we had met several times and, over drinks, one night, Rogelio suggested an outing to a museum near Morelia, a town a few hours from Guanajuato. He mentioned there was some art by Picasso and Goya, which sounded great to us. We had no idea what we were about to experience…

On a hill, just outside Morelia, stands a museum, Museo Centro Cultural Tres Marias, devoted to one

Original Picasso

subject only: bullfighting. At the entrance, there is a 20-ft tall sculpture of a mounted picador, to his side is a perfectly rendered bronze fighting bull. Inside the entrance, there is a long, brilliantly colored mural that depicts in abstract forms the stages of the bullfight. Already we were feeling awestruck. The museum appeared to be closed, but instead, we discovered that a private tour had been arranged for us conducted by the museum curator, Moises, and his assistant. We were, along with Rogelio, the invited guests of Don Salvator Ferrer, the patron and founder of the museum. We had sensed some tentativeness from Rogelio when he extended the invitation and now we understood why. Bullfighting is a controversial, but nevertheless, fundamental component of Mexican art and folklore (the opera Carmen, for example). To Rogelio, who is an aficionado, this place is holy ground. And, not surprisingly, rather low key since bullfighting has been banned in much of Latin America. Even when it is open to the public, there are not huge crowds waiting to get in and, it seems, Don Salvator, would prefer to keep it that way – a place for those who want to understand how this ritual contest between man and animal is, and has always been, an art form that has evolved through the centuries and has ignited the passions of Picasso, Goya, Dali, and a host of other painters, sculptors, and performers.

We were first ushered into an enormous (23,000 volume) research library that contained books dating back centuries. These volumes traced the evolution of bullfighting, bull breeding and lineage and even included books and articles on medical techniques for saving the lives and limbs of gored toreadors – and luckless spectators.

Bronze horse brought to Tres Marias from Bilbao in Spain

From there, we were taken into the various galleries of the museum, which is enormous. There are capes, swords, and muletas, from famous bullfighters like Manolete and Dominguin. There are one of a kind Aztec renderings of the first bullfights – which were much more like gladiatorial games. In other galleries are stuffed bulls and their breeding history, decorated like fallen heroes, with the killing blow of the recibiendo, still visible on their backs. And then hall after hall of Spanish and Mexican painters and their renderings of all the different aspects of the art form, including flamenco dance depictions- and of course Carmen, once again.

But then, as if this overwhelming argument for the validity of the art form wasn’t enough, we came to the Goyas and the Picassos. These were not prints or reproductions. These were the originals. There were 28 Goyas, arranged in the sequence of a bullfight from the first third (tercero), where the torero sizes up the bull using a cape and covered wooden stick, to the second third, where the bull is stimulated, but not injured, with banderillas, to the final third (muerte) where the torero and the bull fight to the death. It is a stunning display – one which would be sufficient to draw crowds to any museum in the world.

And then, Picasso. A room the size of a small single story house given over to his paintings, ceramics, sketches devoted to bullfighting.  There is even a traje de luces (suit of lights) that Picasso stitched and embroidered, entirely by hand, for the bull fighter, Dominguin. To see this much of such a master’s work was overwhelming. One could spend days in this room alone. We doubt there is anything like it in the world.

Before we knew it, the day was over. Moises, had one last surprise for us: a gorgeous book that contained the story of the museum’s creation and a number of reprinted paintings and posters and a Skype session with Don Salvator who thanked us for the visit. We could not, in our craziest dreams, imagined a more perfect day.

As our days in Guanajuato wound down, we saw both Rogelio (now Roy, to us) and Emilio for drinks, chess games and, as a last beautiful gesture, and invitation to their home for drinks and dinner. This, above all, was the most intimate time we had ever spent in Mexico passing the time with both of these new friends and their sweet dog Laika.

A paddler in the cemetery?

Beautiful masks in Pátzcuaro

But, alas, we had further to fly. By the next day, after long goodbyes and promises to stay connected, we left Guanajuato for Pátzcuaro, a small village by a lake and our adventures took yet another amazing turn.