Under the (other) volcano

Text and photographs, © Trisha Vargas, 
2006, Sept 22, 2006

can see Citlaltépetl, “the star mountain,” from my bedroom window. Better known as Pico de Orizaba, it’s the third highest mountain and highest volcano in North America, visible far out to sea. Perhaps it was the first bit of Mexico Cortés laid eyes on....

Views of el Pico pop up all over Xalapa, but it soon disappears behind clouds. Better-behaved than its neighbor Popocatépetl, always belching and flicking ash around like a barroom drunk, the Pico’s been quiet for three centuries and, with its year-round snows, is very attractive to climbers.

And also to me, though I’m hardly the climbing type. Still, I never fail to get a frisson when I catch a glimpse of it, and when a small birthday arrived recently I decided I’d celebrate by taking a closer look. Nobody was available to join me, but no matter, one should never miss out on an experience just for want of company. Besides, traveling solo means you don’t have to “make plans.”

I’m not one of life’s planners, I let the winds blow me hither and yon. Perhaps it’s one of those “half-empty or half-full” things; let others worry they’ll end up stranded and hungry, I assume it’ll all work out fine. Which it usually does. 

Once Mr. V and I, bored witless by a dull Christmas, decided to spend New Year’s in Scotland. By then it was December 30th, and everywhere had been booked since June. Undaunted, we sped north and found a cosy room and a bar offering all the Hogmanay revels we craved. It’s just a question of being flexible, which is, I think, rather vital if we’re to enjoy the view whilst hurtling to the grave.

So, come the birthday, I located my toothbrush and set forth. I’d decided to start with Cordoba, because I remembered hearing on the radio on “Day without a Mexican” Day that someone had put a bomb in their MacDonald’s. The Cordoban police, having no experience with bombs (“Don’t you miss London, Trisha?”) called the cops from Veracruz, who presumably take courses in these things on account of the narcos. Naturally, it turned out to be a hoax, but the Veracruz force took so long to arrive that Macdonald’s was closed all day, and I rather liked that. 

However, being a nonplanner, I’d forgotten it was a quincena Friday, so by the time I ambled to the bus station there were no seats available for hours.

What to do? Well, obviously what I needed was a long and riotous lunch. Casa Bonilla in Coatepec has been specializing in this for over 60 years, so I enjoyed delicious ceviche, shrimp and tequila, incredible noise from screaming parrots and rival groups of strolling musicians, crowds of cheery customers, lots of hustle and bustle, and a downpour so torrential all the caged birdies had to be brought in complaining. It was hugely enjoyable and, nicely mellowed, I slept most of the three hours to Cordoba.

My guidebook is a 1999 edition of Lonely Planet left by a houseguest, and I took a taxi to a hotel described as having good Pico views. Seriously horrible. Also, no views.

But I soon found the Hotel Mansur, which is comfortably old with terraces overlooking the main square, Plaza de Armas. It took a bit of explaining, and several trips in the elevator, till I got what I wanted: a room high up overlooking everything, though noisy as hell. It was clean and pleasant but had a miniscule, musty-smelling bathroom. 

I’ve become used to the perfunctory ablutions on this side of the Atlantic, the bizarre notion that a shower will do. No, it won’t. Poor America, all those dreary Puritans, but I wish Mexico would occasionally look to Spain for inspiration instead. Once, a perfectly normal, inexpensive hotel in Madrid revealed a bathroom so large and grand that, from the depths of the tub, we (Oh please, a doorway fumble of knees and elbows in the shower? No thanks.) gazed upon ceiling-high windows draped in fluttering linen, leading to a flowery balcony. Since then I’ve felt that no bathroom, despite its tub and bidet, is really complete without a balcony.

Back at the Mansur, I contemplated going out because everything was still in full, cacophonous swing. But another downpour, rapidly drowning the mariachis, meant I watched TV, which I only do in hotels now. A dose of E! channel and I’m up to speed on gossip about celebrities I’ve never heard of.

The Parroquia de la Inmaculada Concepción, right in front of my hotel window, is famous for its bells. Waking suddenly and unexpectedly early to a beautiful, rain-washed, sparkling morning, I could finally check out the plaza. Very pretty, the air crystal-clear, mountains all around and the Pico looming. Lovely. Cafe de la Parroquia is just one of a number of cafes under the painted colonnades. The waiter took “No hurry, this is Veracruz” to new heights, but the pan dulce was fresh, the coffee rich and strong (because this is Veracruz).

Strolling along streets of old-fashioned stores, I glanced up to see an architectural oddity: a series of enormous holes, as if, after painting a particularly spectacular sunset, God had absent-mindedly left His palette on the roof of an apartment building.

What could they possibly be for, besides drenching pedestrians and surprising cats? (On very hot nights a popular Roman cinema, Il Pasquino, used to open a sliding panel in the roof. This invariably meant a cat found the floor vanishing beneath its paws and replaced, after a short plummet, by the heads of the audience. Which added greatly to the entertainment, as long as you knew where not to sit. They put in air conditioning eventually, but it was never the same.)

Cordoba is a curious town, both extraordinary and prosaic. Lonely Planet says it “was founded in 1610 ... to stop escaped black slaves from attacking travellers,” and it’s here that the terms of Independence were agreed upon in 1821, but the historic site isn’t open to the public. And it’s built on a grid so anal it looks like graph paper and gives you a headache just thinking about it. The streets don’t have names; they’re all called avenida in one direction and calle in the other, followed by a number. This means you can’t get lost, unfortunately, although I only understand streets that grow organically out of one another, and continually turning left to get back where you started defeats me. (When New World visitors to Europe try this they usually wind up in a canal.)

So, suffering from mild gridlock, I took a bus to Orizaba, which is thankfully smaller and prettier. It’s still griddy but the streets are called “east,” “west,” “north” and “south,” plus numbers. The taxi driver said this was done 15 years ago but didn’t know why. Hmmm, too much planning? 

I spent a couple of delightful hours in the Museo del Estado, housed in a beautiful colonial building with lovely proportions.

The collection is mostly 18th- and 19th-century prints of landscapes and architectural views, lots of the Pico and Veracruz harbour, plus a fascinating series made to celebrate the building of the railway. Sadly, there are hardly any trains here now.

There were some fine if ponderous 19th-century oils of local dignitaries and their wives, plus a twirly-whirly ascension you see reproduced everywhere. They have a collection of paintings by Diego Rivera, but because they’re on loan to Mexico City they were showing his sketches. Anything by Rivera is a treat. 

There was also a contemporary exhibition, “Siete Mundos,” of ceramics by 15 Veracruz artists that had crossed all of North America before coming to rest, and this was its very last day. Serendipity again. The work was outstanding, especially sensual pieces by Gustavo Pérez and a deeply moving installation, Mujeres en el desierto, by Margarita Cházaro. 

High on art, I wandered around until I found a tinkly-fountained, bougainvillea-filled courtyard, where again I stuffed myself like a pampered goose. By now the volcano had slipped behind its screen of clouds, though I could feel it lurking. Then it was back to Xalapa, and since I’d thoughtfully bought my ticket earlier, this time, of course, the bus was empty.