Last night’s rain had cleared the air, setting up a nice early photo walk.

I happened across one of the oldest cemeteries in Zacatecas, with burials dating back to 1809. In 2015, it was formally declared a “Panteón Museo,” which was new to me.

It’s full of funerary art: mausoleums, crypts, obelisks, and sarcophagi in pink cantera stone. The cemetery is laid out by social class: the front section with the fanciest mausoleums was for the elite; the rear areas were for middle and lower classes. Of course, the rich always get to sit up front. There are 4,000 tombs, plus a hefty dose of Masonic symbols on monuments, reflecting the liberal, Masonic elite that ran the town in that era.

On my way to the cemetery, a lady standing on the corner of the Jardin saw me coming, pointed, and mumbled something. She had done the same thing the previous night. I thought she didn’t want her picture taken, something that hadn’t crossed my mind, as she wasn’t distinctly photogenic. On my way back to my room, I deliberately walked to the corner where she had staked her little patch of public real estate. This time she yelled at me, “Aquí no!” It wasn’t about my camera; she just didn’t like ME being in Jerez. It made me chuckle.

Okay, time to pack and go. On the way out of town, I would once again pass by this grumpy grandma. I made sure to give her some rapid-fire horn toots, stood on my pegs, waved, and yelled: “Have a nice day.”

I headed North on Highway 23, which would take me through Fresnillo on my way to my final destination, Durango. Along the way, the farmland turned a solid brick red, and with the green mountains as a backdrop, it was beautiful. So beautiful, I slowed down to savor it. That’s not something I do when I ride. Faster is always better.

When planning my route with my sidekick Perplexity and her brother Claude, it came up that Fresnillo had been a real cartel hotspot in the last few years. One of them suggested I take a detour through Zacatecas. That would have meant riding on roads I’d already taken, and I consider that poor form.

So I did a little more research, and Fresnillo has been one of the hottest cartel war zones with open conflict between the Sinaloa Cartel and the Jalisco New Generation Cartel (CJNG). The fight has produced mass killings, bodies dumped in public spaces, and narco-messages left with victims as warnings to rival groups.

Zacatecas and the federal government have deployed the Army, the National Guard, and state police to bring the situation under control. In 2024, they launched massive patrols and checkpoints. It’s worked, as homicides in Zacatecas have dropped sharply between late 2024 and 2025.

As all scaredy-cat entities that issue travel warnings say, “avoid non-essential travel and travel at night.” It was broad daylight, and my travel was essential. Nonetheless, I have to admit to being “on alert.” I didn’t observe any problems and noted that there were lots of cars on the highway, including expensive ones that are eye candy to cartelians.

As I entered town, I passed a police car and took care to go much slower than usual. I kept an eye on my rear-view mirror, and he was there, but not following me. At an intersection ahead, the green traffic light started flashing, not yet turning yellow. So I decided to slow down, let the light turn yellow, and then stop, like the ultra-good law-abiding citizen I am. The police car pulled up, moved into the left-turn lane, and was soon out of the picture.

So, all’s well in the world. In a sudden blur, a large motorcycle pulled alongside me. He didn’t roll up; he came up quickly, and we had about four inches handlebar to handlebar. This wasn’t your average Italika dude. I turned my head, and all I could see was a machine gun slung over a shoulder...and a man dressed in black from head to toe, jackboots and a balaclava covered his eyes.

He said, “Guanajuato?” to which I replied in the affirmative. “San Miguel.” The light turned green, and we both let go of our clutches, his quicker than mine.

As he rode away, I noticed a large patch on his jacket with the letters “FRIZ.” Was he some type of bad-hair-day cop? Nope. “FRIZ” refers to the Fuerza de Reacción Inmediata Zacatecas (Zacatecas Immediate Reaction Force). An elite tactical and rapid-response police unit created by the state government to combat high-impact crime. They are composed of former military and federal personnel and are highly trained. So he was a high-security dude dressed for a kinky night out.

The remainder of the trip was yawningly boring by comparison. I settled into my room and headed out to enjoy a well-deserved first Durango Cenizo Mezcal, while taking in a warm, stiff breeze. I felt like Durango.

Gringos sure the hell wouldn’t be seen in Fresnillo.

Tomorrow, I stop saying “Durango!” and start living it.

Photos of the Day

Nobody knows who built this place. Maybe it was a Teotihuacan enclave, a Toltec emporium, or an independent northern capital.

