This weekend I went to Puebla. Lauded as one of Mexico's thriving cultural centers, I decided that it, along with it's famous sister-city Cholula, definitely merited a once-over. So I left directly after Friday's battery of classes.
This trip took on a very different face from the rest, beginning with the p
acking. My usual MO for weekend trips is sort of "Go. And see what happens." so I usually tote what people have come to call my "Super Mochila" (Super Backpack)--a beautiful monstrosity of canvas and carabineers, full of everything necessary to survive indefinitely in any place on earth. However, a one-night adventure in Mexico City (toting a my smaller, sleeker daypack) proved that if the traveling situation was controlled, I didn't need to harness the incredible power of a fully armed and operational Super Mochila. So this weekend, in its place, I brought along the Little Martin, my tiny, trusty guitar, with the objective of learning some new songs and possibly playing for my supper.
Planning the trip ahead of time allowed me to use the "Couc
hsurfing.com" network once again. (Note: Couchsurfing is basically a community of people all over the world who have couches and beds at their houses and are willing to open them up to people from all over the world who need a place to stay the night (the week, the month…you name it).) It's a pretty sweet idea. I mean, anyone who'll let complete strangers crash on their couch is probably an interesting (and easygoing) person…the perfect host. It's good way to save money and a great way get to know a place from the point of view of the natives. I told my host, Oliver, I'd be there on Saturday.
I intentionally left Friday night in play because, well, I
like a bit of improvisation. Figured I'd go to the relatively small town of Cholula and pass the night the best way that presented itself. On the rickety bus to Cholula, I met a well dressed man who was very nice and very engaging and we talked ab
out economics and Mexicans for some time. I was thinking, due to has agreeability and gentle nature, that perhaps he was a fellow Christian but had to smile when he revealed that he was a devout Mormon. Only a Mormon could be that nice.
I arrived downtown and, as has become my custom, walked the streets for about an hour, noting all the promising cafés, taco stands, markets and hiding spots. I always figure it's best to have some knowledge of the streets, in case I get hungry or have to make a run for it. Later, I settled down on a park bench to eat an elegant little dinner. During dessert I whipped out the Little Martin and started hacking away on some new songs (a hearty mix of Tim O'Brien, Bob Dylan, and John Hiatt). I wasn't looking for money and this must've seemed strange to the passersby because they kept stopping and asking what I was doing. They were all concerned about where I was staying for the night and by the end of a couple hours, the pages of lyrics I had printed were graffitied with phone numbers and email addresses in case I needed anything. I felt quite loved by the people of Cholula and was grateful for their concern, even though they kept interrupting my rendition of "Lily, Rosemary, and the Jack of Hearts."
As the night drew on, the mountain air got chilly and I started losing feeling in my fingers. This obviously took some of the pleasure out of sitting playing guitar so I hiked on down the road in search of a cup of coffee and some protection from the biting wind. On the way I passed Cholula's biggest attraction, a huge mountain that is actually a huge pyramid atop which the Spaniards built a tidy little convent-ish thing. At a "famous" restaurant at the corner of the pyramid, I slowly swigged an ill-prepared americano and tried to think above the karaoke session in the adjoining room. Though I wanted to play a little more guitar and go have a beer with Paco, one of my newfound friends, the cold outside and my own exhaustion were suggesting I call it a night, so I donned my knit cap and went to find a place to lay my head.
I actually knew pretty much where I was going. On the other side of the pyramid I had found a field of tall, soft grass which turned out to be the impound lot of a towing company. Filled with all manner of cars, trucks, and autobuses, I felt certain it was the ideal place to spend the night. After some brief recon, I decided the bench seat of a 90s era F-150 was the perfect spot, so I threw my gear in the bed and climbed in for a nice long sleep. Although I had to share the cab with a huge, heavy tire, and although I'm slightly longer than a pickup is wide, I found the wind protection to be the key to a good night's rest and I fell fast asleep, hoping that the towing company didn't have 24-hour guards.
When I pulled the t-shirt off of my face in the morning, the sky was a dusty predawn blue through the unwashed windshield and I extricated myself from the truck (no small feat due to the tire) and laid down in the grass to watch the sunrise. For a long time I was in sort of a trance, watching the first rays of sunlight work their way down the side of an abandoned bus and thinking about the country in which I am living. I mean, I'd just spent the night in the cab of a red F-150 in an impound lot, just below the largest pyramid (by volume) in the entire world on which sits an ancient catholic church, all against the backdrop of a giant, smoking, snowcapped volcano. Only in Mexico is that possible.
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