The long glide downward begins, a return of conventional
perception, waking from a vivid and wonderful dream, head full of inexpressible
thoughts. It is time to move on, upwards into the vast highland valley holding
Mexico’s second largest city, Guadalajara. I find a scrubby vacant lot near a
small subdivision on the city’s outskirts, park for the night. In the morning,
I am not alone. The lot is home to a small slum, tent and shanty dwellers. One
resident comes over to say hello, his dog trailing behind him. He speaks some
English, has friends in Texas. San Antonio. He is very friendly, but I feel a
sense of guilt, a rich gringo thoughtlessly occupying the backyard of a poor
man just to save a few pesos on a hotel. I share some snacks with him, then
head out under a sky of overcast smog.
The greenery gives way to drab industrial zones, the reek of
exhaust and pollution. Vehicles here are small, new and shiny, washed
regularly. Radar cameras lie in wait on overpasses, automatically ticketing
speeders; the local commuters know exactly where to speed up and slow down.
This could be a sprawling Rust Belt city without the rust. I long for the
rugged mountains and quiet plains of the north, room to breathe, freedom to
move. But this city must be conquered.
My Lonely Planet guidebook has small maps of city centers in
Mexico, with little arrows indicating routes of ingress and egress. Finding my
way to the city center is rarely difficult; the route is usually well-marked.
My system involves driving to the central plaza, orienting myself with the
guidebook maplet, then trolling outward in search of a parking spot. Traffic
crawls through the narrow, one-way streets, and the parking spots are either
occupied by cars or flanneleros,
rag-waving dudes who lay claim to street parking on a block and demand money
for using the spots. Eventually, I find an affordable all-day parking lot and
walk into the city center. Clean, prosperous, and fashionable, Guadalajara is
the finest Mexican city I have seen. High fashion is the rule for ladies, while
men dress sharply and neatly. The city streets are divided up by business
sectors; money changers on this street, record stores on that one, pastry shops
on another. On the Chinese food block, I buy access to an amazing buffet,
replete with seafood and meat and delicacies of every kind, hustled out of the
kitchen by sweating cooks. The food is the best I have ever tasted. The total
cost? 80 MXN (5 USD) Outside, on the money changers’ street, a guard stands in
front of one business, submachine gun held at low ready, eyeing the passing
pedestrians, who pay him no need. His belt holds cartridges in loops for
decorative effect, magazines for practical reloading.
On to the cheap hotel section near the municipal markets.
Markets are fun to stroll through and people-watch. The registers are usually
staffed by nubile vendor’s daughters, well-dressed boys often hanging around
chatting. It is easy to get lost in the maze of stalls, passing just about
everything under the sun. However, the cheap hotels around the market are
booked solid. Not that they are desirable places to stay. There are no parking
spots nearby, and after dark, streets teem with prostitutes and hustlers. The
cheapest city center hotel I can find charges 25 dollars, providing secure
parking and small but neat rooms with all the amenities. Well, there goes an
idle daydream of living the cosmopolitan life in the big city.