mexicotravel

Beach Butterflies

Beach Bugs

I've been to many of the large and small beach towns along the Pacific Coast of Mexico from Mazatlan down to Acapulco. I prefer the small beaches like Barra de Navidad and Sayulita. Recently, I went to another small beach town called Chacala, near Las Varas in the state of Nayarit.

We pulled off the winding two-lane road and headed several miles down a smaller road to the beach. When approaching the town of Chacala, I noticed a flurry of black things hit my windshield. What are they?

There were literally hundreds of them fluttering about. They were too big to be dragonflies and too small to be bats.

I didn't stop because I also wasn't sure if they would bite. We walked through town to look for a hotel and there I saw a group of about 100 of them resting on the sandy road. "They're butterflies!" I cried.

I inched closer careful not to scare them away. Their wings were black with light blue stripes. And they also had bright red spots. I'd never seen butterflies like this before.

In Michoacan, I've visited the butterfly reserves where the monarchs hatch every year. Every winter the monarchs - a beautiful marigold color with black borders - migrate south to Mexico to lay their eggs. A new generation of monarchs is born and then they migrate north to the U.S. and Canada.

As a Mexican-American I've always associated with the symbol of the monarch butterfly. They travel between Mexico and the U.S. like I do. To me, they are border crossers free to migrate between both worlds. As a U.S. citizen I am fortunate to have this privilege. Most Mexican citizens are denied visas to travel to the U.S. and consequently many cross the border illegally in search of better opportunities.

I always associate butterflies with migration and freedom. So it was amazing to discover this new kind of butterfly.

I wanted to know it's name. I asked around the village and people just shrugged their shoulders.

"They come out when it rains," one woman told me.

So for now they remain a beautiful mystery mariposa to me. As we headed out of town there they were again flying about the car as if to say adios and buen viaje wishing me a safe journey.

Guanajuato Vistas

Running for the Bus

We traveled to the pastel colored city of Guanajuato where on every house there is an amazing combination of colors - lavender, golden rod and cobalt blue. It is one of the most beautiful and romantic cities in Mexico. Strolling around at night you hear mariachi bands and minstrels playing classical Spanish music.

It's a place to fall in love and there's even a legend akin to Romeo and Juliet about two lovers - one rich and the other poor - who were forbidden to be together. So they met on their balconies and leaned over and kissed. Hence the street is named - El Callejon del Beso - the Street of the Kiss.

We didn't want to leave this magical place and decided to take an afternoon instead of a morning bus back to our home base of Guadalajara.

We check out of the dirt cheap and bare basics Hostal de los Angeles (Hostel of the Angels) and wait for the city bus to take us back to the bus station for a 4 p.m. departure.

It's almost 3:30 and there's still no bus, so we walk towards the main square looking for a cab that will charge us $3.50. All six of us can't fit in one so we split up.

I go first so I can pay for the bus tickets I've reserved. The cab speeds through the city and we arrive at the station at 3:45 p.m. I call one of the girls, Silvana, on her cell phone to see where they are and she explains that they got on a city bus because they couldn't find a second cab. She explains that they are still in the centro - the center of town - still a good ways from the bus station which is outside of town.

I'm nervous the other half of our group won't make it.  I talk to the manager at the counter and ask him if the bus can wait because my students are on their way. He leaves to talk to the bus driver and when he comes back says, “You have seven minutes” or until 4:07 p.m.

I learn later from Silvana that the bus stopped to pick up a woman who got on the bus to ask for money. The bus waited as she made a speech and precious minutes slipped away.

I ask at the bus counter if there is space for us on the 5 p.m. bus and they tell me it's full. The next bus is at 7:30 p.m. - but that means waiting three and a half more hours - the amount of time it would take us to get back to Guadalajara.

It's five minutes to 4 p.m. I call Silvana and she says, “We can see the sign to the bus station.” I tell the manager that they are just a few minutes away. They hop off the bus at 4 p.m. sharp. "Run! Run!" I shout.

