OPEN DOORS,OPEN ARMS

TAPALPA. Pueblo Magico. Climbing the mountain road in our car we finally rose above the smoky clouds left by fields burned in preparation for planting soon, to find the “land of colors.” White washed adobe buildings with wooden doors and beams, sun bleached terra cotta rooftops and deep red (burgundy) trim. Blue sky and emerald forests – oh, I do miss my evergreens back in NC! Two hours from Ajijic…if you don’t lose your way on your first Mexican road trip. Our GPS barely spoke to us. But in the end she took us right to the door of our Airbnb. (ALERT: This is a long post!)

The town is lazy, friendly and calm. Quaint. There are cars and motorcycles and lots of 4-wheelers, practical for the hilly, slow-going cobblestone streets. So much to explore. People to see. Photos to be taken. The evening light hits the door frames and the people inside them and I capture them for future reference.

We head for Paulino’s Restaurante, well known and familiar to us from our first trip here a year ago. Chard tamales, thick handmade corn tortillas, nopal (cactus) salad and white beans. Our waiter Gerardo speaks perfect English though he’s happy to speak Spanish with me if I like. We’ll mix it up. He is from Tapalpa but worked for many years in the US driving trucks for Mayflower. He knows his way around and is so happy to hear we’re from North Carolina. Tar Heels? he says with a big smile. I am a Tar Heel fan! Connected.

We wander off finding side streets to explore – Rick Steves would be so proud! Encounters with locals always thrill me. The lady with the carefully packaged, freshly made cake passes by twice then on the third time she has no cake. “Donde esta el pastel?” I ask. She smiles mischieviously and shrugs her shoulders. Her reply is beyond my current Spanish. Returning to our temporary home we pass by an open gate to the old town chapel. Three generations of Mexican women exit as we pass. I smile at the elder of the three and say Buenos tardes. She returns the greeting with her own shy smile. We follow them inadvertently and watch as they stop to greet an amigo standing in his doorway marked “F. Studio”. The greetings exchanged are sweet and kind. It is obvious they know each other. He is tall and handsome and neatly dressed. Photo op.

In the early morning trucks rumble up the streets while dogs bark and roosters crow. Familiar Mexican sounds. The sun rises somewhere and lights up the day, the horizon edged with pine covered mountains and the distinctive cone of the Colima volcano, one of two active volcanoes in Mexico. Someone has taken a brush and splashed the pale blue morning sky with white clouds. From the terrace I see a neighbor’s laundry hanging under the outline of the volcanic cone. A motorcycle putts by, its driver in full yawn. A sheep bleats somewhere in the maze of humble homes on this hill. Horses clip along. There is contradiction and irony everywhere you turn in Mexico. Our place is ultra modern, created from shipping containers encased in horizontal wooden slats parted by numerous windows and sliding glass doors. The interior is gray and sleek. The music blasting from the passing trucks shakes the very glass of this place. The room darkening shades keep the light out but nothing can harness the noise of Mexico.

The “corn lady” acts like we are old amigas. Elote mirador con chili? Purple corned grilled and served with mild chili powder, salt and lime juice. Yum! The little girl in the window helps her Abuela (grandmother). She smiles shyly and holds a pose as I click my phone camera. Days later, on the street, Abuela will throw me a big smile and ask if I am well. The man across the street stokes the fire for roasting meat for the restaurant he fronts and takes my meager Spanish with a huge grin. He responds in perfect English. Above the plaza in a corner wedge sits a freshly painted restaurante – La Cuachala/Gastronomia Regional. I’m drawn to it immediately and for good reason. Past the juice stand and the clean wooden tables with red plastic chairs are three women behind a counter jammed with Mexican terra cotta pots. Two of them are creating handmade tortillas while the third organizes the counter. A customer who is surely a friend to them waves me in and begins lifting lids, naming each taco-filling mixture as she does. The jugo de naranja (freshly squeezed orange juice) I take away is perhaps the best ever. My quick encounter reveals a sparkling clean, organized enterprise with much to offer. I will return.

Meandering along known and unknown streets, poking my head into doorways, peaking through holes, snapping pictures, people grin and reply earnestly when I speak to them. We find the artisan shop with pine needle baskets, rompope, preserved fruits, simple clay dishes, embroidery, caps and scarves knitted from local wool, but the booth we came for, paper mache decorations made by children with special needs, is not open. We wander by a row of simple tourist driven shops and take a side street. More discoveries! The Mercado Municipal, a Oaxacan restaurant, a European style cheese shop. There, propped up against a wall is a poor, dirty man perhaps sleeping it off. Beyond him a Mexican gentleman begs pardon as he steps by us into the shop, but his wife turns toward us. She speaks in Spanish and is obviously delighted with the quaint little town. She understands un poco English, having traveled from Los Angeles. I wish for better Spanish skills as we part. She would be an interesting conversationalist I believe. Un otra tiempo.

