The Michoacan state--from what I was able to gather--is a very fertile place, responsible for a great amount of the agricultural production, hosting vast amounts of maíz, wheat, and what looked like barley. The state is also very picturesque--many beautiful lakes nestled between conical mountains and even a volcano or two. In the fall and winter, it serves as a resting place for migrating butterflies, and on November 1st through 2nd, it serves as the home of what is supposedly Mexico's largest Day of the Dead celebration--held in Patzcuaro, home of the Purepecha people, originators of the festival.
Sebastian and I made it to Morelia in no time (a very short 4 hours). Of course, time flies when you've passed out for the entire bus ride. Upon arrival we ordered some enchiladas and he called his friends, whom we would be meeting up with for the rest of the voyage. A couple of hours passed and his friends arrived, setting the stage for one of my favorite things. Sebastian and his friends are French Canadian. Sebastian speaks English as a result of hitch hiking across Canada when he was 18, and eventually residing in Vancouver for over 5 years. His friends, however, only spoke French and Spanish, causing us to all communicate in Spanish. I loved it. I think there is nothing better than finding a common ground, despite the uncommon. I will say, though, that its pretty hard to understand Spanish with a French accent. Another difficulty was that I never figured out how to spell their names. I'm not even sure that I can spell them phonetically.
We arrived in Patzcuaro late in the afternoon. One of Sebastian's friends lost her camera, and had to file a police report.
The Downside of Traveling with Others, Part 1:
Not that its that big of a deal, but when you travel with other people, you always have to suffer with them. If they get their camera stolen, I wait. Not because I have to, but because its the right thing to do. Right? Maybe not...
We got coffee for everyone while we waited, and sort of took our time getting back to the police station. It ended up taking a couple of hours, knocking some time off of our ever so valuable daylight hours. Eventually, the report was filed, and we found our way to a restaurant off of the plaza. NEVER eat at a restaurant just off of a plaza, if their menus are in English, or if they use certain types of fonts. Experiment with the fonts, you will understand what I mean. I think its probably the same case for American restaurants as well. We took the opportunity, upon the suggestion of some ladies next to us, to partake in the city special--Pescado Blanco (small, very very small, white fish that have no flavor) and Sopa Tarasca (think Tortilla soup with a cream base)--and some tequila (which is not cheaper in Mexico, despite a popularly held belief).
After dinner, the four of us headed back to our damp, moldy, cheap hostel, abandoned what belongings we didn't need, and headed out into the dusk, towards the pier, and off to the Isla Janitzia--home of the biggest party of all. The dock was packed, full of food vendors, tourists, locals and plenty of alters. After fighting our way through the crowd, we bought tickets for the boat to Janitzia and jumped on board.
The ride to the island was very tranquil, sans the unmuffled boat motor, allowing me the peace it sometimes takes to become satisfied with oneself. I thought about what had gone on in the past 12 hours--I had left, whenever I wanted, went to another city and just like that, I was on a boat headed to an island in the middle of the night, because I could and decided I would. I then proceeded to stick my hand down above the water and take this picture:
Island, straight ahead
We arrived on the island, and to our dismay, there was almost no one there. Despite tails of days spent reveling in this time honored tradition, it appeared as though most people had left the party early. In other words, the revelers were done reveling. From the looks of those remaining, if they weren't done yet, they probably needed to be. A vacant island is never a problem though, as we were able to peacefully interact with the Isla's residents, taking every opportunity we had to indulge ourselves--including the most amazing flatbread of my life. After stuffing ourselves, we forged through a crowd of hippies, and up the steps towards the centerpiece of the island. The largest statue-of Independence figure Morelos--that I have ever seen of anything or anyone that is not the Statue of Liberty (I haven't really seen that many statues, I must admit).
On our descent, we came across the Isla's cemetery. Conveniently located on the side of a cliff, the cemetery housed some of the most breathtaking alters that I have scene so far in Mexico. The thirty or so minutes spent navigating the cemetery was well worth it, even causing me to ponder what I would want after I die... After fighting our way through the hippies once again, we hopped back on the boat, and headed towards the mainland. We all looked forward to our damp, dark, hotel room. Actually, I'm being fecetious.
We arose at the crack of dawn the next morning in order to catch the next bus back to Morelia, only to figure out that we didn´t need to. So instead, we wandered through the market, all the while gawking at whole pig heads, (bone) morrow cakes, thousands of different types of fruits and vegetables, bluejeans 10 sizes to small for me, and hundreds of deep fried snack foods (including deep fried pig skin--chicharron).
Eventually, we got to Morelia, they went to the beach and I went back to cold Guanajuato so I could take another week of spanish lessons at Academia Falcon. As my second class bus slowly (very very slowly) drifted into the sunset, I thought about what in the hell just happened, slighly smiling to myself like I often do.
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