We run to the bus just in time for the ride back to Guadalajara and pull out of the station at 4:05 p.m.

I guess Guanajuato didn't want us to leave, but we made it just in time.

Road Trip Adventure Part III ("Road Rangel")

Driving along the autopistas and small roads with no shoulder or steep drop offs is not as nerve-wracking as driving in city traffic in Guadalajara.

Along Vallarta Avenue, a broad street similar to Chicago's Michigan Avenue, I saw a driver in the far right lane cut across three lanes of traffic to make a left hand turn before the light turned green.

We're not used to traffic circles in the U.S. but the largest one here inspires fear it me. It's a four-lane circle around a beautiful statue of a woman dressed in Roman garb called the Minerva. She is the protector of the city, but driving around her I don't feel very safe. I usually pick a middle lane but I have to remain alert. Once two cars cut in front of me. One came from the right and the other from the left and they missed each other just by a few seconds. I try to avoid the Minerva when I can.

Mexicans in general are very generous, and a new friend will quickly invite you to their house for lunch or dinner. But when they are behind the wheel, their good manners fly out the window.

Last Sunday, I drove to the outskirts of town to go a market called Tonala. Sunday and  Thursday are market days and the streets are packed with shoppers. This creates a traffic jam at the Tonala exit off of a main boulevard called Lazaro Cardenas. So a line of about 100 cars formed in the shoulder so they could wait their turn for the exit. I joined the line that inched along slowly.

But then cars pulled up in the left lane, where traffic was still moving, and tried to squeeze their way to the front of the line. "They're crazy," I told my boyfriend Doug. "That's really dangerous."

"Don't let them in," Doug insisted.

I tried to stay as close as I could to the car in front of me, but I was afraid I'd hit their bumper. I inched forward as close as I could.

Then a big Suburban lurched forward to cut into my lane. "No you don't.....!"

I was pissed off and I tried to keep him out of my lane. But he pulled forward and I was afraid he'd hit me. His big Suburban dwarfed my Hyundai rental car. He forced his way in and I Iet him, because I didn't want to have an accident in the rental car.

"I'm going to call you Road Rangel," Doug joked, playing with the words rage and angel.

I'm usually a patient person, but after a week I turned in the rental car. For now, I'm going to take the bus.

Roadtrip Adventure Part II ("There is no bread.")

We sat in a cafe overlooking a plaza in Patzcuaro for breakfast. Doug's stomach was still strong and the street tacos caused no harm.

We hit the road and headed south. Quickly the landscape changed from pine forests to desert dotted with cactus. The autopista  remained smooth and  we sailed over massive bridges painted orange, cruised through tunnels cut into the mountains and by giant dams built by the national electric company. As we hit the coast and endless coconut groves, large storm clouds loomed overhead.

Summer is rainy season in Mexico, but the storms never last that long. We got off the autopista and navigated our way to Highway 200, a two-lane road that wends its way along the Pacific Coast of Michoacan. Much of the road is curvy with mountains on  one side and  the ocean on the other.

The plan was to go to a beach and get away from everything, and we did because the town of Nexpa doesn´t have Internet and my U.S. and Mexican cel phones couldn't pick up a signal.

All of the accomodations are rustic bungalows built of cement with palm thatched roofs. There are no big hotels or air conditioned rooms. There are only a handful of restaurants, and Doug was even more wary of eating seafood on the beach.

That night for dinner we went to a cute restaurant on stilts that was jam packed with surfers who come to Nexpa to take on the massive waves.

Doug, put his fears aside, and ordered the shrimp tacos, and I ordered a torta de pescado or fish sandwich from a grumpy waiter. We sipped on beers and watched the waves as night fell. I knew the food would take a while since there were so many other customers waiting already and things always take longer in Mexico.

About a half hour later, the waiter came back to our table. "There is no bread," he said, explaining that they ran out of the fluffy rolls they make tortas from.