Tired of eating so much meat we go in search of vegetables. Funny that they are so hard to find in restaurants when they are so plentiful in the markets. YELP leads us across the plaza to La Villa. We have seen it packed before but at the moment we are the only customers. Alfredo, our waiter, speaks perfect English, having worked in the US for many years. He understands our dilemma and promises to influence the chef! Stir fry with chicken, broccoli and zucchini. Brocheta with beef, apple, plantains, peppers and onions. Oh my. His cafe Americano is delicious, the mugs beautiful. He would sell me one, he says, if only they would arrive from Tonala.

Around the corner of the plaza we find vendors with pitayas. We’d seen them being sold by the roadside in the valley but had no idea what they were. Fruit from the pipe organ cactus, which explains why there were so many cacti growing by the highway. Fields of them. Some 30′ high. Turns out families come from far away to work the farms and sell the produce. The fruits are stunning colors of tomato red, raspberry, and pale lime green, each with its own flavor. The texture is somewhat like a kiwi, complete with small black seeds, and they are reportedly full of anti-oxidants and vitamins. The tough part is getting the spines off before splitting them open.

Friday – another day in the village. We are both smitten. This time we walk past the center of town, finding quiet streets and few people. An old cocker spaniel makes its way to the door of an alteration shop and plops down on the sidewalk while keeping an eye on me. It is the elderly shop owners I want to photograph, but, embarrassed as they step out, I ask to photograph the dog. One lady steps quickly in front of him with firm “instruction” that I interpret as “leave him alone, he’s old” so I click a shot of the two ladies instead and offer my thanks.

So many fascinating, lovely entryways behind slightly open gates. Lovely gardens, tranquil visions of what may lay inside. Contradictions in wood and plaster. Dilapidated tile roofs with solar panels or TV discs on top. Old buildings mixed with new. On a back street of dirt and cobblestone I feel I am home and tears well up. Have I been here before? In some other life?

We stop by La Villa again for coffee. Ben steps away for an important call. I feel something drop onto my leg but see nothing at first. Looking down I see a baby wren, fallen from the nest. One leg obviously broken. The waiter steps over to speak to me and understands the problem. He gently lifts the tiny bird and carries it across the street, placing it the crook of a tree. Perhaps its mother will find it. But I doubt it will live. So sad.

Lunch today is at La Cuachola, the small women’s restaurant in the corner. The language barrier is tough and the young cook is reluctant to use Google Translate. We end up with six tacos and the end of the morning pitcher of OJ. These tacos are the best we’ve ever eaten! Attempting to pay ruffles the language feathers again and Ben calls me in to help. The young woman smiles when I say “Delicioso!” and points to a poster behind her. She is proud that an international hang gliding competition has just taken place here and they too said her tacos were “Delicioso!” She beams as Ben snaps a shot of the two of us.

We continue to wander the streets of the central village, me looking for photo ops, Ben working to get in his daily walk. I step into a brick shop where handmade pavers are displayed with simple outline drawings inscribed in the centers. I ask the shop clerk for a photo and she responds in English! I tell her we’ve come from Ajijic to escape the heat. “But here,” she says with a solemn face, “it is hotter than we are used to. We don’t know if it’s the fires or…but we are very concerned.” It is true that the horizon has been hazy, leaving the volcanic cone of Colima somewhat obscured most days. Is this also a result of global warming?

“Color in the streets” does not come from brightly colored paint and bougainvilleas in this village. It comes from the smiles on the people’s faces, the evening dresses on some women out for special occasions, the “paper malhecho” crafts of the special needs children of the Centro de Integracion School, the open store fronts filled with perfectly arranged jars of fruit; from toys, household goods, costumes and confirmation dresses. Shop doors aren’t rolled up corrogated metal like in Ajijic, but old, highly patinaed wood. Sidewalks are high, walkable, and in good repair. The shiny cobbles of the streets are filled in with concrete and squeaky tires remind you they have been traveled for many years.

We stop at one of the highly organized shops to buy preserves and canned fruit, finding a surprise of homemade arnica liniment in a corner. Ben wanders back to our place with our goodies and I head out to find some gifts. This is Saturday and traffic of people and vehicles has picked up significantly. It’s about two hours to Guadalajara so it’s a popular getaway. The booth of items in the Mercado made at the special school is finally open. The children are taught the craft similar to paper mache to build their confidence and support the school financially. It’s a small booth packed with colorful boxes, stars, butterflies, flowers and silly animals. My eye lights on the largest item on the top shelf – a Balinese style mask adorned with horses and birds. I love it! $22 for 3 items and I’ve helped support the school. And maybe brought a smile to a face or two.

On our last day we decide to find the El Salto del Nogal – Walnut Falls – a 344′ waterfall at the end of a 45 minute, intense hike. BRING WATER! We are lost for a few minutes but eventually find it and start down. About a third of the way we realize it is just too much for us for this time of day. Reluctantly we both give up and head back to Tapalpa. It’s tough to give it up but the 2000′ of extra altitude has taken its toll. My legs feel cramped and heavy. Ben complains of ongoing fatigue. Maybe next time.

I leave Tapalpa knowing I will return. To the slow pace and the gentle people. The evergreens and the deep blue sky. I am a mountain girl in a faraway land, delighting in interacting with this amazing culture. I am a romantic perhaps. Or perhaps I am just in love with those who call this place home.