The shower building is completely furnished at this campground and even boasts sinks with mirrors, thus I can shave my cheeks and see what I'm doing for once not at the the sink in the van. The clothes hook in the shower said "Bienvenue" - greeting the naked, defenseless user in French. Très chic. The faucets, they were the problem as I stood there covered in shampoo with Dr Bronner's boring into my skin as only organic peppermint soap can make itself felt. The faucet on the right said "C" and the one on the left said "F" which I interpreted as Chaud for Hot and Froid for Cold, and in much of the world that would be the case. However here the hot and cold were reversed which threw every last brain synapse in my head onto a collision course. I frantically twiddled the Caliente knob and reversed the Frio knob and tried the other way round. I was stepping as far out of the way of the tight trickle of scalding hot water as my short arms would allow and tried to figure out which way to turn the cold knob which is hot and the hot knob which is cold and the water only gets hotter. It was a tough start to the day, and we went into town from the campground driven by a very clean, frizzy, boiled lobster. Tomorrow is another day and another shower. This could be complicated.
The Plaza Grande is the second largest in Mexico (after the one in the capital) and it is the only one in the entire country that doesn't have a church looking out over it. Formally it's known as the Plaza de Vasco Quiroga named for the kindly administrator of the region installed in the 16th century and whose utopian ideals are remembered to this day in a statue.
According to the guide book the city has a Plaza Grande, obviously and a Plaza Chica which is nowhere near obvious. In fact it's a rectangle of open space in front of a church and looks nothing like a Plaza Chica to balance the big plaza. This shortcoming and misdirection from the Lonely Planet resulted in us walking in expanding circles all morning trying to figure out where the bloody hell everything was. I mean, seriously, does this look like a Plaza Chica?
Then I'll tell you the story of the Folk Museum that never was. Our neighbors in the campground told us about a fabulous breakfast to be had in particular corner of the Plaza Grande. We wobbled the van into this big open rectangle and I saw no church in the neighborhood so I knew this must be it. A man with a rag waved us down and offered parking...which we later observed was how he got cars to clean. We found our own space in a half empty plaza which later in the morning was quite full. My wife had turfed me out of bed early and even my startling shower wasn't enough to delay our arrival and snag a spot for our home on wheels.
It's pretty nice having a place to put your purchases, get a cold bowl of water for your dog and a place to download photos and take a rest in the middle of a bustling town. We ended up circling downtown quite a few times on foot to find the fiendishly difficult to locate museum that Layne was determined to see. Pausing at the van on each successive circuit eased the frustration.
I made the photo above on our first circuit when I saw an interesting looking building. However there is absolutely nothing to say that it is what it is, never mind contact information or opening hours. Layne located it after persistently asking people all over the place. It sure wasn't where Lonely Planet said it was. That was a half mile deviation and Pátzcuaro is full of steep hills at 7,000 feet. Good for our sea level lungs I hope. This fruit seller serving an impromptu drive-thru customer gave Layne the final hint that it is what she hoped it was and opens on Tuesday through Friday. Brilliant news as this was Saturday.
No one else had had a clue where the place was , misdirecting us all over the place. Patzcuaro grew on me as the day wore on. At first I found it to be rather over the top tourist oriented. I pined for Uruapan, a town devoted to industry and local needs where we drifted through the crowds as fish out of water yes, but not sheep to be fleeced. Pátzcuaro had the measure of us and sellers of this and that stopped by and drained our supply of small currency pesos. It was overwhelming, the constant begging.
Chocolate, honey, plants, key chains, fruit, nuts and an endless parade of musicians and on and on and even when I was standing in the van downloading pictures someone came up and trod heavily on my last nerve. I was, embarrassingly, a teeny weeny bit abrupt but as much as I liked the town and admired the cleanliness and devotion to the city's good order the constant stream of salespeople jangled me to death. And the city is beautiful and it would be great if a deluge of gringos came to marvel at how cities have been built here over the centuries. And to take the begging pressure off me personally. Middle class Mexicans have an uncanny ability to cut themselves off from the street poverty. I hope I never emulate it.
This is a town packed with Mexican tourists. Indeed one family stopped by saying they were from Chiapas and encouraged us to visit when we return to Mexico, which we shall. However they were interested in getting a van, his wife was pushing him to do it! That surprised me. We showed them all over the van and I hope they fulfill their dreams as we fulfill our best hopes here.
Breakfast was lovely, sweet cinnamon laced local coffee, scrambled eggs local style in two different sauces, crisp bread rolls and fluffy flour tortillas and a burning hot sauce if you preferred not to be able to taste anything. The family at the table next door were quite taken by Rusty and even chose to pet him as he took the attention in his usual superior way.
It was a lovely spot, European in flavor sitting back in the sun and watching the world go by and dispensing alms, of course to the passers by. We were on the lucky side of the equation. We could look out around the city from our perch at the privileged table.
The Plaza Grande is the heart of it all and everyone obeys the command not to step on the grass, or drop trash. The old town in the city is scrupulously clean.
We passed by an artist with van sized paintings and among the sunsets and bland stuff there was one that screamed out to me and I was on tenterhooks wondering if the tire kickers in line in front of us would snag it.
I saw the same scene through my view finder. I liked his better.
There is a dessert in Pátzcuaro which someone will mention to you if you tell them you are visiting the city. A surfer by the name of Dane in distant Barra de Nexpa (water bomb country, remember?) told me about pasta ice cream. Thank you Dane.
Layne says it tastes like a very rich frozen English custard. We ate some and put the rest in Gannet 2's freezer. I love sugar but this was rich beyond my abilities to consume. Quite delicious and I shall miss it when we move on next week. A few pictures from the city for your pleasure:
We tried a dried fried fish which left an oily fishy residue in our mouths - surprise! a fried piece of dough covered in sugar called a churro took care of it for us. Needs must.
No headless dogs in the cafe!
Typical city colors, whitewashed adobe, red paint and black lettering, no advertising no neon!
I still like Uruapan as a living city but its only half an hour away from this place of endless sights and photos and colors and views. I hope I have transmitted some of that beauty and intrigue because they could sure use more visitors as we put Covid behind us. Masks were almost universally worn though and at seven thousand feet I admire their lungs.