I was annoyed that he didn't tell me this when I placed my order. Just after I ordered my torta I heard him tell two surfers from Spain that there was no more bread left. So why did he wait half an hour to tell me the same thing?

He didn't bring me the menu to order something else or offer an alternative suggestion. I told him I didn't want anything else and he snapped back at me. "Why do you think this restaurant is so crowded when the one next door is empty?"
Not only was he grumpy but rude. We waited another half hour until Doug got his tacos, which were delicious. Then I decided to go to the nearly empty restaurant next door. I ordered some chicken tacos to go. How long will it take?

"Ten minutes," a pleasant waitress answered. "OK. I will come back in 15."

"It will be ready in 10," she insisted.

Doug finished his dinner, and we left a tip despite the rude waiter.

We walked next door and the waitress was wrapping my tacos in tin foil. We walked out from under the restaurant palapa and together we were struck. Looking up we saw countless numbers of stars, so many they made me giddy. "Wow!" was all I could think.

You don't see stars like that in Chicago, not even by the lake in Doug's home state of Michigan. We walked back to the bungalow in the dark and knew that we had come to the right place.

Magic Michoacan

El Tunel Beach

Bungalow in Nexpa

Magic Michoacan Photos

Roadtrip Adventure Part One

I rented a car in Guadalajara and before my travel writing class started drove to the neighboring state of Michoacan for a few days of vacation with my boyfriend Doug.

The landscape from Guadalajara to Morelia was breathtaking. Rolling green mountains unfold along the two-lane well-paved autopista, or toll road. The ride is smooth but just as we exit the toll road I hear a funny sound.

"What's that noise?" I ask Doug. "Is that the car or the road?"

"Pull over," Doug urges me. "I think we have a flat tire."

He was right and I'm thankful he's with me because I've never changed a flat tire, or ever had one for that matter.

Our plan was to drive through the colonial capital of Morelia and down to the coastal beaches. Some of those roads are one lane in each direction with no shoulder and a drop off of hundreds of feet. If the tire blew in the city, we would have caused a major traffic jam in the medina of one-way narrow streets.

"Thank God this happened here," I said as I watched Doug change the tire in the sweltering sun.

In a half an hour we were on our way and we found a parking space behind the luminous cathedral of Morelia. Inside they were tuning a gigantic organ and its haunting sound echoed through the air.

We peeked inside doorways. Some revealed amazing courtyards and Spanish-style archways. Behind elegant 500-year-old facades were Internet cafes and  restaurants.

As we walked through the market full of handmade guitars, local sweets and rebozos, typical scarves worn by local women, it started to storm. It was sunny and clear when we parked the car and we took cover in the market. A young couple in front of us kissed as they waited out the rain.

We waited a while and when the rain let up dashed out. We stopped in a cafe under the archways facing the Cathedral. A young band of men in velvety black minstrel outfits serenaded the customers. They looked about 15-years-old and we admired their sweetness.

We walked back to the car smitten by the romance of the city and drove to another town Patzcuaro - near a lake of the same name - where planned to spend the night.

As night fell we walked along the cobblestone streets where all the houses were painted white with red tile roofs. The smells of vendors cooking chicken and enchiladas in the market made my stomach growl. We spotted a crowd around a taco stand and I knew it must be good.

"That's what I miss living in Chicago - street tacos," I told Doug. "Tacos just don't taste the same as they do here."

I knew he was wary because on a trip to Mexico City several years ago, Doug got sick eating from street vendors. It lasted five days and and he lost 10 pounds.

We walked around the two town squares and 20 minutes later came back to the taco stand. Doug caved into his desire and we ordered three steak tacos each.

I've been told that squeezing lime will help kill any germs and Doug squirted it on his taco along with a helping of salsa.

We gobbled down the tacos and shared three more with onions, cilantro and a guacamole salsa. I assured him that he wouldn't get sick.

"If you do, it will be worth it."