The Map of My Days

I have divided my world into weeks. It is the only structure I have. Every Sunday I publish my travel chronicle, yet my weeks have never felt so long. As the day approaches when I need to have all my material ready and I look at the calendar, it seems impossible that so much could have happened in only six or seven days. I have to go back through my photographs to make sure what I remember really happened just a few days ago, not several weeks earlier.

Freedom

I have never been freer than I am now, as I approach the final stretch of my life. As a child, I lived an almost monastic existence. My parents treated me like a cloistered nun until, at twenty-two, I moved out on my own to study photography in the United States. That’s how I discovered there were other ways to live.

When I returned home, family and work gave my life a fairly traditional structure for the next thirty-six years.

But at sixty-three, when I thought I had a peaceful and uncomplicated future ahead of me, I suddenly found myself alone and had to accept this new reality. That’s when I discovered what those folded wings were for, and I began a nomadic life I never imagined.

It is a difficult feeling to explain, but once I got behind the wheel, I let myself be carried away by endless landscapes and places I had never imagined I would see. I discovered that I could eat breakfast while watching a bald eagle fly overhead, or play hide-and-seek with a fox in a frozen forest while exploring a glacier. I could walk through fields of flowers in spring and beneath golden trees in autumn. I knew I did not want to live any other way.

After traveling across the United States several times in different seasons and visiting almost all of its national parks, I began playing with the idea of crossing the Americas from north to south. I imagined different scenarios, but one thing was clear: I could not travel alone. I should not attempt thousands of miles along remote roads without a companion.

Dreaming of Patagonia

All the complications involved in such a long journey made it seem almost impossible, and my greatest obstacle was finding the right person to travel with me. Who would be willing to embark on a journey this long and uncertain?

We would have to cross more than twenty borders, each with different regulations and political systems, and encounter countless military and police checkpoints. We would have to endure intense heat and cold, sleep under the stars, but also spend nights in rooms without ventilation or potable water. My companion would also need to be both driver and copilot, taking over behind the wheel or handling the GPS, finding gas stations and places to eat and sleep, and anticipating whatever unexpected situation might arise.

I had already tried traveling with people I didn’t know, and it hadn’t worked. Living closely with someone you know can be difficult enough. Doing it with a stranger was a risk I was not willing to take. I imagined this journey in many different ways: backpacking, taking buses, trains, and boats. But that would mean leaving behind my cameras, my most constant companions for as long as I can remember.

Once, before climbing a mountain, someone told me I could not bring my cameras. I replied:“—If my camera can’t go, neither can I.” That has been my motto ever since. I do not exist if I cannot look through a viewfinder. Traveling the world without my cameras was not a good plan.

A couple of years ago, my brother called me from Colombia and asked:

—“Do you want to drive to Patagonia?”

I was so excited that I did not hesitate. But it turned out we were imagining two very different journeys. To me, driving to Patagonia meant the trip should begin in Colombia, where he was. I lived in the United States, and ideally I would have liked to start from there. Then he explained me what he had in mind: fly to Santiago, rent a camper van, and drive to Patagonia. I knew immediately that this was not my journey. I like to explore slowly, stop whenever I find something interesting, and talk to people. I do not like being ruled by a schedule or having to leave something unexplored because I have a hotel reservation waiting somewhere else.

When my son Martín decided to take a break from his studies after graduating with his undergraduate degree in music, I became excited about the possibility of traveling with him. Then he invited his friend Carter, and suddenly we were an unusual trio.

I had traveled with them to Colombia several times before, and this arrangement let us enjoy one another’s company while still having the independence we all needed. Being together 24/7 is not easy. We keep very different hours. I go to bed relatively early to write, while they go out to enjoy the night. I wake up very early, and they sleep very late, although we do eat together at least once a day.

At twenty-four, they have endless energy and want to climb mountains for no other reason than to reach the top. I, on the other hand, walk slowly, looking for spiderwebs and drops of dew.

At the same time, we have a great deal in common. All three of us are artists, and although we work in different disciplines, that gives us a particular sensitivity and a different way of looking at the world.

What I Found in Guadalajara

Yesterday I wandered through Guadalajara without hurrying, taking everything in with a mixture of surprise and déjà vu. My mind kept transporting me back to Colombia: the clashing colors of graffiti-covered walls, shops and tiny restaurants playing music so loudly it echoed through the neighborhood, the roar of motorcycles, the heavy rattle of buses as they braked, and the delicate tinkling of the popsicle vendor ringing his little bell on a street corner.

In the distance, I could hear the scrap-metal buyer announcing through a megaphone that he would pay for anything people no longer wanted in their homes. His voice faded when the trumpets of a mariachi band rang out, though I could not tell whether they were beginning or ending their day’s work.

The Churches and Their Transformation Through Popular Culture

Before setting out, I looked up a few basic facts to get my bearings and decide what to visit. The first sentence I read said: “On February 14, 1542, the city of Guadalajara was founded for the fourth and final time.”

Almost five hundred years ago!

