I’D HAVE TO KILL YOU – Part III: What "La Joya" IS

If "La Joya," this precious little hidden-gem beach town, seems at first a bit rough around the edges, I guess that's the charm the place is known for. But it's the location, the climate, the ocean view, the flora and fauna—and especially the people—that make this village, indeed, the joya / gem I’d hoped it might be. 

With each new day here, I’m coming to appreciate it more and more, this colorful, tactile swath of coast here in…well, I suppose I could divulge the state. But then—as this series’s title suggests—I’d have to…well…you know. 

 

  They’re incredibly patient with old 
  geezers trying to perfect their Spanish.

A SAVORY PAELLA – This pueblo may not fit the homogenous-Mexican image I’d kind of fantasized about. But it’s proving even better—a savory paella of “types:” middle-aged, mild-mannered gringo couples likely here on day trips from a more mainstream destination just an hour’s drive down the coast; muscle-shirted, tat-festooned, pit-bull-armed bruisers; skinny hippy/artist types; surfer dudes; dread-locked Rastas; and some Mexican tourists from other parts of the country.

                
The native-Mexican locals are exactly what nearly all the Mexicans I’ve ever met are: hard-working, kind and generous, devoted to their families, and deeply proud of their heritage and culture. They’re eager to help, curious about visitors’ homes and families, and incredibly patient with old geezers trying to perfect their Spanish.

While tiny in population and area, La Joya can feel larger for its scent of sophistication. I guess that’s what happens when the undiscovered gets discovered. Most folks with the means to get here are going to want rooms with more than a working toilet and one bare light bulb. Ambitious locals see the promise and build nice lodgings and eateries. Still more higher-end tourists come…and so it goes.

Still, there are no skyscrapers or even big hi-rises here…yet. Historical community standards restrict buildings to a maximum height of three stories plus a top-level palapa. Nearly all existing buildings respect the standard, but a few already built, and several under construction, have already shattered that convention.

     You meet someone today, and it’s 
     quite likely you’ll run into them 
     tomorrow…and every day.

INTIMATE SCALE – I think I said in my first post in this series that it’s crowded here. I’m rethinking that. It depends on the time of day. Yes, in late afternoon and into the evening certain small pockets along the two or three main streets bustle with activity. Busy sidewalk restaurants, some street entertainers, an occasional cluster of young people drinking and socializing. 

But get up and out before 9:00 AM and it’s every bit the sleepy little village I’d imagined. The only folks moving at that hour are a few runners and bikers, municipal workers and delivery guys, and people getting ready to open their shops and restaurants. Oh, and—no lie—at least three dogs and a few chickens claiming every block.

The town’s main street, Avenida Tercer Mundo, runs all the way to the beach, where it turns into a tiny plaza, surrounded by a few modest restaurants. The plaza serves as a hub for folks coming and going to those restaurants, watching the surfers, taking in the spectacular sunsets, or just checking in with friends and neighbors.
 

La Joya is still a small town—at the last census, fewer than 1,500 full-time residents. Other measures of scale: Instead of buses or pasajeros, many locals run their everyday errands on their motos or skateboards. If it’s a family, they’re in four-wheelers or golf carts. There are taxis, but just a handful.

I’m finding the familiarity just enchanting; if you meet someone today, it’s quite likely you’ll run into them tomorrow…and every day. And what a nice feeling when most La Joyans I’ve met—even if only once and several days ago—are now greeting me by name. (Of course, I’m doing my best to re-
ciprocate, but its taking some covert jotting in my trusty notebook, and a bit of homework.)

  I’m pretty sure townies and members 
  of the polo club live in different realities.

COMMUNITY VALUES – La Joya seems to enjoy a proud, cohesive community spirit. It’s evident in the town’s avowed commitment to environmental responsibility, in the quality and variety of its schools and public spaces, in its community service programs and Entre Amigos, the vibrant community center. The town even has a humane society.

I see a comfortable integration of Mexican and gringo La Joyans all over town. Blended families dining together. Diverse groups of moms sharing children’s activities child-care.  