There’s a wild story with some historians associating it with the mythical Chicomostoc — the Seven Caves — where the Aztecs supposedly camped out for nine years during their migration to the Valley of Anahuac. It’s probably more legend than fact, but as origin myths go, it’s a keeper.

At its peak, La Quemada linked roughly 220 settlements by roads, moving taxes, resources, and people for ritual duty.

Its Hall of Columns predates the palace at Tula, which in turn inspired Chichén Itzá’s Temple of the Warriors. So this overlooked Zacatecas site may have sparked an idea that spread across Mesoamerica.

The whole site was deliberately torched when it was abandoned. Whether that was a ritual self-destruction by locals or payback from enemies is still up for debate.

I sat long on the defensive wall they built and imagined what it was like back then. At 900 meters long and nearly 4 meters high, the wall suggests they were worried about something — but who knows what. They had a helluva 360-degree view from that hilltop. I had it all to myself; I was the only visitor. This place is a real mystery and one of the more interesting Mexican ruins I’ve walked. If your idea of ruins is ‘nice pyramid,’ La Quemada surprises.

After my self-guided tour, I took a short ride to Villanueva — a new Pueblo Mágico just 20 minutes away. I must say I didn’t see much magic. My guess is the ‘magic’ is basically La Quemada, with Villanueva just the closest village wearing the tourist‑attracting badge.”

Then I moved on to Jerez. I’d heard something unique happens here every Saturday night, and I wanted to see—and hear—it for myself. I rearranged my schedule to make it happen. Another reason to go was that Mary and I had an apartment near Jerez, Spain, and I just had to go to Jerez, Mexico.

The town’s default setting seems to be street culture powered by live bands — several groups playing at once around the Jardín Principal, their music bleeding into each other. On this rainy night, the groups played inside the bars, playing to the street. The patrons moved from bar to bar, chasing each new scene and shot of tequila. This was no sit-and-listen scene.

The music they play is called Tamborazo, centered around brass and drum. It evolved from 19th-century military bands. The early groups were small — clarinet, trumpet, snare, bass drum — so raucous they were nicknamed alboroqueros. Later, saxophones, trombones, and tuba were added to create the Tamborazo you hear today.

The Marcha de Zacatecas, often played in tamborazo arrangement, is routinely called Mexico’s second national anthem.

It was the same genre of music I heard the night before in Zacatecas at the Callejoneada, so it wasn’t altogether new. Still, it was a special night of rubbing elbows (“literally”, that over-used and mostly incorrectly-used word) with the locals, sharing shots and tequila bottles, and taking bar-scene photos. I surrendered around midnight, but the music continued across the street until 4:30 in the morning.

People told me the rain kept the crowd smaller and quieter, but even by my standards, it was a wild night.

If you wanted to take a break from tequila and lick down some late-night ice cream, there was a gelato shop below my hotel room still open at midnight, advertising Cheetos Flaming Hot and Takis Fuego flavors.

Although I have abandoned my daily expense report, I must brag that the hotel room in Jerez cost me a whopping 400 pesos, around $24 USD.

On the Gringo Search front, I did talk to a guy there who had worked in the U.S. and said he knew some Gringos, but there weren’t any in the town of 40,000 people.

Tomorrow I ride to Fresnillo. Damn the cartels.

See My Photos

“Bufa” comes from an old Aragonese word meaning “pig’s bladder” or wineskin, supposedly what the rock crest looked like to the Spaniards. Guanajuato city has its La Bufa, and this year I’ve climbed both of them, a gold frickin’ star for me (I’ve had Guanajuato’s rock on my wanna go list for six years, so give me a break here for my crowing).

In addition to the Zac rock itself, there are several other things of interest. One is the Museo de la Toma de Zacatecas, a meteorological observatory with bullet holes still in the walls. And some mighty big equestrian statues of Pancho Villa, Felipe Ángeles, and Pánfilo Natera, the revolutionary commanders of 1914 who took Zacatecas. Some powerful statements on a small hill.

Doing this hike made me feel like I’ve really experienced Zacatecas, as now I could see the entire city, compared to the bowl I was in the past couple of days. And pre-dawn was the way to go; beautiful light, cool air, peaceful and good exercise as I made lots of wrong turns. The views of the surrounding hills were a bucolic break from the cityscape, offering a broader view of the landscape. Plenty of photos to edit and a story to write. This is now a daily rhythm and ritual.

After a day of laundry, editing, and writing, that evening, I had to take a stroll to see what I could see in nighttime Zacatecas. I turned the corner just outside of the hotel, and a mighty hubbub erupted. The police halted traffic at the intersection, and musicians were walking down the street, playing raucous, snare-drum-heavy music. They were followed by dozens of people dancing and singing. Throw in a donkey that serves as a portable bar, and you’ve got a roving party.

