This morning, as we headed toward the bus terminal, workers were sweeping the streets with long brooms made of bundled twigs and fronds, and people were stretching and taking their morning exercise laps around the Plaza Quiroga.
The bus terminals in Mexico are amazing. Buses are constantly coming and going in a precise and intricate dance. They simultaneously carry thousands of people to hundreds of different destinations. The barkers call out the names in a flat nasal twang: “Morelia, Morelia!” “Uruapan!” “Zitacuaro!” It is an enormously efficient transportation system, from which we could learn much.
Sadly, if you take a first-class bus, you must endure the movies. These are often loud and violent U.S. products, and by the end of an otherwise pleasant and restful trip they can leave you exhausted. These movies, far more than any diplomatic communications, shape the world’s image of the United States. The overall impression is that of a violent, corrupt and degenerate society.
Despite the movie torture en route, we completed the 5-hour trip from Patzcuaro to Guadalajara, via Morelia. You couldn’t describe Guadalajara as quaint or picturesque, although its downtown features magnificent colonial architecture. It is a big, hard-working, blue-collar place. It has plenty of rough edges, but it is not mean. A sincere young taxi driver told us that Mexico City was choked with pollution, traffic, poverty and crime (“todo malo”), but that Guadalajara was much better (“you don’t get robbed here”).
On Sunday afternoon, families and couples are out walking in the downtown (unlike many U.S. cities, which are ghost towns on weekends). Children, in their underwear, are laughing and playing in the fountains. The splashing water and cool mist offer relief from the afternoon heat. --JM August 16, 2009
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