Every Tuesday local creative types gather in la Plaza del Sol to show their wares at a wonderful artisans’ market—visual art, jewelry, artisanal foods, weaving, woodworking, naturopathic remedies…you name it. Here, though, most of the exhibitors appear to be gringos.



MAKING IT WORK – I ask myself, how far does the integration go? I’m pretty sure, for example, that townies—the folks who appear to be scraping out a living in the hospitality industry—and members of the polo club—yes, there’s a polo club—living just across an invisible-but-readily-apparent boundary, in the opulent northern fringes of town, live in different realities.

Not every kid in La Joya goes to the public schools. There are also a number of alternative and holistic provate schools catering to families looking for non-traditional and/or bilingual education.

Well, one would be presumptuous pretending to understand the inner work-
ings of a town based on just two weeks of observation. But, hey, for all the diversity, for all the challenges besetting any little “hidden gem” of a town that’s no-longer-hidden, the folks in "La Joya" seem to make it work...and still be able to warmly welcome an old viajero contento like me.

And I have come to love them.

TO COME: A few restaurant and lodging reviews and a visit to the magical jungle glade called Las Hadas 

                                              /\_      /\_       /\_

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VIAJANDO CON MI PAPÁ FALLECIDO / TRAVELING WITH MY DEPARTED DAD

My dad sometimes comes with me when I travel. Which is quite a trick, since he died in 1997.

Pat Willius was a curious man. By that, I mean he wondered about things. He was an earnest, lifelong learner. About life, people, Nature, other cultures… While we traveled a lot—mostly in the U.S.—he seemed particularly enamored of Mexico, where he took Mom, me and my brother, Dan, when I was nine (making me the show & tell hero of Miss Berg's fourth grade class).

It might have started with that trip, but at some point Dad decided he should at least talk the walk, and started dabbling in learning Spanish. I think he had a good ear for languages, and, as I said, he was curious. He loved the discipline of learning. And he saw the power of language to open doors.

But Dad was a restaurateur—thus, his interest in people. But it’s a tough job, one which left him little time for hobbies. So, much like his efforts to improve his golf, the Spanish had to remain more a curiosity than a commitment.

DITCH THE DEUTSCH
Flash forward to my late 50’s. Enjoying my own occasional trips—with and without Sally— to Mexico, I, too, decided I wanted to be a better traveler than one who can simply find the baño or order a cerveza. To be able not just to greet my cab driver in his own language, but maybe ask him a couple of questions: How’s your day going? How long have you been driving? Do you have kids?

My family roots reach to Germany, so, having been offered a choice between just French and German in high school, of course I’d opted for the deutsch. Some 45 years later, though, I was starting to regret that choice. I decided that, even as an older man, that feeble grasp of German was a total waste. 

First of all, I had little interest in more than the requisite high-points travel in Europe. And then there was the matter of esthetics. To my artist’s ear, German just sounded so severe, so unpleasant; the few times I’d spoken it, I couldn’t believe those sounds were coming out of this mouth.

PHOTO: Angry German Kid Wiki

         What kid doesn’t light up when 
         they feel their father’s pride?

So, long story short, I signed up for a community education beginner’s Spanish class, became friends with my Mexican-American teacher and em-
barked on a lifelong love affair with Latin America and its predominant language. Now, after some 25 years of not very intense study, I’ve reached what I think I can safely call the advanced level in my Spanish, and continue striving to become fluent—whatever that is.

MORE THAN A MEMORY
Here’s the emotional, mystical twist. As I travel (I’m in Mexico again as I write this.) and strike up conversations with locals—especially after one of the occasional extended chats that leads to a new friendship, or, once, my virtual adoption by a family—I often feel Dad’s presence. 

It feels like way more than memory. More like a tangible presence. He’s right there; he sees me doing what he’d long dreamed of; he knows how hard I’ve worked at it; and—the best part—he’s over-the-top proud of me. 

What kid doesn’t light up when they feel their father’s pride?