Adding to the chaotic theme, it began to rain, casting a dramatic, glittering glow over the street lighting.

There was a copious amount of alcohol involved. One guy was carrying a two-liter jug of affordable tequila. Baby carriages were repurposed as portable beer coolers; the previous occupants shuttled to the arms of their dancing moms and dads.

So, what to do but join in. But then there’s another group going in a different direction, with their revelers. And another. I was following one, then taking a quick turn to join in with these other guys because they were louder and funner, abandoning the original band. I wasn’t the only unfaithful one. Each group now was finding its musical home for the night: a plaza, a government building entrance, an overhang, or a narrow callejon. The roving parties suddenly stationed themselves, but the dancers were anything but planted. What unbridled joy.

While walking home, I was unclear on the chaos I had just experienced.

I later learned that a Zacatecan Callejoneada is a nighttime walking party through the historic center of Zacatecas, led by a tamborazo band (saw them) and a mezcal‑hauling burro (saw him), with everyone drinking, dancing, and stopping in plazas along the way (saw that).

Just like I did, you follow a band that plays traditional Zacatecan tunes, rancheras, and other Mexican standards. Everyone is singing and dancing. The burro carrying garrafas of Mezcal; and the people wearing little clay cups around their necks to get topped up at each stop. It was pretty special to be part of it.

I understand that the tradition dates back to the mining days, when miners celebrated surviving another shift by roaming the streets with music, booze, and song until late. So, what was a ritual of release is now a celebrated tradition, honoring their ancestor’s tenacity. Something worthy of celebration and a respect for these people’s roots. A way Zacatecas keeps its past loud rather than solemn.

Starting with this post, I will not be posting daily expenses. By now, you get the idea. I’m traveling very inexpensively while traveling richly.

Gringo, Gringo, come out wherever you are. And where are the Mexican tourists in Zacatecas?

That will be tomorrow night all over again.

The Photos Are Here!

Zacatecas feels high. Chilly, slightly thin air.

Something you notice early on when visiting is the sheer number of callejones—many of them narrow and steeply climbing hills. It’s a hallmark of the city’s look.

People from Zacatecas are a mix of deep indigenous roots (Chichimeca groups like the Zacatecos), colonial mining mestizo culture, and a huge migrant tradition that’s shaped their identity as tough, mobile, and damn proud. The modern population grew around silver mining, which began in 1546, and drew in Spaniards, indigenous groups, and later other migrants to work some of the richest silver lodes in the world.

The city’s population is 150,000–200,000 people. Guadalupe, its overgrown suburb, has around 210,000. So the suburb Guadalupe is larger than the historic and political center Zacatecas. Curiously, the state of Zacatecas sits near Mexico’s geographic center and borders eight states.

The main square is Plaza de Armas. But there were no balloon or toy vendors. They’ve been displaced by protesters living in tents. A coalition of campesinos (bean producers in particular), students, unions, and other groups marched in and occupied the space. By the looks of it, they’ve been there a while. They’re accusing the state government of repression after police violently broke up an earlier frijolero protest and detained demonstrators. If people don’t like what’s going on, they make sure everyone knows.

I found only one park, so it’s not a particularly verdant city, nor does it have many open plazas. Go to San Luis Potosí for that. But the stone buildings—those are the wondrous splendor of this place. Zacatecas is the pink stone city, built from cantera rosa. Churches, civil buildings, markets, theaters, aqueducts—everything is clad in it. The historic center is UNESCO-listed largely because of its 16th–19th century stone architecture stacked onto steep hillsides. Come to Zacatecas for the pink.

A unique attraction is the Quinta Real, built inside a former bullring. The Plaza de Toros San Pedro was inaugurated in 1866, next to the historic El Cubo aqueduct. Once the stage for some of the world’s most renowned bullfighters, it is now a hotel.

Although Zacatecas is a regional tourist destination, there wasn’t much evidence of it while I was there—except for the endless liquor stores selling cheap 38% “Mezcal” to tourists. And it’s made from blue agave, making it taste more like tequila than the real thing. One brand goes for 79 pesos a bottle. What is it about tourists and cloyingly sweet, inauthentic swill? Seems to be universal. Do people leave good taste at home when they travel?

