The Cerveza Diaries: Mexican Adventures, Part 3

Greetings, at long last, from Hong Kong! It's so nice to be back here! I arrived bright and early this morning to the most rousing welcome from my little Fredric, and I must say, in about thirty seconds, all the stress and exhaustion from thirty-six hours of travel between Guanajuato and Happy Valley was instantly forgotten. 

I cannot tell a lie: I am absolutely knackered right now. I am very much looking forward to calling it an early night pretty soon. But I'm also delighted to report that the grand finale of my Mexican extravaganza was up to the same high standards as the earlier chapters.

And before turning in, I’d like to write one last diary entry to document the tail end of my adventures! So, let’s see… where was I? As I recall, the last time I checked in, I had just arrived in Patzcuaro shortly after dusk, building a fire in my comfortable hotel room and eagerly wishing the morrow.

Less than an hour’s drive from Morelia—and still located within the borders of the state of Michoacán—the little town seems lightyears, or at least centuries, removed from every other place I had been. And although I had considered skipping out on it, afraid I was spreading my last destinations too thin and might be better off consolidating two locations into one, so I could properly do it justice, I’m oh-so glad I found the time to squeeze it in. Dare I say, now in hindsight, I can confidently place Patzcuaro at the very top of all the towns I visited in Mexico.

I had taken a brief evening wander around that first night (complete with some heavenly chicken enchiladas), but until you see Patzcuaro in the magical light of day, you can only begin to grasp its cobblestoned charms.

And I set out early the next day to discover it. There’s a fairy-tale consistency to the town, nearly all the buildings painted white but accented with a uniform garnet-maroon trimming.

Similarly, upon these façades, the name of each hotel, restaurant or shop is printed in a single font, with every word’s first letter emphasized in crimson, with the rest jet black. The roof tiles—never fail—were of dark burnt-orange clay.

Just a few steps from my hotel, the Meson de San Antonio—with its friendly cat and an enormous cactus-studded communal courtyard—sits Patzcuaro’s marvelous Basilica, a noble edifice standing proud atop a small hill, surrounded by trees and park-like space. It almost seems too grand for such a small town, but, somehow, it works.

The air was fresh and cool at that early hour as I explored, imbuing everything I saw with exceptional attractiveness. It was perhaps best described in the introduction to a free photography exhibit I stumbled upon later that afternoon, where the American expatriate artist, Jeffrey Love, introduced his compositions as follows:

In the early morning, the light is clean and delicate, and it reveals things that will later become hidden the rest of the day. I go out early for long walks, looking and listening. Images appear suddenly, a passing glance out of the corner of the eye. It feels like stumbling on some ancient artifact—a surprising discovery, a gift.

Mexico is full of these artifacts, traces of the past eroded over time and slowly obscured by what has followed. They are markers of cultural meaning, made visible in anonymous and unforeseen ways. As if in gaps left open in the layers of past and present. I look for pictures in these places.

Down the hill from the Basilica, a steep road descends to the town’s main square, called the Plaza Grande, a glorious quadrangle crisscrossed by footpaths dividing the lawn into slender, grassy triangles, with a lovely fountain plop in the middle. All day long, this seemed to be the epicenter of Patzcuaro’s social life, and every time I visited, the space was just brimming with quotidian activities: parents playing with their children, lovers strolling hand-in-hand, friends congregating on the benches around the fountains, gossiping.

Patzcuaro’s secondary square, admittedly less photogenic but even more bustling, is called Plaza Chica, and it seems to hold its own essential place in the town’s affairs. While Plaza Grande is lined with sidewalk cafés and hotels, this space is filled with market people selling their wares. It’s almost like Plaza Grande is reserved for relaxation and pleasure while Plaza Chica is the place to take care of business: the local commercial heart.

This is also where you find Patzcuaro’s library, housed in an old, decommissioned church, complete with a superb mural on its back wall. I spent ten minutes or so in the airy space, browsing the books as glorious light poured through the large, arched windows that, for all I knew, may once have been graced with stained-glass. 

In fact, light plays a huge part in the fascinating allure of this town. The ubiquitous white walls intriguingly reflect every shadow, as the sun moves across the sky, playing tricks with balconies, gates and lanterns. That’s part of the reason why wandering the same streets over the course of a single day remains fascinating. The view is always different.

Unlike Morelia, where the pink volcanic stone itself changes color from dawn till twilight, the smooth stucco canvases on display in Patzcuaro remain a constant, sun-bleached white all day long. But those shadows! The shadows are in a constant state of flux, moving across these flat expanses, with endlessly captivating results.

