I decided to change my travel plans to visit my travel buddies, Leticia and her brother Joe, and stay a few days in Guadalajara, Mexico. It’s sort of on the way home.
After an endurance test in air travel — Havana to Mexico City, then Mexico City to Guadalajara — I finally arrived. The journey included self-check-in in Mexico City and that ever-present low-level panic about missing a connection.
After resting a while at Leticia’s and Joe’s house, we hit El Jockey Cocina de Barrio that evening. Over plates big enough to feed half a cow and salad a mere suggestion, we somehow missed the fact that someone swiped both side mirrors off the car parked on the street nearby. Strange choice for a theft, but there it was.
Day 19 – June 27
The morning was mostly spent waiting at the police station to file reports. No hope for quick justice, but plenty of interesting people passing through. One guy even asked me to speak on the phone in English for him — to a relative, their lawyer, or maybe their “distributor.” They were holed up somewhere in New Orleans, dealing with something about a good behaviour bond or something. At that point, I started wondering if I’d just become an accomplice to an international crime syndicate and if my mugshot was already on an Interpol database. It made the wait a bit less boring.
A midday lunch on a quiet patio in town: low-fat leafy salads, local Chardonnay, dessert, and coffee. The place was calm and polished, full of business people, wealthy retirees, and soccer mums, their noisy kids off to the side, wrangled by nannies. The contrast with the morning’s desperation made the whole police visit feel even stranger, like stepping from one world straight into another that didn’t quite fit.
For well-heeled people, Mexico feels like a dream — easy, full of life. For most others, it’s a struggle every day, dealing with problems that sometimes come close to breaking the law just to get by. Feeding yourself can mean making tough choices most visitors never see.
By the way, the car still looked weird without its mirrors.
Day 20 – June 28
Today took us on a long trip to Lago de Chapala for lunch at Letra CH Restaurante, with open-air seating and a lake view. It was nice enough to make us forget about the car drama for a while, though on the drive there, a steady stream of pickup trucks passed by, some clearly police, others… who knows. Seeing four or five guys with guns riding in the backs added a certain “excitement” to the drive. I half expected to round a corner and stumble into a gunfight, an execution, or some other delightful local spectacle.
Day 21 – June 29
This morning, my last in Guadalajara, Leticia took me into the old part of town. We started at the cathedral, which was impressive enough. By the time you could say Catedral Basílica de la Asunción de María Santísima, we had strolled through Plaza de la Liberación and arrived at the Teatro Degollado — and that’s where the city really shows off. It’s one of those buildings that stops you mid-stride, the kind that makes you forget for a second where you are. Ornate, perfectly kept, and just a bit over the top, but in a good way. You can almost hear it whispering, “Look at me. Yes, you. Stop scrolling on your phone.”
Guadalajara clearly had money once, and still does. It made its fortune trading through the Pacific port of Puerto Vallarta and off the back of rich farmland nearby. These days it’s all trade, tech, and universities — different industry, same swagger. The theatre feels like the city reminding everyone it’s been impressive for quite a while. I half expected it to hand me a brochure.
Not realising I was in for such a treat, I managed to be disappointed for all the wrong reasons: my camera card was full and my phone battery was nearly dead. So, not many photos. Typical really. My last travel day, and of course that’d happen to me. Honestly, I was a bit relieved — no issues until now.
From the theatre, with ice‑cream in hand, we walked down Calle Pedro Moreno to Escudo de Armas de la Ciudad de Guadalajara, a sculpture depicting the Guadalajara Coat of Arms. Leticia had the sort of answer you only get when you ask a local what they’d show a visitor: the cathedral, the theatre, the plaza, the coat of arms — the essentials really. Check-boxes ticked more or less. Less than 24 hours from my flight home and after five weeks away, my mind had started to drift. Caught somewhere between then and now, between what I’d seen and what I had to get back to, I was quietly preparing for other things even as I tried to enjoy the moment. Not very Zen, but hey, that’s me. I was already imagining my next adventure, and there was a certain thrall to the Latin experience I wasn’t ready to leave behind.
For my last evening, we went to El Cielo Country Club, where Leticia and Joe are members and of course passionate golfers, fully paid-up. The club is built around an 18-hole golf course and tucked within a gated community south of Guadalajara. Pristine lawns stretch out under a slow, deliberate pace of life, far removed from the chaos elsewhere.
The restaurant itself was casual, more like a wealthy person’s living room than a formal dining room. No airs, no fuss, no concern for manners — just comfortable chairs, broad windows, and plenty of room to sprawl. It felt more like a super-box at a stadium than a traditional dining room, perched high on a hillside, looking down on the spoils of wealth spread below like a quiet, well‑ordered map. Dinner felt like stepping into another world, one where everything runs smoothly and nothing is out of place, although my chicken parmigiana, or schnitzel, seemed like something out of Lost in Space, scientifically contrived, tasting and textured like old boots. Here I am, sipping chardonnay in triple-glassed, bullet-proof isolation, not caring, as ‘they’ walk for water. Beyond the walls of the club, the wealthy residents disappear, leaving only the people I’d glimpsed earlier in pickup trucks and at the police station. Funny really, up here, they don’t seem to think of themselves as wealthy. Life throws the same little problems at them as everyone else, just not quite so many of the really hard ones. Mexico, like the USA, can be a starkly unequal place, though that’s a thought for another time.
Afterwards, we wrapped up the day at Leticia’s daughter’s place, not far from the country club. It’s a small but comfortable condo, which I suspect Leticia bought. Her daughter, a single mum, has a teenage son with severe cerebral palsy. He seemed like a happy chap and enjoyed the visit from his grandmother and grand-uncle and maybe me too. After coffee and a snack, it was back home. Tomorrow I face the ultimate goat run: about 24 hours of flights to Melbourne, via LA and Brisbane. I can already feel my brain packing its bags before I do.
Epilogue (of sorts)
And just like that, five weeks of wandering, walking, photographing, and trying to make sense of the chaos and beauty of the world come to an end. Less triumphant than you’d think, more quiet than celebratory. I’m carrying the usual souvenirs: a few photos, a notebook full of scribbles, the odd absurd memory, and the faint, persistent thrall of Latin America lingering in my chest. Tomorrow it’s planes and airports, but for now, I’ll sit back, sip my last glass of something local, and let it all sink in. Planes, people, extremes, and the little absurdities — all folded neatly into a memory I’ll unpack slowly.