Guadalajara had ended on such a positive note (see previous posts for undeniable evidence to this effect), that in a small way, I felt a little sad about splitting town for the much sleepier Unesco World Heritage city of Guanajuato. Still, we’d been given every indication that "GTO”, as it’s known (all the Mexican cities/towns we’ve visited thus far have had this abbreviated sort of nickname, though I can’t imagine Pontiac [are they still even alive?] would have a beef with any others), was a can’t-miss Mexican must-see and we dared not defy all those well-intentioned hyphenations.
Immediately upon our arrival to the town center, we were smitten. It reminded me of the Italian Riviera, with wildly colored homes dotting the slopes of the surrounding mini-mountain range, later spilling out into the nestled valley of red roofs, church steeples and dappled clotheslines. It didn’t hurt either when the cabbie pointed out the local baseball team’s stadium, though I was bummed to later learn we’d only just missed the ending of the Mineros’ (Miners) season. Maybe next year, boys…
We’d arranged for lodging in the closest thing to a hostel we’d experienced, and though its brother owners were most helpful and kind, and the place itself— described in our Lonely Planet as “a labyrinth of various sized rooms”— certainly lived up to its billing, our matrimonial bunk bed (that’s what they call a queenish-sized bed around here, evidently) underwhelmed in the sort of way that made these weary travelers not look forward to sleep for once. What’s more, the way sound carried in that place was freaking ridiculous. I suppose it didn’t help that our first morning there coincided with a parade commemorating the 100th anniversary of the first victory in Mexico’s war for independence (from Spain; read Sally’s post mentioning El Pípila for the scoop) complete with an endless drum-heavy marching band, jets, helicopters (I swear I heard both jets
and helicopters), bullhorns
plus the next door neighbor’s frigging rooster collection who’d been on the job since dawn. By the time we got out of bed and down to the street to find out what had been going on, all that was left was pastel confetti and horseshit. Must’ve been a good party.
Guanajuato was sights- and activities-rich, and we were good little tourists during our time there. One “highlight” was the Mómias Museum, where, when the local cemetery had gotten too full, bodies that were excavated to make room for the new were found to be highly preserved by the high lime and calcium concentrations in the soil. Bodies that went unclaimed by relatives (yes, babies included :\) were turned into part of an attraction, really, complete with weird first-person blurbs accompanying each mummy speculating as to how they’d died or who they’d been in life. We’d been warned a sense of humor would be necessary, but I still left this place feeling unsettled and a little pukey.
I don't suppose a little extra barf would've bothered him.
Another less, well, disgusting site of interest was the Bocamina San Ramón, where Sally and I descended over 60 meters into the metal-rich earth for which the area has been well-known since the mid-1500s. Besides the dorky, über-posed photos our tour guide made us take (and I mean he instructed us as to what to do to. the. letter.— it felt more than a little bit voyeuristic), the best bit had to be when, upon reaching the deepest point of the tour, homeboy shut the lights out(!). To prove a point, he flicked on a little lighter and demonstrated how early miners had to go about searching for their target (though for accuracy’s sake, I don’t think Bic Corp. really got up and running until at least the 18th century…).
Sííí, that's just right... *click*
Despite these and a number of other worthy and interesting cultural attractions, I think our favorite part of our time there had everything to do with a couple of no-good rotten bums we met from (now think
Anchorman here:) Sahn Di-ah-go (Hola Veronica y Chris!). We met them one evening on the terrace at Casa Bertha (if this place had one thing right, it was the view from the terrace), having brought home our first take-out pizza of the trip. They offered beers; we surplus ‘za, and the friend fest was on.
You see, Veronica had this habit of making these really delicious breakfasts and, for some reason, inviting us to join! So each morning we’d look forward to getting up, getting
out of our bed, and heading up to the terrace where these two would have the spread on: two (2) different kinds of juice, fresh-brewed Chiapas coffee, yummy guavas and the makings of another lovely meal. These events would usually take a couple of our best-spent hours of the day, which we filled up listening to and talking about music (Sally’s best idea in the packing portion of our trip was to bring her little iPod speakers— true brilliance in foresight), discussing baseball, the many merits of living in California (but also the quality of the Midwest [Chris was from St. Louis and knows the deal]!), philosophies on life and living, and projections for how we all might live and work someday in Mexico. These guys introduced us to probably the best burgers we’ve had in Mexico (if only we knew what was in that carrot/cactus topping or whatever— wait!— maybe that was it!), eggs so fresh you could still smell the chicken’s ass (evidently), and about as nice of a time as we could’ve imagined having in GTO. Of course, these all-too-brief traveling relationships always seem to end too soon, but this one was a goodie, and I’m hopeful we’ll meet again— perhaps even back in ol’ Mexico.
When we split town for San Miguel de Allende (more magical stories to follow there, fo’ sho’), we had drinks in the town square and arranged to meet up in a few days in SMA (again, another nickname and another story to follow…). It was sad to split, but when I think and talk of Guanajuato, I’ll think of us and them.
Salud, dudes!
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