As it turned late morning, my noon check-out time was approaching, and my brief visit to Patzcuaro was meant to come to an end. Yet I just couldn’t tear myself away. I asked the friendly proprietress at the Meson de San Antonio if my room was available for one more night and was delighted when she answered in the affirmative.

I was very excited to see my next proposed destination, Guanajuato, but, at the same time, I was thankful that I had held off on formalizing any plans since Heidi and I had split. A well-organized vacation can be very nice, of course, and sometimes, proper preparation is required. But there’s something so refreshing about having no schedule at all, just a flexible strand of possibilities that you will ultimately tie together at the last minute.

Between my post-wedding return to Mexico City and my flight from Los Angeles to Hong Kong a week later, I let my impulses dictate my itinerary. All I had to do was ensure that at some point before the big flight, I landed back in LA. Everything else I could leave to the last minute. And Patzcuaro was just where I desired to cash in on this freedom.

Who knows, maybe I’d even stay a third night, or a fourth, and head back to Los Angeles from Morelia, skipping a final destination entirely. I could make up my mind later. For this is a place you want to linger, not necessarily to check any major items off your to do list, but simply to bask in its easy charms. It reminded me, in a way, of Savannakhet, or Chiang Mai, or even Chincoteague, all incredibly pleasant places to soak up a one-of-a-kind ambiance. I could have stayed on for a week, falling into the gentle rhythms of local life.

Patzcuaro is famed for being one of the best shopping locales in Mexico, a veritable haven for regional handicrafts and art. And, as I’ve gotten older, shopping—previously something I rarely enjoyed during my travels—has become a focal point. I like to pick out a few nice souvenirs everywhere I go, with an objective of perpetually decking out my apartment with all the knickknacks I’ve collected from around the world.

By this point in the trip, I’m sure you can imagine that my sole backpack was nearing capacity. I hadn’t taken along any checked luggage—preventing me from stocking up on liquid mementos—but even that didn’t stop me from going a little overboard in Patzcuaro on the shopping front. As I strolled around town that day, I began ducking into every little boutique I could find.

My plan was simple enough. At first, I wouldn’t buy anything but merely make mental notes of those objects that most caught my eye. Then, after carefully evaluating all the options, I’d return to the best places to make my purchases.

Probably the most picturesque of the town’s shopping venues is the Casa de los Once Patios, or the House of Eleven Patios, a former convent with—you guessed it—eleven courtyards spread throughout its various levels. Now taken over by more than a dozen showrooms, featuring everything from musical instruments and regional dolls to stunning textiles and handmade glassware, the gorgeous colonial space made for pleasant browsing.

However, it was on the streets of town where I found the stores that most tickled my fancy. In one, I eyed a gorgeous set of ceramic coasters with inlaid metallic butterflies. Reminded of my experiences just the day before at the wildlife sanctuary, I returned later to snap up two pair, one to keep for myself and one to send to Danii. (I think it will be nice to know that although we live a half-a-world away from each other, both of our apartments have a shared accessory.)

In another delightful shop, I found a small torso-shaped bottle embellished with a colorful, poncho-like motif over its would-be shoulders and topped with a sombrero-capped cork. I’m not quite sure what about this little bauble intrigued me so, but I couldn’t deny that it did. So back I went to add it to my cache. Perhaps I’ll keep a special supply of tequila or mezcal in it now that I’m home?

But the bulk of my search that afternoon was for the perfect Day of the Dead statue to bring back. Shockingly, when I decided to visit Patzcuaro, I hadn’t even realized that it’s the quintessential Mexican spot to celebrate the iconic event. Apparently, the town’s hotel rooms are booked solid during the early November festival. And the common area of the Meson de San Antonio had some stunning  examples of the iconic figurines. 

A close equivalent to Halloween, the Day of the Dead—alternatively called Dia de Muertos or Dia de los Muertos in Spanish (depending on who you ask)—is one of Patzcuaro’s red-letter days. And, I guess because of this, pretty much every shop in town stocks an assortment of skeletons in various sizes and various poses.

Don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that I popped into at least twenty or more stores that day inspecting these bona fide works of art. And one place really set itself apart with the high quality and diversity of its statues. After surveying the whole town, I returned after dark to make final decisions. And I ultimately wound up taking home two amazing, fragile pieces: a male—leaning back against a barrel, cigar in one hand, beer bottle in the other, complete with mustache and wide-brimmed sombrero—and a female—with a rooster clasped in her left arm, her head slightly cocked, and her right hand reaching for the gun in a holster on her hip.