Some of my emotions run pretty close to the surface, so it can be embarrassing when I’m talking with some Mexican dude in the zócalo. All of a sudden, Dad’s right there and of course the person doesn’t know why I’m tearing up. 

Fortunately, I’m comfortable enough with the language now that I can explain. Most folks understand.

Thanks, Dad, for the good-ear genes. For the cultural curiosity. For the sense of adventure. For the dream.

                                          <•>     -     <•>

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I’D HAVE TO KILL YOU – Part II: First Impressions / What "La Joya" Isn't

Well, here I am. After months of eager anticipation, I’ve arrived safe and sound at my little hidden-gem beach town—so secret that I’ve had to assign it the sobriquet La Joya (The Gem). (For now, I’ll go so far as to say it’s in Mexico.)

Let me start by acknowledging a couple of things. The first feels more like a confession: I’m well aware of the hypocrisy of digging up an as-yet relatively undiscovered destination, and then, by the very fact of my coming here, hastening its discovery. Not to mention my coming out and blogging about it. (Knowing me, I'll eventually slip and divulge its real name.)

Secondly, it shouldn’t surprise me that one’s preconceived notion of nearly any destination might not jibe with what one discovers on arrival. That’s certainly the case for La Joya. Pictures of the place are idealized, the accounts subject to their writers’ particular tastes, the reviews perhaps cherry-picked by those in the local hospitality business.

Finally, even after one arrives, the initial uncertainties about a new place rarely last. That’s already proving true for me here in La Joya, as all its small wonders—discoveries, beauties, kindnesses—gradually become the boldest brush strokes on the canvas. 

              ~     •     ~     •     ~           

Now, to my impressions of La Joya, what it is and what it is not. For this post, let me start with the latter.

WHAT LA JOYA ISN’T
Lose the Broad Brush – Among the things that drew me to La Joya were the many descriptions calling it laid-back, unpretentious, a bit scruffy. At least on the surface, it’s all those things. But I’m getting the feeling the village isn’t quite that easy to typecast.

For example, at first glance I thought the place looked kind of messy. You know, bits of litter in the streets, a few overflowing garbage cans. Come to find out I’d arrived on the last day before the weekly trash collection; the next day, clean as a whistle. And one can certainly forgive some signs of disrepair, as, like just about any town anywhere, La Joya is a work in progress. Some projects wither; some dry up; others bloom. 

Then there’s the people.The first folks I noticed when I arrived were some pretty mangy-looking characters. I thought maybe this is typical. But as I’ve started exploring the back streets I’m observing a great diversity of types pursuing widely varying interests.

Lose the Sweatshirt – For early November, it’s really hot here. All the weather forecasts I’d read for the area predicted temperatures about ten degrees cooler than this during the day, fifteen at night. So, against my better judgment, I packed a sweatshirt…which will remain stuffed into the side pocket of my carryon. 

These first few days have topped out above 90 degrees Fahrenheit, with lows sagging to just the low 70s. And humid? OMG! It’s tropical with a capi-
tal T. Thank God most of my little apartment is air conditioned. 

Another thing I’d never anticipated for such a small town bathed constantly in ocean breezes: the air quality has been abysmal. Today’s forecast: Muy insalubre / Very unhealthy.

    Sadly, that beach—arguably the de-
    fining feature of the town—is gone.

What Beach? – Since what I’d googled was “beach town,” I’d pictured long walks, day and night, along a mile-and-a-half of fine, golden-sand beach, which every single image had shown to spread 50 to 75 yards from the beach-side restaurants to the water. 

PHOTO: Marival Resorts

Sadly, that beach, arguably the defining feature of the town, is gone, all but consumed by what looks to be a three- to four-foot, climate-change-induced, El-Niño-amplified surge in sea level. With each thunderous breaker, the “mar de fondo” surf sucks away more of that fine sand, leaving in its place swaths of course, lemon-sized gravel, and at least one collapsing hotel. There’s no safe place left to walk. 