That thought stayed with me as I crossed plazas, parks, and, of course, churches. I visited several, one after another, two on the same block and even two standing side by side. Their stone façades revealed their age, but their towers and domes belonged to different periods, colors, and architectural styles.

Right there, I looked it up and learned they had been destroyed during the many earthquakes that have struck this region. The cathedral towers were rebuilt using pumice stone to make them lighter, but this porous volcanic rock absorbs water. To protect them from moisture, they were covered with yellow ceramic tiles.

I entered the cathedral and, although it is imposing and filled with altars and chapels dedicated to their respective saints, what fascinated me most were two small sculptures of the Child Jesus displayed inside glass cases.

In the first, the Child Jesus wears a white robe and straw hat and carries a basket on his arm, surrounded by toys and candy. A sign beneath him reads: “El Niño de Atocha.” The second image is a detail that shows the toys surrounding him more clearly. The third is “El Niño de la Misericordia,” wearing a white robe embroidered with gold thread and a large crown, also surrounded by dolls, toy cars, and dinosaurs.

Families come to fulfill promises, and in gratitude for favors received, they bring toys for the Child Jesus to play with.

The Crocheted Coin Purse

After leaving the churches, I wandered through the plazas, where I found countless street vendors. They sold candy, tacos, drinks, handicrafts, hand-embroidered clothing, and an endless assortment of other things.

Amid the commotion, I noticed a woman sitting on the ground surrounded by her wares: dolls, cushions, coasters, backpacks and coin purses. What first caught my attention was how beautifully dressed she was, her hair carefully done and her face made up.

I stepped closer to look at her work, and only then did I realize that she had no arms. She held a crochet hook between the toes of one foot and delicately guided the yarn with the other.

I bought a coin purse so I would never forget her, and so I would remember the lesson written on the sign beside her:

“Even when life is difficult, never stop fighting.” As I put my purchase into my backpack, I saw her husband, who helped her manage the business, feeding her by placing small pieces of food into her mouth.

My New Friends

By then it was noon, and I decided to escape the heat and have something cold to drink. I walked into a restaurant, found an empty table, and, just as I was about to sit down, noticed another white-haired woman at the table next to mine.

I have discovered that gray hair is a magnet. We belong to the same tribe. We are one of us.

We smiled, said hello, and when I walked over, she invited me to join her. While we exchanged condensed versions of our lives, her daughter and two friends arrived. I stayed with them for more than two hours. They treated me to a mango matcha, and the conversation flowed with warmth and an abundance of information.

They told me about the towns, roads, and places where they had grown up. They shared fantastic anecdotes about dealing with earthquakes, tsunamis, snakebites, and everything that comes with living in a place where nature can be peaceful and beautiful, yet also rugged and turbulent.

Museo Cabañas — the Former Hospicio Cabañas

Before reaching Museo Cabañas, the first thing I saw was a fountain whose base was covered in yellow ceramic tile, which seemed appropriate given its sculptures: chubby babies spitting and peeing into the water.

I continued and found more bronze sculptures in the plaza in front of the museum. The ensemble is called La Sala de los Magos, by sculptor Alejandro Colunga. The figures seem to melt over the furniture and are filled with absurd details, but they were created to be played with.

The museum is an imposing building dating from 1805, commissioned by the bishop whose name it bears to shelter orphans and the destitute. Even from the outside, the building surprised me. It looks like a medieval castle, and the visit left me with more questions than answers.

How could a bishop who had recently arrived from Spain have the means to construct a building with more than twenty courtyards, dozens of rooms, a church without an altar, and so many other contradictions, all supposedly to house orphaned children?

Indigenous laborers, enslaved and living in conditions of extreme poverty, left their miserable lives hidden among those stones. All of this was later captured in the murals of José Clemente Orozco, one of Mexico’s great muralists.

My Birthday, a Celebration of My Long Life

I have loved birthdays since I was a little girl. Back then, sixty-nine years ago, celebrations were entirely family affairs. When I opened my eyes in the morning, my mother had already placed my present on a little table beside my bed. It was almost always something I needed: a pair of shoes or a piece of clothing. When I grew older, I would find an envelope with enough money to buy the same thing, only this time according to my own taste.

At night, we had the privilege of choosing the menu: arroz rico (delicious rice) and potato fritters. That was my older brother’s choice, but it’s the only one I remember, even though it was not mine. Anyway, it was my special day among the 365 days of the year.

As I grew older, the date mattered less, and I preferred being the one who celebrated everyone else. Still, I remember my last family celebration very clearly. The memory is bittersweet because I sensed that it would be the last one, and it was.

After my divorce and after my children had left the nest, I decided to reclaim that day for myself. Now I look for something that excites me, something different from every other day. If I am alone, I invite someone, even a stranger.

This year I am with my son and Carter, and they outdid themselves in making the day unforgettable. We went to a gluten-free bakery for breakfast, which, for me, is an event in itself because those places are so difficult to find, and I usually end up watching everyone around me eat.

