Exploring Guadalajara

I had a whole afternoon to myself to explore the city of Guadalajara before my flight home. I had a sun hat, some cash, and a small handful of Spanish words. No phone, no internet, no map.

I catch a surprisingly expensive taxi into the historic district. Guess I’m not in the burbs anymore. Along the way I amused myself watching the incomprehensible billboards. The language of advertisement was familiar, but I lacked the cultural context to understand many of the images. Except for beer ads of course, those are recognizable in any language.

I got dropped off right in front of the cathedral, and gawked for a bit at it’s steep spires. I wandered in past beggars who were posted in front of each entrance. Some were in wheelchairs, others just barefoot and moaning. The interior was dark and still and cavernous, a strange mix of people praying and tourists. Deep colors played about the hall from the stained glass windows holding the bright midday sun at bay. A few life sized statues of Jesus seemed to be competing for the title of “most gruesome”.

After stepping back out into the blazing noon-day sun, I rustled through my pack for a hat. I looked even more like a gringo tourist than before, but there was not much I could do about that. I was a long way from fitting in here so I figured I might as well just embrace it. I set out down a wide boulevard for pedestrians only. I was starting to feel hungry and I notice a corner store that looks like some sort of chain. They had sausages on the grill and a slowly rotating shawarma-style rotisserie. However the communication gods were not with me that morning and I ended up with a boring taco. Ah well, it was only 7 cents.

I continued down, calling the tourist map I saw on a poster into my memory, and heading for the largest concentration of markets. A friend told me there was an open market worth visiting. I took a shortcut through a jewelry expo the size of a supermarket, with alert-looking guards cradling shotguns out front. Finally I reach the market place, and there is not much doubt I’ve found the right place.

A massive structure covering several blocks serves as a roof. Inside, shops are packed in end to end, leaving only narrow corridors between them. Each one is a wall of merchandise. Shoes, bags, musical instruments, caged birds, saddles. With the limited sight lines the market felt endless. A Neil Gaiman novel could be set there. As I wandered I started to get a feel for sections. One area for butchers (a goat’s head with limes for eyes stared out at me) another for leatherwork. In the middle an open courtyard felt incredibly bright, and fruit stands overflowed with a bounty I was afraid to eat.

I did need a proper lunch though, so when I saw a picture of molé on a sign up a ramp I headed upwards. Turns out there were three levels to this sprawling metropolis of a market. Looking down at the first level I saw a warren of alleys and stall roofs. The second level was given over to food and the third held who knows what. Even the ramps between levels are packed with stands.

The food was surprisingly good and I left a nice tip before heading out in search of sunlight. I decided my next stop would be a museum, and according to the tourist placard maps I had about 10 to choose from. I headed toward what looked like the largest by footprint, passing street musicians, and performers dressed as Iron Man and a female Captain America. A stand was renting power wheels, black Cadillacs for the boys, pink for the girls, and the square was full of barely in control vehicles. One boy zoomed past in a pink car and I smiled. Go you little guy.

The museum was a relief from the hustle and bustle of the city, and the building itself was an attraction. In the center a massive ornate dome looking like a civic structure loomed. Surrounding it was a massive building, but one that was pockmarked with courtyards and breezeways. Walking through felt like dipping a toe in little worlds of art, all held together in a galaxy of sunshine and bubbling fountains. The quality was astounding and I take my time exploring every nook and cranny.

For a while I am taking pictures and all the curators seem fine with it. Then one comes up to me and says something about a ticket. He was speaking english, but not enough to actually explain, and I didn’t have the context to understand. There are people standing right next to me also taking photos, but I don’t want to get a ticket so I move on.

I pass through a large courtyard, with a statue of two 3 meter long fingers almost touching. A nearby stand shows the same sculpture in major cities around the world. Everyone likes to stand in the middle and reach out their arms to touch both, bridging the gap. There is something very satisfying about seeing pictures of people all over the world indulging the same human instinct for completion, connection, and unity.

The main dome I saved for last and it is full of massive murals, mostly depicting the history of the conquistadors arrival in Central America. I crane my neck upwards at the stylized angels and the angular and terrible men in armor, or priests on horses made of gears and metal. The same guy came up and tells me not to take pictures. I later learn that you can buy a ticket for an extra few bucks that allows you to take photos. Whoops.

I retraced my steps to the cathedral, passing a group of street drummers that are simply remarkable. People who make their living banging on buckets are usually pretty skilled, but this trio is on another level. Two tap out a staccato beat with blinding speed, while the third forms a sort of melody with cymbal-like metal plates that he modulates with his feet. I just stood there in awe until at some hidden signal they all stop totally in sync. I burst into applause and give them an extra good tip before moving on. My rule with buskers is that if you stop and listen then they earned the money. Wish I had thought to get a photo.

I visited another museum which was not as good as the first. The next two I tried were not even open. By this point I had walked the length and breadth of the historic district, so I gratefully dropped my pack and slid into a cab. Back at the airport I sat and thought of home as I waited for the plane to start boarding. First thing on my list when I reach the States?

Hit up a water fountain.