The very helpful shop-keeper lovingly removed their heads and packaged them carefully in bubble wrap before placing them in a cardboard box, which he firmly taped shut. I wasn’t sure either would make it home in one piece, so I was beyond elated this morning when I carefully opened the box to find them both in near-perfect condition.

I wish I could have loaded up on several more of these, alas there just wasn’t space. But mark my words: Not only will I return to Patzcuaro, but I’ll do so during the Day of the Dead festivities. And with better planning on the luggage front, I’ll buy my darling couple several new friends, as I begin assembling an expansive Dia des Muertos troupe.

In the midst of my daylong shopping spree, I did check into one attraction, called the Museo de Artes e Industrias Populares. This little museum doesn’t offer much in the way of English translations, but it was a lovely space to spend a half hour or so. The regional crafts and costumes on display were certainly interesting, and the plant-studded courtyard in the center of the building, built in 1540, was gorgeous.

A helpful guide followed me around to ensure I didn’t miss any rooms, and she made it a point to lead me to a quiet area behind the museum, where excavated Purepechan ruins have been unearthed.

It was nearing four o’clock in the afternoon by the time I exited the galleries, and apart from a few pieces of toast at the Meson that morning, I hadn’t eaten anything of substance all day. I fixed that at Antonia’s Terrace, which has got to be among the loveliest spots in town.

On a rooftop above Hotel Casa Leal, the open-air restaurant affords a panoramic view over Plaza Grande and the town’s low-rise buildings. And the chilled melon soup and trio of tacos I sampled—tuna, beef and shrimp—were absolutely delicious. Throw in an ice-cold margarita and you have a perfect late lunch.

That afternoon, I hit upon a glorious discovery: the shaded arcades lining the Plaza Grande are chock full of little sidewalk ice cream stalls, called neverias. As a non-Spanish speaker, I paused for a moment upon noticing the word never hidden in the name. I found it all exceedingly ironic, since I’d likely come a-calling every day if I lived in Patzcuaro.

My invention that afternoon is deserving of a major award. I randomly combined two flavors from the immense menu—rose and tequila—and inadvertently created the most heavenly blend of tastes. Some mixologist should expound upon my discovery, because a rose margarita would surely be a fantastic addition to any cocktail list.

I took in that evening’s sunset atop the local mountain’s vantage point, called El Estribo, drinking in the Michoacán landscape one final time. It was almost bittersweet, looking down towards the massive lake and out over the endless hills, but I’d decided that I’d be moving on to Guanajuato the following day (and booked a Saturday morning flight to LA from there, sealing my fate).

Back in town, I sat down at a sidewalk table at El Patio, on the Plaza Grande, and had another delicious meal, feasting on a local Michoacán cheese for an appetizer and hearty fish for my main. A talented singer serenaded the small crowd of diners during part of the evening, and I really wish I had reached into my pocket and tipped him before he left. I still feel bad I didn’t, and on my promised return to Patzcuaro, I’ll try my best to track him down and make up for this mindless moment of frugality. But, still, it was a peerless night under the Patzcuaro stars.

Back at the Meson, I built a fire again, even better than the one that fizzled out rather quickly the night before. This time, I kept it going for hours, augmented by two extra wood deliveries from the friendly owners.

Waking up in Patzcuaro is a wonderful occasion, and I’m so glad I got to experience a second morning here. It’s the kind of place where, upon first opening your eyes, instead of wanting instantly to shut them again, you’re immediately wide awake, grateful, eager to once again look upon the town’s glories. Snoozing never entered my mind.

I enjoyed an al fresco breakfast—fantastic chilaquiles—at Plaza Chica’s Gran Hotel, as the sidewalk shops came to life that sunny day. And I took a long, slow meander through the stalls of the market and circumnavigated the entire town one last time before I finally made my way to Morelia’s bus depot, from where I’d be venturing to my final Mexican destination of the trip. You won me over, Patzcuaro. Bigtime.

In a way, I suppose it was inevitable that Guanajuato would find its way onto my first serious Mexican itinerary, because, in some sense, it was the place that unknowingly kicked off my desire to visit the whole country.