Suddenly, Las Mañanitas began to play, and my boys, the employees, and the other customers all sang to me. I was moved to tears and blew out my candle to applause.

Afterward, we went to a hot-springs spa, where some of the pools even had different “flavors”: hibiscus, cucumber and rosemary, red wine and others. What I loved most was the setting, near the town of Ajijic, on the shore of Lake Chapala, with volcanoes as the backdrop.

The day ended with an evening walk through Ajijic. At one corner I looked up and saw hundreds of swallows lined up along the wires. There were so many birds that they looked like notes written on a musical staff. What was strange was that they were all right there. On the next block, not a single one.

As I stood there watching them, fascinated, one of them pooped on my face, very close to my mouth, which fortunately was closed.

I rushed into the nearest shop, where they let me use a sink and some soap. Only then did I realize what they sold: churros.

At that point, I had no choice but to try one. It was delicious. I took just a bite, because of the wheat content.

The Mysteries of Guanajuato

The next day, as we finished breakfast, I asked the café owner which towns she liked best along the route from Ajijic to Mexico City. Her first suggestion was Guanajuato.

Although I had heard the name before, I knew nothing about it and had never seen photographs of the city. I knew it would be a surprise, still I had no idea how big it was going to be.

Along the way, I enjoyed the green landscape between the mountains and saw something unusual: beyond vast fields of corn rippling in the wind, fields of agave appeared in their strange blue-gray hue. I watched them flash past my window but couldn’t stop to photograph them because, during the four-hour drive, I found no shoulders or pullouts where I could safely stop.

After passing the sign welcoming us to Guanajuato, we entered a tunnel. Suddenly, when we emerged, we were already inside the city.

The visual impact of what I saw erased everything that had come before, and I loved it because I was completely overwhelmed with excitement. Traffic was moving so slowly that I grabbed my phone to photograph my first impression of a place that seemed to combine the fantastical with the improbable.

Two- and three-story houses were piled one above another, their façades painted in intense shades of lemon yellow, amber and saffron, vivid pink, moss and olive green, ochre and terracotta. Their façades were flat and plain, interrupted only by window frames and occasional wrought-iron balconies overflowing with plants.

In the foreground, electrical wires spread like spiderwebs from utility poles, corners and rooftops, creating a striking contrast with the historic architecture. Behind them rose the hills, where rows of white houses gleamed beneath the blue sky, and I felt the city grew upward rather than outward.

While I stared in amazement at everything around me, I suddenly found myself in a terrifying situation.

The narrow cobblestone streets barely left enough room for us to pass. I could feel the wheels of my SUV bumping against the edges of the sidewalks, while the side mirrors seemed almost to scrape the walls. When I saw people pulling out their phones to film me squeezing through, I knew I was in trouble. There was no way to reverse.

I wanted to sink into the ground, float away, disappear.

I just wanted to get out of there.

Driving my Atlas through those tiny streets was like taking an elephant into a china shop. Several people came to my rescue. One young woman stood in front of the car and guided me with her hand, centimeter by centimeter. Farther ahead, a man approached and explained how I could reach the tunnel and find a parking garage.

The ramp down into the tunnel was unbelievable: narrow, dark, and steep. Beneath the city, embedded in the rock, was a labyrinth of tunnels with stone arches and curves so tight they seemed almost impossible to negotiate.

We descended following the GPS, which fortunately still worked, and eventually reached the parking garage.

Then we encountered another problem. The Thule box carrying our camping gear on the roof added about fifty centimeters to the car’s height, and we couldn’t get inside.

I kept driving until we emerged back into daylight, and Martín and Carter guided me toward a place where we could leave the Atlas safely. I still couldn’t believe we would fit and refused to go in, but they eventually convinced me we could make it through.

Walking through Guanajuato’s passageways and stone staircases requires stamina, especially for the people who live there. Hundreds of steep, uneven steps spiral upward between rocks and houses until they reach the upper parts of the city. From there, we watched a spectacular sunset.

Over the next few days, I explored on foot and took a tour with a local guide. Silvia knew the city like the back of her hand. She was passionate about its history and had an endless supply of stories about Guanajuato.

The city’s name means “land of frogs,” although the frogs disappeared centuries ago when the city became one of the world’s great centers of silver mining and mercury was used in the refining process. Mining waste contaminated the water, and mountain excavation contributed to landslides that flooded the city during storms.

During one of these floods, in 1905, much of the city was devastated, and the basilica was buried beneath an avalanche of mud. Afterward, officials channeled the river beneath the city through tunnels excavated into the rock, and rebuilt the city on top of the ruins.

Today, the river flows underground, the tunnels have been adapted for vehicle traffic, and some of the ruins excavated beneath the present-day church are still open to visitors.

Guanajuato is a vibrant city, full of life. Flower stalls, handicrafts, and tacos fill the labyrinth of cobblestone streets and the great Mercado Hidalgo. At night, the songs of the estudiantinas drift through the streets, while the aromas carry all the richness of its traditional food.