This morning, we [Chiripa partners] left Guadalajara. We took a taxi to the Central de Autobuses (bus terminal), for our 4 hour bus trip to the town of Patzcuaro in the state of Michoacán. As he unloaded our equipaje, the young and somewhat macho taxi driver asked us where we were going. Michoacán, we said. “There has been trouble in Michoacán lately,” he said in Spanish (an apparent reference to the government crackdown on drug gang violence in some areas), “but don’t worry” he grinned. “We’re not worried,” we replied, as we paid the fare.
Patzcuaro haunts us, and keeps drawing us back. It sits above a lake in the wooded highlands of Michoacán (altitude 7,200 ft.). Mist hangs on the mountains, and fragrant pines are rooted in moist red earth. A sweater feels good in the evening, even in summer, and the air is humid. It takes several days to dry the underwear and socks that we wash in the hotel sink.
Patzcuaro’s first cathedral (still standing) was built from 1540-46, just 50 years after Columbus landed in the “New World,” and a full lifetime before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth. But the formidable ruins of much older buildings stand just down the road in Tzintzuntzan, the capital of the pre-Hispanic Tarascan empire.
Patzcuaro’s central plaza (Plaza de Quiroga) is one of the finest public spaces in the Americas. You might not think so at first, because it is very old and somewhat worn and melancholy, but that is part of its charm. It is not designed to inspire “shock and awe.” It is civilized and serene, especially in the early morning light when people gather there to take their morning exercise laps.
A fine statue of Patzcuaro’s benevolent first bishop, Vasco de Quiroga, stands in the center of a quiet pool and presides over the plaza like a good and wise shepherd.
The rectangular plaza is green and beautifully proportioned, planted with ancient trees painted white at the bottom. It is surrounded by harmonious buildings and arcades dating from the 1600’s. The adobe walls, here and throughout the town, are painted white above and red-earth brown below. Red tile roofs, resting on darkened pine timbers, have sheltered the town’s inhabitants for centuries.
The entrance to our inexpensive but comfortable hotel is under one of the arcades. The sidewalk around the entrance is alive with people buying delicious ice cream and sweets from the street vendors. The sweets attract a swarm of honeybees, who know a good thing when they see it. The vendors and customers don’t seem to notice them.
It is the first day of school, and an elaborate opening ceremony is getting underway in the plaza. School children are arrayed in their spotlessly clean uniforms – white shirts, sweaters (different colors for different grades), dark pants, pleated skirts and white knee socks. The brass band plays, and a school color guard raises the flag.
We can’t stay to take it all in, because we must start our expeditions to surrounding villages to find local crafts for Chiripa – hand-hammered copper, lead-free ceramics, carved cantera stone, pine needle basketry, hand-weaving, corn-husk flowers, and distinctive wood and copper furniture. It promises to be “un buen día.”
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