Mar de Fondo surf gobbling up beach...and buildings

One Man’s “Authentic…” – Finally—and I hate to admit this—La Joya is not really hidden, far from undiscovered. First, even the heart of town looks quite cosmopolitan compared with the unspoiled, homogeneous, “authentically Mexican” town I’d pictured.

There are glimpses of that kind of innocence, but, again, to have imagined this dreamy, unspoiled, non-touristy place—especially one I could reach in one day’s travel—was pretty unrealistic. Not to mention that equating authenticity with lack of development vastly underestimates these smart, industrious people.

    Barely a stone's throw from La 
    Joya, lies the complete antithesis

Character is such a relative value, though, and my experience just this afternoon affirms that. I took about about a two-mile hike up the coast. There's an unmarked, nevertheless distinct, spot where La Joya ends and something else begins. 

On one side, all the little quirks and blemishes, the street dogs and chickens of a workaday town. On the other, that all suddenly ends. No more dreadlocks and bare feet. No more junky alleys and jury-rigged clotheslines.

You've just stepped up from rhinestone to the real thing. Barely a stone's throw from La Joya, lies the complete antithesis of what I consider "authentic" Mexico. The comparison makes La Joya look more like the little pueblo I'd dreamt of. 

Authentic or fictional? – IMAGE: Google AI

The fact that tourists like me account for probably half of the town’s population at any give time, and that the vast majority of La Joyans make their living serving us shouldn’t surprise me; it’s that way in just about any tropical beach town in the world…or soon will be.

Now that you know what La Joya isn’t, stay tuned for my next post, about what La Joya IS. 

                                             /\_      /\_       /\_

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I’D HAVE TO KILL YOU – Off To My Secret, Hidden-Gem Beach Town

As many of you know, I love traveling, especially in Latin America. For the past 15 years Sally and I have been spending a month each late winter in Zihuatanejo, Guerrero, Mexico, a place I now like to think of as our second home.

And, in the past several years, even that annual trip south hasn’t quite satisfied my appetite for adventure…and for keeping my Spanish sharp. So I’ve been traveling again in the fall, exploring a new destination in Latin America each time.*

So back in June, acting on a whim, I googled “Find me a hidden-gem little beach town anywhere in Latin America.” Intriguing as the results were, most spots looked like it might take two days just to get there. 

But the description of one caught my eye: Right on a broad, mile-and-a-half-long beach; flanked by rocky headlands and backed by jungle; just 1,500 inhabitants; vibrant community spirit; several nice-looking little hotels; decent restaurants…All this and it’s relatively easy to get to.

So, what’s the name of this magical place? Well, I could tell you…but then...I’d have to, well…you know… ** 

          

NOT IN MY BACK…PATIO
That’s the dilemma with any as-yet-unspoiled destination. You’d love to spread the word—not least, to help the hard-working folks who have to make a living there. But if a lot more people come, “there goes the neighborhood,” as they say. 

I know my hidden gem—this joya oculta (Hey, why don’t we just call it La Joya.)—won’t be hidden much longer. One can almost see the wave of big-time development, with its high-rise condos, sterile, all-inclusive resorts and Señor Frog’s dives, creeping up the coast toward it. 

Just a few miles away, another village, which itself was a sleeper just 20 years ago, is now considered by most to have lost half its charm.

    Most importantly, I’ll keep 
    an open mind and heart.

READY TO SEE GENEROUSLY
So off I go, cameras and laptop in hand, hoping my picture of "La Joya" turns out to be more or less accurate. Scores of such adventures, though—especially those in Latin America—chasten me to manage my expectations. To skew the truism of the century, it will be what it is.



          

During the next couple of weeks, of course I’ll keep my eyes, ears and all the other senses open. But my version of adventure travel calls on more than my physical senses; it summons what I call seeing generously. Sensing with open mind, heart and spirit too. 

With any luck La Joya will prove as beautiful as I imagine, its habitantes as unfailingly kind and generous as those I meet in most Latin American towns. That’s all the motivation this tall, pale, tottering gringo will need to jot down a few reflections about this, my perfect little hidden-gem beach town. 

