A Day with the Virgin

December 12, 2005. Guanajuato, Mexico.

Morning. A magnificent view of the steep rolling hills of Guanajuato unrolls itself before our waking eyes. The bright Mexican sun bathes the landscape in spleandor calling the gentle shades of green and blue adorning the small adobe houses to life. Countless dogs sound countless staccotto alarms rousting the town and its adopted vagrants from their gentle slumber. Amidst the rumble of fireworks echoing through the nearby mountains we pack up quickly, and jump off of the roof of the parking garage to voin the festivities. First, there is business at hand.

Beautiful as they may be, the cobble stone street of Guanajuato are brutal on our bicycles. Karl´s rear hub is just about shot, and my front rack - the last one remaining not held together by zip ties and duct tape - is badly cracked and may be beyond repair. Luckily I find an open hardware store on the way into the town´s center that sells the necessary parts - zip ties and duct tape - to perform the emergency operation. Fifteen minutes and half a roll of high quality Mexican duct tape later I have my rig back in operation. Next. Secure lodging. Breaking the cardinal rule of vagabonding (you never pay for lodging unless absolutely necessary) we secure a cheap hotel early in the day so we can stash the bikes and make our way through the crowded streets of the festival without the loaded touring rigs. Onward to the Feast of the Virgin.

Afternoon. The streets of Guanajuato are a buzz with activity. Kids, dressed in traditional garb of the feast, dart past old Indian women selling roasted corn on the corners. Scores of beautiful young girls with deep brown eyes line up to buy fresh-cut flowers on the street to leave as offerings in the shrines dedicated to the Virgin throughout the city. Lonely old men sing sing sad songs along with the juke boxes of dimly lit cantinas, their forelorn voices drifting through the swinging doors into the passing throngs of revelers unable to share their sorrows on this beautiful day.

I make my way through the crowds, sampling fresh pineapple sprinkled with chile powder and fresh baked pastries before meeting up with my comrades at the social epicenter of Guanajuato, el centro. From here we proceed up the winding narrow cobbled streets past the constant temptation of fresh sugar cane, steamed garbanzo beans, and fried pork skins smothered in hot sauce. Small rickety carnival rides whirled all around us beckoning the excitement of our youth from its reclusive slumber on this day of infinite joy and hope.

Karl´s tender Canadian bowells yet again objected to the myriad of holiday treats and we make haste to a public restroom, which ironically costs more than the tacos that made the side trip necessary. As Matt and I wait outside for Karl´s bacteria-laden large intestine to purge its demons a bottle of tequila is passed in our direction by a group of giggling Mexican girls eager to test out their English on a couple of unshaven Gringos types. We were happy to oblige.

Evening. The setting sun casts a soft purple hue upon the hills that once inspired a young Diego Rivera. The vendors have now packed up their carts and the smell of fried fish and cotton candy is gone from the air. Replacing them on the cobbled streets are families walking back to thier homes with young mothers carrying tired babies with painted faces in their loving arms.

Back at the hotel I strip the heavy bags off of my touring rig and take the now featherweight bicycle back into the newly deserted city. Racing through the beautiful streets of the past five centuries into the night - dipping down into the pitch black tunnells of the old silver mines I feel alive. Alive as only I can feel on this day, in this place. December 12, 2005. Guanajuato, Mexico.