Google “Guanajuato” and you will be inundated with articles proclaiming it to be the most beautiful city in Mexico. If you can get past the clickbait-y, insta-centric monotony so prevalent in modern travel content, there is some truth to this.
Situated in the dusty mountains of central Mexico, Guanajuato's wealth came from the surrounding silver mines. Main roads run through a labyrinth of old mining tunnels that chaotically crisscross the city. With its colourful colonial architecture and vibrant performing arts scene, walking around can feel like you are in a real-life fairytale. After all, the city was used as inspiration for many scenes in the Pixar movie “Coco”.
Fairytales aside, Guanajuato retains a gritty realness and plenty of dog shit. Due to increasing narco activity, many tourists prefer to stay in the neighbouring city of San Miguel de Allende. Because of this, Guanajuato had a perfect ratio of locals to foreigners.
The city is also a big university town, with one of the biggest performing arts universities in Latin America. In the evenings, the city comes alive with live music and dancing as local students take tourists (mostly domestic tourists) on singing tours through narrow alleyways and the key attractions around the historic centre.
We came to Guanajuato intending to stay for a few weeks. After four months on the road, we desperately craved some resemblance of stability. After signing up at a local Spanish school, we quickly settled into daily routines. There was no road access to our apartment so we had to walk about 40 steps to our door every day; the exercise part was almost non-negotiable. I spent a lot of time on our Airbnb’s rooftop. With 360-degree views of the city centre and the surrounding mountains, I used this space to exercise, write, think, and drink.
The drinking and thinking had a lot to do with my mother having recently passed away, after a long battle with Parkinson's disease. To put it simply, our relationship was complicated and she gave me explicit instructions not to return to Australia for her funeral. I was struggling to process this and was overcome by a crippling combination of regret, guilt, and helplessness.
Mexico is an interesting place to grieve. Similar to many Indigenous cultural values in Australia, the separation between life and death feels less pronounced and is embraced with greater openness and acceptance. A stark contrast to many in Australia (myself included), who are conditioned to treat death with avoidance and to process it by saying less and drinking more. We let our grief fester over long periods, only to rear its unfamiliar head when we’re alone with our thoughts or, in my case, after a few drinks.
I thought back to times Mum would attempt to broach the subject of death. Lacking maturity and emotional resilience, these conversations would usually end with me accusing her of being dramatic, and defeatist. In hindsight, she was being realistic and trying to prepare me for this inevitable eventuality. I wish with all my being that I could have these conversations with her again, but I never will, and that is something I’m learning to live with.
I came out of my rut when I met Carlos. Leisa and I signed up for a Spanish/English language exchange at a local rooftop bar and Carlos was at our table. We stayed drinking long after the language exchange had finished. Leisa was very happy to have someone to speak Spanish with and I was happy to have a drinking buddy. It was a win-win.
Carlos worked in purchasing for a small boutique hotel in the central tourist district. He lived with his family in the neighbouring valley. Despite having never left Mexico, he was very curious about the outside world. We bonded over Mexican and Australian colloquialisms, usually over drinks at one of the many rooftop bars around the city. As someone prone to severe bouts of belligerence and aggression when under the influence, I admired Carlos’ ability to drink me under the table while still exuding charm, composure, and general self-awareness.
That Friday we met Carlos for knock-off drinks at yet another rooftop bar. As the sun set behind the mountains, a torrent of mescal and beer flowed through my veins. After the bar, Carlos took us to his hotel where his friend made us cocktails. They must have been strong as I don’t remember coming home. Carlos and Leisa force-fed me tacos and agua refresca (sugary cordial) and dragged me back to the Airbnb through dim-lit alleys Carlos knew like the back of his hand.
On our final night, Carlos took us to his favourite street stand that was locally renowned for its tripe tacos. It felt like everyone in Guanajuato was in line as we waited – for what felt like an eternity – for the grandma and grandpa duo to fry, slice and dice the tripe into delicious soft tacos over a hot grill. Carlos assured us it would be worth the wait. He was right, but we were glad to have a skin-full of beer to enjoy the wandering theatre troup tour that paraded past our queue.
Afterwards, we came back to our rooftop. Carlos sliced up grapefruit and orange in our tiny kitchenette so we could share a bottle of mescal before saying our goodbyes. Feeling morose, I came back to the rooftop for a nightcap. The mescal was hitting and the city turned into a swirling mass of music, fireworks, and chaos. I took a final sip and soaked it in.