Back in 2013, I checked out my first book from Hong Kong’s Central Library: Ray Bradbury’s The October Country, an astounding collection of eerie short stories. One tale—my favorite of the bunch—was entitled The Next in Line, and it recounts the misadventures of a married couple, Joseph and Marie, who visit an unnamed Mexican town so evocatively described (and with such an unearthly attraction) that I initially assumed the whole production was an invention of the author’s feverish imagination.

Joseph is fascinated and Marie disturbed by a visit to a most macabre sight: the naturally mummified bodies of the town’s residents, which are occasionally exhumed when their living relatives cannot pay an annual tax required to keep them buried. For a mere peso “tip,” the local cemetery attendant has taken to guiding tourists through the dark crypt where the remains are stored.

After the outing, Marie wants nothing more but to get the hell out of town. But their car breaks down, leaving them stranded, to Joseph’s delight and Marie’s mortification, as an increasing paranoia washes over her. It’s a marvelous study in madness and terror, and I highly recommend giving it a read.    

Bradbury never names the town in his work—Patzcuaro gets a mention, though, as the couple’s next destination, if only that bloody car would start—but I learned through subsequent research that its setting was heavily based on Guanajuato. “If I ever make it to Mexico,” I remember thinking at the time, “this is one place I’d love to visit.”

The journey from Patzcuaro passed quickly and pleasantly on the comfortable bus, with jazz from my in-seat entertainment set offering an evocative soundtrack to the ride. And then we arrived.

The juxtaposition couldn’t have been more perfect. Morelia was all pink, Patzcuaro all white, but Guanajuato… Guanajuato was every shade imaginable. It sometimes seemed as if no hue was repeated twice among the rainbow of buildings. Even my hotel was named La Casa Azul—the Blue House—underscoring the liberal use of color peppered throughout the town’s crooked streets.

From the roof of La Casa Azul, I got my first real taste of Guanajuato’s beauty, as I looked out across the expansive basin in which the town is situated. The buildings—all shapes, all sizes—crept up hillsides in every direction, and the sun was setting behind it all, lending the typically magical aura of the hour to the whole scene. What an introduction!

Compared to Patzcuaro, Guanajuato seemed enormous. So I was actually pretty surprised how intuitively I found my way through its winding streets. I knew the hilltop lookout was called El Pipila, and I found the funicular railway terminus at its base easily. In a few moments, I was ascending upwards along the steep incline.

There was a small bar perched at the top, where I indulged in a twilight-time Cerveza Victoria, as the sky turned to black and the lights of Guanajuato started illuminating all over the place.

Still getting my bearings, I walked down afterwards, taking an amazing stroll around, photographing—or at least wanting to photograph—nearly every building I came across. I must have walked for hours, but I was endlessly entranced by the winding streets, crooked apartment buildings, youthful population and gorgeous architecture.

I had a feast that night at the Hotel Santa Fe, or, more accurately, in the inn’s diminutive outdoor seating area that juts into the Jardin de la Union, that “little caricature of a town square,” as Bradbury had described it, a cheese wedge-shaped park graced with “fine French-clipped trees in the shapes of exact hatboxes.”

And after dinner, more wandering, more discovery, more photography. I was enamored. I went to bed like a boy on Christmas Eve.

Waking to my last day in Mexico, I was determined to make the most of it. And I did. It was almost certainly the fullest day of the trip. For if Patzcuaro was a place without any major sights, Guanajuato was over-studded with things to see. I had a list of six attractions to work my way through, and a single day to do it!

I kicked things off atop the Pipila again, savoring the vast, colorful panorama in the soft morning light. It was clear this was the start of a glorious day, complete with a balmy breeze. Like pretty much every other place I’d visited on the trip so far, I began the get the feeling that Guanajuato warranted significantly more time than my itinerary allotted. But I felt fortunate just to be there at all.

In case you are wondering, the mummy horde Bradbury describes in The Next in Line is only a slightly exaggerated embellishment of the reality. The author had actually visited Guanajuato during a trip to Mexico, the story being based on his experience. There actually was a burial tax instituted in the 1870s (that perpetuated until 1958!) that lead to numerous corpses being disinterred. The region’s climate really does lend itself to natural mummification, and the most well-preserved examples were stored in an underground vault. And when curious visitors got wind of it, crypt keepers keen to earn a little extra dinero really did accept a discreet kickback of a few pesos to unlock the gates.

Nowadays, it’s a much more organized affair. Gone is the era of the one-peso bribe to the guard. Instead, I bought my ticket openly for one-hundred-and-fifteen pesos (including a thirty-peso fee to take photos) from the counter. I was the first visitor of the day.