Stay tuned…

* I’ve been on a somewhat less-than-urgent quest to visit every country in Latin America before I croak. So far, I’ve checked off seven—as well as half of Mexico’s 31 states—so…hey, it’s a start!

** The hypocrisy is not lost on me; on one hand, I want the unspoiled, authentic charm of 1970s Mexico, and on the other, they better damn well have high-speed Internet.


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BEYOND MEASURE – The Folly of Quantifying Paradise

When I was a kid, there was this 
all-too-common presumption that Mexicans were lazy and slow. Social psychologists say the “sleepy Mexican” stereotype may have arisen in the mid-19th century during the Mexican-American War, and I’m guessing it gained appeal as other immigrant groups sought advantage in their adopted country. 

Eventually, as such stereotypes of-
ten are, it got played up in films, and later on television, with characters like Slowpoke Rodriguez, the Frito Bandito and Speedy Gonzalez. 

I don’t think my parents, while both intelligent and kind, did anything to debunk the trope—or even realized its harm. Honestly, though, as a kid I’m not sure I’d even have cared.

VACATION RECALIBRATION 
After about 70 years of traveling to and around Mexico—some 50 trips so 
far—I’ve gained a somewhat fairer, better-informed point of view on our southern neighbors.

As Sally and I pack up for our 18th dewy-eyed departure from our annual month-long escape to our beloved Zihuatanejo, Guerrero, I find myself thinking about that old xenophobic nonsense. And, for that matter, other measures of a people or a place. Specifically of this place.

Once we leave behind the demands of our “real” lives back in Minneapolis, our routine in Zihuatanejo affords us a precious chance to recalibrate. Here, life comes at us at a whole new scale, in new rhythms.

Measurement is different here. 

   Here in Zihua, we appreciate the time 
   to talk, people-watch, whatever.

WHO’S COUNTING?
Instead of how many nerve-wracking miles on a gridlocked freeway till I have to show up at such-and-such a place, it’s how many more sweaty steps to conquer the grinding, four-block climb from the dolphins fountain up to the Catalina. How many turns to reach the next shady or breezy spot. How many claustrophobic aisles explored in el mercado to find perfect, mild, apple-size radishes.

At home, we might get annoyed having to wait in line for some service. Here in Zihua, we appreciate the time to talk, people-watch, whatever. If it’s a longer wait, we find a place to sit, pull the cribbage board from my backpack and play.

Here, instead of tracking the soaring price of gas, tonight’s numbing low temperature forecast or how many points the T-wolves score, we appreciate simpler counts: the pesos-to-dollars exchange rate, the SPF rating of our sunblock, little kids trying to get just one two-pointer up to the hoop at La Cancha, the town’s basketball court and town square. 

     Despite its population of 130,000, 
     Zihua still feels like a pueblo.

THE HEIGHT OF ARROGANCE 
Back home, our comings and goings navigate a fairly typical urban landscape. Even in our residential neighborhood, a 14-story apartment building looms over us from across the street. Downtown, the proportions are even more intimidating. Like the pace, it’s another assertion of quantity over quality.

Even vacationing, we’ve observed many coastal resorts—including Ixtapa, right up the road from Zihuatanejo—whose powers that be have made the same calculation with their skyscraper hotels. Monstrosities that obstruct ocean views and breezes for everyone but paying customers.

In Zihuatanejo, though, very few buildings exceed a few stories in height. And even most of those have been thoughtfully designed to conform with the cerros (hills) surrounding the bay, stair-stepping their way gracefully up their flanks. The result is a city, our home away from home, that, despite its population of 130,000, still feels like a pueblo (small town).

