It is a small town, but it was my town. I shared it with about 1,500 other people, and they continue to share their tortillas and tea with me.
It is surrounded by trees and mountain peaks reaching up to 10,000 feet. Dotted between the houses are hay fields, chickens, and grazing horses. The gas for cooking is delivered by trucks once a week. They announce their presence with songs through a loudspeaker strapped to the roof. The smell of burning firewood reminded me that mothers in most homes still make tortillas by hand.
I beat the internet there; there still isn’t any. But there is a reasonable cell signal, and most of the roads are paved. Sometimes the town is without water for days at a time, and most people – including me when I lived there – wash their clothes by hand. The water is not heated. My hands were rarely warm.
For me, it is heartbreakingly beautiful. The moon rises over the mountain crests, the stars are brighter than I had seen in years, and clean, crisp air chilled my nose; I was constantly remind myself how lucky I was to live in this town so filled with warm hearts, fresh milk and eggs, and only the occasional bray of a donkey to interrupt the tranquility.
My home was my little casita. The morning sun cast a lovely light over my potted herbs on the kitchen windowsill. Everything was colorful and practical. Especially my speakers that filled the house with the Blues, Cumbia, Indie Rock, Folk, and Bluegrass. If I angled the speakers right, I could hear the music from my hammock.
You would love it here. I sure did.