Sunday dawns clear in this high country. Driving through the
Michoacán highlands is a succession of speed bumps, small towns, and cities,
unremarkable in every way. Outside of Zamora, the state police have set up an
informal roadblock on the highway, the first I’ve seen on this trip. They
signal me to pull over, onto the shoulder. The usual questions: de dónde vienes, adónde vas, tienes armas o
drogas. I step out of the truck, present my passport and import permit.
They put on a show of scrutinizing the import permit, then ask me to raise the
hatch. What’s in the safe? Documents only. I open it and show them. My casual
confidence convinces them; I have nothing they could nail me on, and they say
okay and go on.
Nearing Morelia, the country becomes forested, oaks and
pines interspersed with farm plots. Pedestrians are everywhere, as are
bicyclists; this is a crowded land. The city of Morelia immediately impresses
me; this is a seriously urbane place. There are several large parks and
greenways within walking distance of the main plaza. The city is currently
hosting a film festival of some sort, so downtown traffic is gridlocked and
pedestrians swarm everywhere. I park on the street near a boutique hotel and
search for lodging of my own. Across from the bustling market is the Posada Don
Vasco, newly refurbished hot-water rooms for 270 MXN (15 USD) a night. I snatch
up the last vacancy and hit the sidewalks.
Morelia is a lively, happy, safe city. Señoritas walk about in fashionably daring outfits never seen in
northern cities. The sidewalks are so crowded with huge family groups that it
is necessary to walk in the street to make any progress. Somehow, with all the
weaving and dodging, nobody bumps each other, raises a voice in anger. Personal
space is a few scant inches here, but it is still respected. This is a place I
could stay for a while.
In the evening, half the city enjoys a night on the town, or
so it seems. The old folks dance to mariachi music in one park, while antojitos vendors serve up hot snacks
nearby. I decide to try a gazpacho.
This specialty of Morelia consists of a large cup of chopped pineapple and
mango topped with blue cheese and drizzled with a sweet and sour dressing. Back
in the plaza with my stash and a rolling paper, I duck into an alley to light
up. Nobody pays me any mind. The crowds have only thickened as altar boys carry
banners advertising a public light show on the cathedrals façade. The vibe is
very peaceful; toy vendors shoot rubber band propellers into the air, their
carts laden with all sorts of flashing and squawking gew-gaws, music boxes that
play a silly little tune over and over again. Cotton-candy sellers, bearing
long wooden poles loaded with giant plastic-wrapped balls of fuzz, call out Algodones, al diez, al diez. Papas (potato chip) vendors do likewise,
offering an array of salsas to pour over the chips. Teenage lovers stroll
through the crowd hand-in-hand; old men snooze on benches amidst the happy
commotion. The night is mild, dry, perfect. I sit on a bench-like curb in front
of the government building, back against the historic stonework. Everything is
going swimmingly. Tomorrow, I plan to enroll in a week of Spanish lessons at
the Baden-Powell Institute, getting a short-term apartment of my own, settling
down for a spell in this genteel highland city a thousand miles from the United
States. The future looks bright indeed.