                     
                                                                           
BEAT THE CLOCK
In Zihua we’re able to let go of most time expectations. While it’s hard for us to set aside our accustomed punctuality habits—say for dinner reservations or a doctor’s appoint-
ment—we don’t hold our Mexican hosts to anywhere near the same standard. We realize that’s our culture’s obsession, and actually love the notion that we’re now “on Mexican time.” *

That means it doesn’t matter whether our morning walk downtown gets us to El Cafecito cafe, our favorite beach-front oasis, early enough for breakfast or more like brunch time. And if the Carnaval parade or the Guitar Fest concert starts 20 minutes—or an hour—late, it just doesn’t matter. 

We remind ourselves that, even though those in the hospitality industry bend over backwards to indulge our time fixation, for most Mexicans the concept of time is quite different, with different priorities—and with good reason.**

       The only things to count are 
       the bright green parrots flying 
       past our open-sided living room.

SKIPPING A BEAT
Each morning, as we gaze out over the intimate embrace of Zihuatanejo Bay, the only things to count—if one is inclined to such a meditation—are the number of pangas crisscrossing the bay to and from Playa Las Gatas. The number of arresting black-and-yellow caciques or bright green parrots flying past our lofty, open-sided living room. How many little cubes of sweet, ripe mango to plop onto my cereal.

            

Another way folks might measure an experience is through rhythms. Here in Zihua, as in other parts of Mexico, those beats feel somehow less insistent than those we’re used to. Here, it’s the unhurried, whispered cadence of the surf down the block on Playa La Ropa. A sequence of hollow-plastic thwaps from the La Cocina pickleball courts. The barely-differentiated pulses of air coaxed down by each slowly-turning blade of our ceiling fan.

         With the ebb of the rain 
         comes the flow of tourism.

EBBS AND FLOWS
Some rhythms can’t be seen, heard or counted; you just feel them. Like the slower turning of the seasons down here. Back in Minnesota, with the all-too-hurried succession of our accustomed four seasons, one barely adjusts to one before the next one blows through. Here in Zihua, it’s just two: rainy and dry. One has time to appreciate the flavors, the full expression, of each.

Zankas—natives of Zihuatanejo—and their region’s landscape have contrasting views of the seasons. While the parched dry-season countryside celebrates June’s first rain, many people and the local economy prefer October’s last. Because with the ebb of the rain comes the flow of tourism.



To the observant visitor, especially at either end of high season, the transition’s quite evident. Sally and I are always mindful of the fact that the folks who are so kind and work so hard to please us while we visit somehow have to meet a whole year’s expenses with a scant five-months-worth of income. 

So, yes, that’s one thing we are careful to measure: what we pay for things, and our tipping percentage. You won’t find us haggling for an artisan’s unique creation, nor tipping less than 20 percent for decent service—25 or 30 percent for excellent.

   That dude isn’t sleeping because 
   he’s loafing; he’s exhausted from 
   working so hard.

LA CUENTA, POR FAVOR
So, back to the "sleepy Mexican" label. 

What I’ve learned is that Mexicans—and I dare generalize because I’ve found it so universally true—have no problem with either time, counting or effort. What they do have a problem with is putting quotas and deadlines ahead of more important values.

This is why the folks we observe here, these Zihuatanejenses, are so unfailingly generous and patient, with us and in their own lives, whether caring for an elderly parent, abiding the interruption of a street vendor, strolling musician or beggar, or making the best of an event’s starting an hour late.

                 

PHOTO: Fernando Salazar

One custom that, for me, captures this grace especially well is the steadfast refusal of Mexican table servers to bring a diner the check before being asked for it. There’s even a word for it: la sobremesa.*** I’ve never once, in hundreds of establishments in every corner of the country, seen this unwritten rule violated.

         I must have been a Mexican 
         fisherman in a previous life.

NO SWEAT!
So, no, Mexicans aren’t slow. They just know how not to sweat in this searing tropical heat; those with the luxury to choose know not to work during the hottest hours of the day. 

Nor are Mexicans lazy. That dude sitting with his sombrero tilted down over his face isn’t sleeping because he’s loafing; more likely, he’s exhausted from simply working so hard.

