Pata Salada

Mazatlan became home for a month and a half. We had to stop; we hadn’t had a hearth to call our own since August. During our stay, we moved from hotel to house to apartment so it was as good as living in three different towns. There weren’t too many tourists, just the tail end of the Canadian geese escaping the frozen north, but we were glad to leave the hotel. While the marriage of maple leaves and Margaritas seemed a happy one, we did not belong in the Golden Zone. We had neither sundresses nor suntans, and after the simple food of Chihuahua, the tourist menus failed to entice.

Click to enlarge photos.

It was time to meet some real Mazatlecas, or Pata Saladas (Salty Paws) as they call themselves, being so fortunate as to live beside a shimmering blue sea. The day before our classes began, we moved into our home stay. We nearly didn’t make it. The address was wrong and Sunday morning was spent driving around in circles in a neighborhood of unfinished houses and unpaved streets. After we’d passed the same group of teenage girls on their porch for the third time, I was ready to take out the “I’m Not With Him” sign. We eventually found the house, in a different neighborhood and got to know a whole new way of ordinary, Mexican life. For the next two weeks we ate all things fresh, homemade and Sinaloan. Even the chocolate was made from scratch. I know this for a fact as I peeled the cocoa beans myself before roasting. Our first Spanish words were all of the same theme: food, glorious food.

On Monday morning Lourdes sent us off with a full breakfast and a couple of oranges, then Pedro walked us to school. After meeting our only classmate, Juliana, we settled down with virgin white notebooks to two weeks of Espanol! with Maria Elena. Fran became ‘Pancho’ for the duration and with brains bursting with ‘Soy cansado’s' and ‘Que hora es’s’, we’d stagger home each day for a 2 PM lunch. Of course by the time we were finished, all we were fit for was flopping on the bed and a struggle with homework. Somewhere in the middle of it all we got interviewed by the local newspaper “Noroeste” and ended up with half a page of the sports section, a photo and some fake news. So what if we are now committed to going to Africa as well? Piece of cake.

After two weeks Pancho carried my books home for the last time and we said good-bye to our new friends. We rented an apartment in the Centro Historico and it was time to let loose on the community. The first day out of school we went grocery shopping at the local street markets. It was all going swimmingly until I asked the egg man for 6 Thursdays. This is where I should say it all went downhill from there…… but it didn’t.

El Centro Historico

Living in old Mazatlan is like stepping into the pages of everyone’s romantic vision of Mexico, except this fairytale has fractured sidewalks instead of crooked turrets. Every day brings fresh glimpses into secluded courtyards and houses so colorful they’d give a heart attack to any Home Owners’ Association worth its salt. After weeks of wandering, we are still finding new plazas and hidden alleyways. The gritty streets of the markets and fish stalls, only steps behind the arty cafes and gentrified homes of the malecon, are a perfect example of two worlds colliding but still managing to coexist in harmony.

Everywhere there is music. Even as I write, it's practice time for the band in the house behind. They only know three songs but that’s OK because the singer's voice is good and they sound like Talking Heads. When they take a break, and sometimes when they don't, the school band down the street starts up. Their brass section belts through the air and you have the impression that the orchestra is made up of all the fat guys in a mariachi band. In reality, it’s 15 year old boys in skinny jeans with cool hair.

Best of all was Graduation Night when the army band played at the plaza. The beautiful girls of Mazatlan poured themselves into their finest while the boys lounged on the sidelines and watched. It was a long way from convent life in Ireland.

We go to the market regularly to buy fruits, vegetable and whatever cheeses are available. The tortillas and bread are still warm when we get home and limes are now a staple on the shopping list. We glory in the fact that we have our own lavanderia, and our own, almost empty, beach. The coconut palms shade the malecon on our early morning walks and in the evenings we sit on the balcony. We are high enough above the street to watch the electric wires spark and crackle, and the waves rolling in. Over the roof of the house with the mock Trevi fountain, the cathedral spires pierce the dusk and we wonder for whom the bells toll.

It could be tempting to stay longer but the time has come to move on. A rest is good for a change but there’s more out there to see, and hear, and to taste and smell. Besides, it’s never a good idea to put all your Thursdays in one basket.