And in I went, into a darkened, hushed series of atmospheric rooms, flowing one into the other, all lined with varied bodies in glass vitrines. I wandered about in virtual solitude, meeting mummy after distinctive mummy: empty eye sockets and skin tightened over bony rib cages and firmly clenched fingers and haphazard tufts of hair.

Some mummies have explanatory tablets recounting their stories—even their names! But many do not, leaving it up to your own imagination. Several sport tattered remnants of the clothes in which they were interred in the centuries past, while quotes about life and death line the walls.

And it’s augmented by an appropriately spooky soundtrack, lending an uncanny vibe to the place. But if the world is broken into Josephs and Maries, I’m decidedly among the former. I found the whole experience very moving, from a row of infants to a pregnant mother poignantly displayed beside her unborn fetus, from a drowning victim to a woman possibly buried alive!

I certainly took my time in the museum, which is not so vast as to occupy more than an hour or so of one’s time. But the glorious weather did fill me with a desire to re-enter the world of the living, and exiting the crypt into the bright light of late morning was quite refreshing.

I had a quick breakfast of heavenly pork tacos in the town’s cavernous two-story market, resembling a European train station. I also bought a tiny Guanajuato fridge magnet from one of the many stalls, which could be easily slipped into my full-to-the-brim backpack.

My next attraction was the Don Quixote Iconographic Museum, an intriguing little collection, if I do say. In fact, the story behind the museum is equally as absorbing as the artifacts on display in the galleries. During the Spanish civil war, a sixteen-year old Loyalist named Eulalio Ferrer Rodriguez fled to France, where he was interned in a refugee camp. At the camp, bored and desperate, he traded a pack of cigarettes with a soldier in exchange for a small book he had never heard of before.

The book was Miguel de Cervantes Don Quixote, and the young Spaniard read, re-read and re-re-read the tome over and over, as the book provided him with mental escape from the monotony and loneliness of his predicament. In his mind, he could break free of the confines of the camp and ride off with Quixote and Sancho Panza in search of windmills. He remarked that the book saved his life.

So when he eventually made his way to Mexico in the 1940s, and began to see some success in his business endeavors, he started assembling a group of items related to his literary heroes: noteworthy editions of the book itself, paintings, etchings, sketches, statues, murals, ceramic figurines, really anything he could find!

At one point, his house was so full of Quixote-related bric-a-brac that he had to upgrade living quarters to properly display his treasures. But the collection just kept growing. Now a wildly important entrepreneur, Rodriguez was even able to commission artists around the world to create works for his collection. And, so, in 1987, he donated all of it to found the Don Quixote Iconographic Museum in Guanajuato.

Today you’ll find pieces by artists like Salvador Dali, Pedro Coronel and Francisco Corzas spread among a dozen or so rooms on two floors. They range from the minuscule to the gigantic, and it’s really impressive to see the vast range of works inspired by the title character and his ever-faithful sidekick.

A few steps down the sunny street sits one of Guanajuato’s most venerable sights, the Teatro Juarez, which doubles as a museum during the day. By this point, I had already walked by the imposing theater several times. (It fronts directly onto the Jardin de la Union.) But now, I took my chance to enter and explore its rich inside spaces. I only wish I could have seen a show here—any show, really—because the eye-catching interior would certainly enhance no matter what production.

My next museum of was Museo Casa Diego Rivera, birth house of the famed Mexican artist (and husband of Frida Kahlo) whose work played a significant part in Heidi’s and my exploration of Mexico City at the start of this trip. In addition to furnishing the rooms of the house in the way they would have appeared during his Guanajuato childhood, the galleries also displayed some of his earliest, foundational canvases, several of which I found even more worthy of praise than his iconic, monumental murals.

A block or so away is another fascinating attraction called the Museo del Pueblo de Guanajuato, gathering centuries worth of oil paintings and other art from the town’s history into a single, impressive building. Small and manageable, I really enjoyed my wander here. But I guess after having now entered my fifth straight museum, I was ready to sample something a little more unconventional.

So I hailed a cab to take me to La Valenciana, a small suburb on the outskirts of town, home to an unusual church and one of the town’s most important mines. At the peak of its success, the La Valenciana mine accounted for an astounding two-thirds of the world’s silver production and, in conjunction with the other mines in the vicinity, contributed greatly to the otherworldly wealth that enabled Guanajuato to become such a rich and important city.