To explain my love of this culture I often posit that I must have been a Mexican fisherman in a previous life. While I know I can never be a Mexican in this life, what I can do is, every time I’m here—especially here in Zihuatanejo—to observe and learn from the way folks gauge time and scale and effort and rhythm. And appreciate how all those measures might help me live a happier, healthier more loving life.

               ~     •     ~     •     ~   

* The idiom, “on Mexican time,” refers to the significant cultural differences in time perception evident there. It gained popularity with the success of Tony Cohan's 2009 memoir, On Mexican Time: A New Life in San Miguel.

** Mexican culture, as I’ve observed it in my travels to about half of the country’s 31 states, consistently prioritizes family, relationships, tradition and folks’ Catholic faith. Living joyfully in the present moment matters more than future planning.

*** La sobremesa is the custom of savoring time and conversation spent with family, friends or business associates over and after a meal, free of distraction over payment. While leisurely sharing food was central to pre-conquest Meso-American community life, the specific, formalized custom of sobremesa originated in Spain and eventually became deeply embedded in Mexican culture.

THE LAST OF THEIR KIND – Music Meets Love In Zihuatanejo

They met in Michoacán. I met them in Guerrero. Zihuatanejo, to be exact.

The other day Sally and I were enjoying our iced tea and mango smoothie 
at El Cafecito, a charming little sidewalk cafe just across the Paseo del Pescador from the beach-side fish market.


Every day, we’re entertained there by a predictable bill of strolling musi-
cians, most of whom we appreciate and tip. Most are young and talented, and project pretty well; some have little portable amps.

Just as one young performer was wrapping up his little gig, we noticed a very elderly couple totter into the shady oasis and sit across from us on 
the sea wall. He appeared very frail, shuffling in tiny steps and nudged by Parkinson’s-like tremors. I couldn’t see his eyes, though his very dark sunglasses and certain mannerisms suggested he may also be blind.

She, though quite frail herself, was obviously the one providing the support…and carried the guitar.

   Luis swears he remembers playing 
   for Sally and me almost 20 years ago.

FIFTY YEARS TOGETHER
I’m intrigued by the very well-used instrument. Whose is it? Why do they have it? It seems quite obvious neither of them is up to the task of per-
forming, especially for such a scattered group. 

I have to know…so I grab a chair and go to them. 

Neither speaks English, so my command of Spanish opens the door. First of all, they both seem delighted to chat. We introduce ourselves and share a little information about each other. 

When I get around to asking Maria Elena and Luis about the guitar, they explain: For decades, Luis was one of iconic strolling musicians playing for diners along the several beaches here—mostly Playa La Ropa—every evening. Now and then Maria Elena would accompany him, or at least bring him his supper.

EVER THE AMBASSADOR
Both were born in Mexico City. They met while working as street vendors somewhere near Uruapan, Michoacan, and have been together for 50 years.

 He’s performed in other parts of Mexico, and even as far away as Seattle, where he once sang and played in a restaurant.



We compare notes about our respective histories with Zihuatanejo, and Luis swears he remembers playing for Sally and me almost 20 years ago somewhere on La Ropa. (Ever the good ambassador for the place and the music, I’m thinking.)

  

 Luis addresses me by the gag nickname
 I used yesterday in our introductions: 
 ¡Buenos dias, Jefe!

THE MUSIC IS LIFE
I ask him to play me a song and he asks what’s my favorite. I suggest he play me his favorite. Which he does—a sweet, nostalgic song about the beautiful state of Veracruz, with a musical nod to el Son Jarocho, the traditional folk music style of that Gulf Coast region. 



His voice is surprisingly true and strong, and he picks and strums with fingers that absolutely defy his tremors. 

I thank them and hand him a hundred pesos—a little over $5.00 USD. He doesn’t see it, but she reaches over gently and takes it. We shake hands again—each of them sandwiching mine between both of theirs.

¡UN BIS! / ENCORE!
The next day there they are again. I walk over; they smile and extend their hands. Incredibly, both remember the gag nickname I used yesterday in our introductions. Hola, ¡Buenos dias, Jefe! they say.