Zacatecanos are honkers. They love leaning on the horn in traffic. It’s a bit of a jolt after being away from the obnoxious horn heavies in the U.S. The state accounts for 1.3% of Mexico’s population, yet 6.1% of Mexican migrants come from Zacatecas—apparently the U.S. is where horn training begins, and returnees show off their newfound skill.

One final observation is that many restaurant owners in Zacatecas are creative in naming their businesses.

Expenses: Room was 1,400 pesos, breakfast 155 pesos, and dinner—Zacatecas’s signature dish, mole-inspired wedding stew called Asado de Boda—came in at 237 pesos. Retail pink cantera in the U.S. runs about 8–20 USD per square foot.

Still not a Gringo in sight. Where are they hiding? There’s no City Market here. Hmmm.

Tomorrow: Callejoneadas and La Bufa.

The Photos

After Moctezuma, about 50 kilometers out from Zacatecas, the terrain began to roughen and rise. The valleys narrow as you enter an area where the Mesa Central collides with the edge of the Sierra Madre Occidental.

Soon, Zacatecas appears, nestled in a tight valley between ridges at around 2,450 meters—seriously high. The city is essentially built inside the remnants of a collapsed volcanic landscape. We’re off to a good start.

But first, I had to get through the weather. Unlike in a car, riding is a visceral experience that fills your senses. Especially weather. More especially, stormy weather. In the far distance, I could see the telling dark skies and what they would mean for me. It took an hour to ride into this growing darkness and dropping temperature. And when I got to the storm, it turned away. It had just passed through Zacatecas Centro minutes before I arrived. The streets were still streaming with water, but I rolled lucky this time. Yeehaw, welcome to rainy season and exciting riding conditions.

There was still a bit of residual light rain as I rolled up, so I quickly double-parked the bike and ran in to ask where to park. The lady stood up from her desk, walked purposefully to open both front doors, and waved me in. My moto now sits as proud as a lion guarding the grand staircase. That’s honest and true hospitality, not the corporate chocolate-on-a-pillow, turn-down-your-sheets faux posturing at $300+ a night. I leave with a wide smile every time I come and go from the hotel. I’m sure the staff assumes I’m a little cuckooberry. Then again, maybe not. They don’t seem to care about these things.

It turns out I’m the only guest at Casa Faroles Hotel, so I got a room with a balcony. The Fuente de los Faroles (fountain) is the architectural focal point right in front of my balcony—and, to my surprise, it’s functional. I am in the very heart of the UNESCO Heritage Site Centro. It’s a special feeling. As night falls, the streets glisten from the recent rain as people queue up at the taco stand.

Daily Expenses: 80 pesos for lunch of four bistek tacos and a Pepsi, 250 pesos for gas, and 70 pesos for a Negro Modelo, jalapeno potato chips, and Golden Nuts (japones). The expense crusher was the room, weighing in at a hefty 1,400 pesos. In Zurich, Switzerland, a 5 km taxi ride is 27–28 USD.

Gringo Count: 0. But an English-speaking Mexican visiting from Cancun did ask me for directions.

Tomorrow, exploration by foot.

Photos of the Day

Today was a get-up-early day—5:15 a.m. to be exact. Time to explore a few of the multitude of ruins in this area. The payoff was beautiful desert light and awesome shadows. In every direction, there are ruins, all remnants of the silver-mining boom. It would take days to explore them all.

Given the limited good light of the day, I had to choose just one target out of many. I picked the ghost town of San José de los Álamos, an old mining complex and processing plant. This is the site locals and tour operators call El Pueblo Fantasma near Real de Catorce—the area’s real ghost town, separate from the inhabited main town.

The ruins of Ex-Hacienda San José de los Álamos are all that’s left of a full colonial mining complex. The mine was active during the silver boom in the late 1700s and 1800s, but after the bust, it was deserted. The whole place has been left to slowly fall apart like an unmaintained Harley.

The greater Catorce area is filled with treasures. There are seven in-town ruins, four mining ruins, and two sacred/archaeological sites. Pueblo Fantasma could be counted as dozens of individual collapsed structures rather than one place. And the mining category undercounts, since the Catorce range is full of abandoned mine shafts and processing facilities without formal names. The Wirikuta shrines are similarly a collective scattered across 140,000 hectares. An explorer’s dream.

Switching to my domestic world, on my last day at the Airbnb, I noticed a sign saying cats weren’t allowed inside and were supposed to stay outdoors. Somehow, I missed that before. Darn. Of course, the cats didn’t mind at all —they snuck in plenty of times while I was there. For animals that weren’t supposed to be inside, they sure knew where the cat food was kept, and each had their favorite rooms and beds. The orange-and-white kitty even slept with me.

