Guadalajara and Atlacomulco

Yesterday, we drove to Guadalajara, stopped at a super market (whole wheat pasta! gourmet coffee! horrible snobbishness!), and made our way to a little "resort and RV park" approximately 4 km south of town.  A cobblestone road led to what might once have been a resort but what was now a curiosity, a strange and overgrown place consisting of ancient vacation homes built around even older mobile homes, a tennis court long since weeded over, and a very dirty pool that no longer seemed to be in use.  There were acres of huge trees and lots of crumbling structures that may once have been gathering places or outdoor fire pits. Picture everything made of brick, plants everywhere, and the sound of crickets and cicadas (and not much else).

A manager of sorts sat in a too-large, warehouse-style office piled high with decades-old stacks of paper.  He was further surrounded by yellowing boxes containing defunct blood pressure monitors, no less than three visible and apparently functioning pencil sharpeners, a rotting, cat-infested couch or two, and neglected houseplants covering every other available surface.  The room stank.  When he noticed us, the dude welcomed us to the park in perfect English, spoke of his fantasy of one day leaving the "resort," and finally directed us to our spot.

Crazy-cool house in the park near our camping spot.

Settled, we decided to go see the center of Guadalajara.  We had asked the park's manager for directions, and we imagined it would be a quick ride into town.

The directions were foolproof.

And the bus driver loved Jesus.  A lot.

The 15-minute bus trip we had imagined stretched to nearly an hour, but the payoff was worth it.  There were great buildings.

 And an even better market, including a store devoted entirely to glitter.  To glitter, people.

(And fortunately, we made our visit to the City of Roses before some cartel members decided to use Guadalajara to send a message to a rival group today.  Sad stuff.)

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Today, the rattlevan managed to climb to the town of Atlacomulco, at approximately 8,500 feet altitude.  Not too shabby at all.

The rattlevan finds some shade and interferes with a political campaign.

We were pretty slow on the inclines, so we made only necessary stops.

Strawberries are totally a thanksgiving food.

And finally, meet the new telephone.  The Luddite in me rejoices.  My iPhone and Chuck weep silent tears at the inhumanity of it all.

I shall call her "2003."