Luis plays us a couple more songs, including a request: Los Caminos del Sur and another of my favorites, Zihuatanejo.

I’m not sure other patrons of El Cafecito are aware of Luis and Maria Elena's presence, not to mention and that they still see his music as their livelihood. I'm afraid they're that inconspicuous. 

So each day we see them, Sally and I make sure to request more songs, applaud and hand them a couple of bills as conspicuously as possible. Others do notice, clap and hand over more tips. Some, I'm happy to see, also offer their hands.

    This is the way to have a conversation; 
    this is the way to make friends. 

WELL, ENOUGH ABOUT ME...
Sally and I have met many, many people here in Zihua over the past 20 years. Lots of fellow visitors—most from the U.S. and Canada; fewer Mexicans. Most gringos, while pleasant enough and anxious to tell us about themselves, have shown absolutely no interest in finding out anything about us. Mexicans have generally been more curious about us, but we realize most are either in the hospitality industry—or at least know their town depends on their graciousness to tourists like us. They have to be nice.

I find it most extraordinary that Maria Elena and Luis—mostly Luis—have been full of questions about us: our families, where we live, our careers, what kind of music we listen to back home, what kind of car we drive, what winter's like in Minnesota. 

This is the way to have a conversation; this is the way to make friends.

THE LAST OF HIS KIND

As our annual month here in enchanting Zihuatanejo winds down, I know I’ll weep once again as our Sun Country pilot dips a wing to this welcoming, beach-bejeweled bay and the lovely people who live here. This time, I know one big reason for the emotion will be that this was the year we met Maria Elena Medina Rivera and Luis Pelcastre. 

Yes, this was the year we had the honor, the privilege, of becoming friends with this pair of endearing, iconic costeños—Luis, el músico ambulante, quite possibly the last of his kind.



HORIZONTES / HORIZONS – The View From Paradise

As those of you who follow my occasional travels know, Sally and I spend a late-winter month in Zihuatanejo, a one-time quaint fishing village here on La Costa Grande—the Pacific coast of Guerrero, Mexico. 

A month’s enough time to get past that first week or so transitioning into “vacation” mode. Enough for the feel, the smell…the rhythm of a place to elbow their way past those pushy little stresses one hopes to have left back home.

The most emotional of my many jottings here about Zihuatanejo usually weep out of me as I’m leaving. As the horizon I clutch—that from the airplane of the rolling Sierra Madre del Sur with Zihua Bay glistening in the foreground— is slowly pulled from my arms.

PHOTO: Wil Mertz 

This time, though, I’m changing it up. There are no tears, just joy. For once, I’m going to reflect not on a departure, but an arrival. 

A STUDY IN STRATA
This first morning, as I peer out from our open-air, hillside villa, I feel the welcoming embrace of Zihuatanejo Bay, its arms wrapping round my view south-southwest out across the bay and then the vast Pacific Ocean. And today it’s a study in strata. 

A clear, cerulean sky bisected by a distinct band of pebbly white clouds; then a layer of light ocher haze; next, just above the water, the “marine layer,” that ubiquitous, blue-grey mass of cool, moist air pressed against the horizon by the much-warmer air above. 

The water, too, is striped. In the distance, by the clouds' shadow and other, inexplicable lines of light and dark; within the bay, by the wakes of the little pangas constantly ferrying folks across the bay to and from Playa Las Gatas.

Below that, the sands of Playa La Ropa add a swath of faded khaki, effervesced every ten or twelve seconds by the churning surf.

Would it be silly to ride this theme closer still? To the garland of palm trees lining the beach? To the row of salmon- and pumpkin-hued boutique lodgings just below me? To the bougainvillea-draped adobe parapet of our villa? The top edge of my laptop? The files of little characters I'm lining up across this page?

Yeah, you're right, too silly. 

MORE TO COME
There’ll be many more such impressions to come, each a sensory thread further lashing my heart and soul to this precious place. Stay tuned as I pull on a few of those too…