I miss Ethiopian food.

San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, MX: August 30-31
As I mentioned in the last post, my camera battery died in Guanajuato so I'll be photo-less until September 9th. This means no photos of San Miguel de Allende(a real shame!) and limited photos of Guanajuato and Morelia. In the nicetime, here are some journal entries with a few very rough sketches that will have to suffice for now.

Right now I'm in Morelia staying with a friend (who has a beautiful Canon DSLR that he's graciously letting me borrow during my stay in town). So there will be a few photos from Morelia and the neighboring pueblo of Patzcuaro. And of course that's how I'm able to take pictures of the following journal pages.

Guanajuato from the Alhondiga (above)
The Alhondiga where "father of Mexican independence" Miguel Hidalgo got his ass kicked by Spanish Royalists(below)

San Miguel de Allende in fine point sharpie (from the Mirador)
...though I prefer the view from the corner of Real de Oro and Montes de Oca(right, in pencil):

City maps (cut and pasted from guidebook) and recipe for enchiladas verdes provided by a kind shopkeeper in San Miguel

Packing list modifications

Subtractions:
-Section on Brazil in guidebook*

Additions:
-gluestick (for pasting into journal)

*A note (in shameless praise of) on South America on a Shoestring: including Mexico & Central America(1986) by Geoff Crowther
I've come to really appreciate this guidebook, not despite it's outdatedness but because of it. For starters the entire book was written by one bearded hippie-looking fellow, unlike the Lonely Planet guides of today with numerous contributers. This gives Shoestring a cohesive, trustworthy, personal touch. Also because of the breadth of countries covered, the information is limited. There are no glossy photos and it's uncorrupted by long lists of restaurants, hotels, hostels, museums, etc. While traveling, I have no choice but to create my own judgments, make my own discoveries and at the least be surprised visually, without previous introductions. Plus Mr. Crowther isn't afraid to mention when a place is of "little interest to the traveler"(while still providing information about it) and in what pueblos you're likely to find good pot.
Since I came upon the book by happenstance in a dollar store in Portland (99 cents) I also don't feel bad about ripping out pages. I had to do this for Brazil since it took up a sizeable portion of the book's weight and I know I won't be going there on this trip.

Luna de miel, cuna de Rivera

...and then my camera battery died. And like a pro, I left the battery charger in the States so I must wait until my friend arrives in Mexico City to relay the necessary device.

Guanajuato, Guanajuato, MX: August 27-30
As my CS host drove me from the bus station to his apartment, I stared out the window all wide-eyed and probably drooling. Although I was a bit drunk off the relative ease at which I could converse in Spanish with Pedro (compared to the lightning-speed conversations I left in Guadalajara) and the natural rush of soaking in a new place, Guanjuato had me at "hola".

It might have been the windy (as in unwind not the wind) uneven streets and alleys that snake around equally haphazardly-positioned houses and bridges, or the modestly-sized homes painted with loud, immodest colors that recklessly combine Spanish colonial architecture with makeshift construction. It might have been the herbs and flowers that spill from iron-fenced balconies or the two old men in cowboy hats laughing and sitting on an older bench tuning their guitars to the notes emitted by the other, careless of the fact that both guitars were missing a considerable number of strings. It might as well have also been the noticeable bohemian aura (but not an exclusive one) that pervades the numerous shady plazas and cafes that give shelter and damn good hot chocolate to the large student population(a few of which I had the pleasure of meeting and drinking with). Blanketing the steep hillsides of what used to be gold and silver mines (which provided the lucrative impetus for populating the area), GTO succeeded in winning me over.

So it only makes sense that when I arrive to what may easily be one of the most picturesque (pun intended!) destinations in Mexico, my camera battery quits and I'm left out in the cold until Annie saves the day in Mexico City. A blessing in disguise? That some benevolent universal force has purposefully stripped me of this technological intermediary, this blockade of gratifying, sensual (as in of the senses, not sexual) experience? That now I have no choice but to have intimate moments with my immediate surroundings without the nagging whim to flash and record. This could be the brightside...No camera means no chance of excessive picture-taking, which means no possibility of indirectly saying: "This moment is less interesting than the story I will tell about it later" (as a critic of social networking sites and the superficial, narcissistic cyberculture they promote once put it). Let's say yes. That's what it is- a blessing in disguise. Especially here in this pretty place, the story told by my post-moment words and photos couldn't do any justice to articulating how at home I feel and felt. Surely I'll be back in Guanajuato again...with battery charger in tow.

No mames, guey.

*I'm backtracking a bit with this post

Guadalajara, MX: August 24-27
For my 3-day visit in Guadalajara, I stayed with a small (self-proclaimed) artist colony. Some of the artists live in the residence, others just rent space for their work. There's a large, open common area with small side rooms that branch off the communal center, which are used as living quarters, work space, storage for artwork or all of the above. My Couchsurfing host (who didn't actually live in the colony, but was apparently part of this extensive "family") showed me to my room. It had a high ceiling with white walls and contained nothing but a twin and large, intensely colorful cubist-inspired paintings of what looked like contorted farm animals made by the landlord of the complex. Speaking of contorted farm animals, the day after my arrival I felt like such when Moctezuma unleashed his revenge on my bowels. Rushing to the nearest baño every half hour and holding back grimaces as my stomach convulsed in painful waves comprised most of that sad day. I did learn something though. I learned that gorging on pork rinds drenched in hot sauce, countless pints of dark beer, and I don't even know how much pot, after a day of eating nothing is totally awesome and regret-free as long as I remember to take my diarrhea pills the next morning.

Josue (my host) and his friends were a talkative, peculiar bunch. When I saw them, they were almost always either drinking, smoking, or working on their artwork which between them, ran the gamut from 5' x 5' painted portraits to stained-glass plane mobiles. Miguel and Manuel are architects who paint for their own peace of mind, others use the communal space to teach art classes. In conversations I preferred to listen, taking in the quick sentences of lazy speech, filtering out the excess of filler words -"no mames", "guey", "pinche", etc.- trying to piece together the punchline that caused that outburst of laughter 4 minutes ago. They were aware of my gastronomical curiosities so I was enthusiastically introduced to a few local delicacies:

Torta Ahogada (drowned sandwich): Pork sandwich completely immersed in chile tomato sauce
Posole: Chicken broth with corn (the large grains), chicken, lettuce, onion, and hot sauce to liking. Normally enjoyed for dinner.
I never cared for (American) Mexican food back in the States, but now that it's all there is and more, my pre-existing culinary discriminations are being seriously revised.

The city of Guadalajara is fairly sprawling, with narrow, broken sidewalks, some of the most ornate churches I've ever seen, and a consistently temperate climate that one could get used to. I'm writing this a few days after having visited and after having seen Guanajuato and San Miguel de Allende,which in my opinion are more memorable and whose recollections thereof are much more vivid my mind given the closer proximity in time. There is also some inherent bias since I tend to be too easily seduced by the charms of colonial architecture of which there is aplenty in GTO and San Miguel. Because of this, my description of this relatively average metropolitan city is bound to be drab.

My last night in Guadalajara I was high off my ass on hashish. Again I sat back and listened to the conversations of my hosts, straining my ears at the rapidity of their voices, making out some phrases, giving up, occasionally chiming in so as not to appear rude, and eventually succumbing to the hashish in all its delayed-responsiveness glory, once in a while smiling stupidly when it was evident someone had said something funny.