The beauty of Mexico’s culture doesn’t translate well into the American mainstream, where a combination of Tex-Mex and racial stereotypes flattens the country to either capitalist ideas of American tourism or an impoverished 3rd world country.

But in Valladolid I found something else entirely.

A rich mural of culture. Literally.

I take a little walking tour of a private museum near the town center. An American couple moved to Mexico to collect Mexican art. They have a house that they live in which contains around 3,000 separate pieces of art, and for a donation, you can take a guided tour of the home. It is here that I am confronted with a 6 foot [2 meter] tall mural made of ceramic and clay and paint. It depicts a village from the surrounding Yucatan providence; farmers, weavers, children, performers, houses around a town square. It’s a joyous scene commissioned by the owners to support local artists.

We turn the corner and a display of two dozen unique figurines, no more than 5 inches tall, maybe 12cm, are neatly lined behind glass. The guide describes them as each a representation of a separate culture; aboriginal native tribes in the Yucatan. Not in Mexico, just the peninsula. It’s a stark reminder of the variety of cultures that existed before the European conquest and how they have, for the most part, been wiped or ignored. Especially in the United States, but also by the Spanish.

The rest of the house is just as interesting. A Frieda Karlo room has many works of tribute. The kitchen has a dining table with chairs that are carved with the portraits of great heroes of Mexican history. Every nook and cranny filled with intricate work, all fairly paid for by wealthy art collectors. It would take weeks to get through the entire collection.

Later in the week, I march along a parade that happens to go past the open door of my hostel. A few children wave. A gaggle of women in traditional dresses chatter to me in Spanish and attempted English, I reply in tourist-basic Spanish, smiles, and gestures. There are trombonists and trumpeters playing the beat of the drums. After a few blocks I head to my favorite tacos cart, to get a few tacos and a few molletes, served on a reusable plastic plate wrapped into a thin disposable plastic bag. I squeeze a couple limes, top with pickled onions, and tuck-in, seated on plastic stools right on the cobblestone. All for a few pesos.

I make friends with a local band [There Instagram is here!] with excellent covers from Nirvana, Foo Fighters, RHCP, and more. They played a rooftop that overlooks the town center, the massive San Servacio Church dramatically lights up the clear black night sky.

I spend a lot of time at the local cenote, a short walk from the town center. First. It’s like, $2 to enter. Second, you laze around an alkaline-clear natural swimming pool that is hundreds of feet deep, a sheer drop into the abyss of the earth. Notably there are three or four jump points from the cliffs for an exhilarating leap of faith into the crystal water. I join a few professionals which bolsters my confidence for one or two from a height much scarier than I would normally be comfortable with. Their group of van-life semi-professional extreme sport types are intriguing for sure. [Couple of instas here]

The centuries-old ruins of the Convent de San Bernardino are used as a museum and walking park. But at night, the city projects a free film on its craggy walls. It tells of the history of the region, from Ancient tribes to Spanish conquerors to modern independence movements. It’s free and it’s fun, with two daily shows. One in English and then one in Spanish. The film lasts around 20 minutes.

I’ll bike ride to other spots around the area. I’ll continue to eat all sorts of meals from the streets. Little stalls in by the cenotes with a family cooking on coals presents a fried pocket much like an empanada. Traditional sopa and braised pollo from a restaurant. Half a roasted chicken and tacos from a shop on the corner.

The beauty of the country is easy. Food. Art. Culture. It comes from every corner, as this tiny town effuses the tranquility and history of the country.

Even that doesn’t save me entirely.

My clouds still follow, distant but encroaching.

But still. They are easy to fight off in the sunshine, eating tacos on cobblestone streets and squat plastic chairs.

Just the way you like it Tony.

I miss you man. But you’re a selfish bastard. But you know that.

Love,

Winston