To commemorate the opening of the mine, the Count of Valenciana constructed an eye-catching church, made of dark pink stone and graced with asymmetrical towers. But the front façade gives little indication of the impressive altar hidden inside.

I entered rather sheepishly, unsure if I'd have to buy a ticket or could just go inside. A pair of would-be guards chatting in the airy space didn't seem to acknowledge my presence, so I began my self-guided tour. And soon my jaw was on the floor. The late afternoon light was pouring through the high windows, bathing the church in an ethereal glow. And the three altarpieces (in the west, north and east) were covered entirely in gold. I mean every inch. Literally. I've never seen anything like it. 

Sadly, a Frommer's recommended restaurant seems to have closed since 2010, when my guidebook was published. But I also took the chance to visit the nearby mine. I was here, so why not?

Approaching the counter, I bought a ticket, donned a hardhat, and met my friendly (but non-English-speaking) guide, as we descend hundreds of feet below the ground. He was an older man—I’d guess at least sixty—and he seemed to walk with a slight but perceptible limp. I was impressed with how much of his Spanish I actually understood. He had worked in the mines since he was young, and though he’s not an active miner any more, he still guides visitors around most days.

It was a solo tour, because, as he lamented with a note of sorrow, “Everybody comes to Guanajuato today to see the churches. What they don’t realize is that without the success of our mines, we would have never had the money to build such beautiful churches. Yet we are overlooked.”

“Thank you sincerely,” he closed, after taking a series of photographs of me in various miner poses, “for making the effort to come to this forgotten mine, which means so much to me, and to this town.”

After this, the city now seemed imbued with a minor note of bewitching sadness, a combination of those wistful words and my imminent departure. I sipped a few more al fresco beers in various cafes, as last day faded into last night.

I didn’t want it all to end, putting off sleep as long as I could, first with some more wandering and, finally, with a stop at a quaint coffeeshop on my way back to the hotel. As a last serendipitous treat, a small procession passed by the coffeeshop as I lingered, playing traditional Mexican music as they disappeared into the night. And I did eventually submit to slumber, full of melancholy at the completion of my trip. 

I awoke at 6am the next day, popped up to the roof of La Casa Azul for one last look, and flagged down a taxi to take me to the airport, where I caught my AeroMexico flight back to the States.

As I had done two weeks earlier en route to Mexico, I again passed through Los Angeles on my way home. But instead of a two-night layover, this time I had a mere twelve hours—noon to midnight—to squeeze in any sightseeing I wished to do.

My vision of LA is one of blue skies and green hills. Surely, I reasoned, my experience two weeks ago, with heavy rain and dark clouds, was nothing but an outlier. I anticipated pure paradise for my few precious final hours.

Yet, outrageously, we landed in another torrential downpour. Mercifully I still had my Hollywood Roosevelt umbrella in tow, which helped me keep dry as I tried to figure out a plan. My ambition to visit Griffith Park, see its Observatory and then scale Mount Lee to survey the scene from the foot of the Hollywood Sign was simply impossible.

Instead, I just had my Uber driver drop me off at the atmospheric Pig ‘N Whistle, a classic Hollywood watering hole just next door to the Egyptian Theatre, with some stunning design features straight out of the 1920s. I took a prime seat at the mahogany bar and ordered one of their IPAs, hoping the rain might abate… but it kept barreling down.

I had a remarkable chicken pot pie, savored several more pints and, eventually, decided to brave the precipitation (and tackiness) pummeling Hollywood Boulevard, embarking on a quick stroll.

Los Angeles was not only wet that day but freezing, to boot! I had to pick up an overpriced hoodie from one of the innumerable souvenir shops that line the famous thoroughfare. And I again spent a few minutes ogling the concrete slabs in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre before settling down at a cozy seat at legendary Musso and Frank—the classic Hollywood restaurant—where escargot, scallops and a Gibson have never tasted more fitting.

It was a day straight out of Fitzgerald’s Tinseltown interlude, and I finished things off with one last pint back across the street at the Pig ‘N Whistle, before I had to head to LAX to catch my flight home, capping off a sensational series of adventures!

Bookended between memorable romps in Hollywood, my Mexico sojourn was about as perfect as I could have hoped. So as I close out these diary entries, I’d like to give my sincerest gracias to all the people I encountered over the past fortnight… and to pledge before God and mankind that I will venture back to that amazing country soon to explore more of its lifetime worth of wonders awaiting discovery!