Catorce Cats are much bigger than San Miguel cats and have much more fur. Compared to the San Miguel cats, Catorce Cats seem to be special High-Altitude Felines, built for the cold.

Today’s Expenses: Room 1,200 pesos, breakfast was 145 pesos, dinner totaled 385 pesos for an entree, a shot of Mezcal, and a glass of red wine. In San Francisco, order a super carne asada burrito and a soft drink, and you’ll pay $18-$22. I don’t need to compare the surroundings.

I am adding a new category in addition to daily expenses. Daily Gringo Spotting. So far, it is zero for four days. I just know that some day it’s going to spike.

Tomorrow, the road beckons.

Photos of This Day

I woke for my first day of discovery of this fascinating place. A place soaked in history — sodden enough that I extended my stay by another day. And it turned out that was still a day short of being just right.

The place I’m staying doesn’t have a lock on the entrance. Shortly before I arrived, the owner’s father died, and she left for the funeral. I guess there was nobody second-in-charge. The other guest, who visits frequently, says it wasn’t a problem. People don’t break into houses here. I went with the flow. What else was I going to do, call Security?

The wiring in the bedroom was superb. The electrical components and craftsmanship in the bedroom were special, and the bathtub plumbing was classic. I didn’t have a chance to make dinner on the two-burner stove, but the other guest said it made superb tea. The décor is whimsical, reflective of the artistic musician who inhabits this home.

I would have liked to have met her. Mexican, born in Real de Catorce, she moved to Denmark with her family when she was 10. She came back for a short vacation 18 years later and never went back.

As an aside, the previous night’s cackles were coming from over my backyard wall. It turns out it’s a full-blown chicken rancho.

Long before the Spanish found silver here, the Wixárika (Huichol) people considered the entire surrounding desert — known as Wirikuta —their most sacred territory on earth. The Wixárika people still make annual month-long pilgrimages of up to 400 km from their homelands in Jalisco and Nayarit. Along the way they search for peyote (the sacred cactus they call jicuri) and commune with their deified ancestors. It’s a big deal.

Real de Catorce was founded in 1779 and quickly grew. Estimates are that 15,000 to 40,000 people moved in to support the booming silver mining business. Being so isolated, it had no real roads, no water supply, and no government. It was miners, suppliers, swindlers, and, while I wasn’t there, probably a respectable number of working ladies.

So, why “Real de Catorce”? Translate it to English, and it’s “Royal of Fourteen,” with three competing stories: either 14 Spanish soldiers killed by Indigenous warriors, or 14 notorious bandits who lived in the area, or the lucky 14 prospectors who discovered silver here around 1772.

As I learned during my visit, the fun all ended with the collapse in silver prices at the turn of the 20th century, followed immediately by the Mexican Revolution (1910). Real de Catorce is now Mexico’s most famous ghost town, a designation it well deserves.

The resurrection began in the late 20th century when bi-coastal, effete, Harvard Liberal Arts graduating, trustifarian explorers, NPR-listening urban backpackers, neo-quasi-spiritual seekers of peyote, and Trip Advisor Experience adventurers found the place. But enough fun bouncing on these people. In its present state, it is a cozy historic village of about 1,100 people, split between Spanish and Wixárika heritage. In serious recognition of this truly wonderful place, Real de Catorce was the second town in all of Mexico to receive the Pueblo Mágico designation. Bonus points if you know the first. I don’t.

Odds Facts About Real de Catorce:
*Two unrelated religions make simultaneous pilgrimages to the same place.
* A Cockfight Arena that looked like the Coliseum
* Cerro del Quemado, just outside of town, is the birthplace of the sun, according to Wixárika cosmology. And the Wixárika are in charge of things in this area, so what they say goes. Seriously, this is a very spiritual place.
* The Indigenous Miners’ Life Expectancy Was 30 Years

Tonight’s meal included an appetizer of Cabuche, the unopened flower buds of the red biznaga cactus. It is a seasonal delicacy in the deserts of San Luis Potosí and Zacatecas. Sauteed, they had a tender crunch and a slightly acidic, earthy, and sweet flavor similar to artichoke hearts. Truly special. Truly local.

Returning to my room, it didn’t matter that I had forgotten my keys. I just walked in and found them on the nightstand. Nice to not have to mess with locks. Wake me in the morning, chickens.

Today’s expenses: 187 pesos for Enchiladas Potosinas, room at 1,200 pesos, and dinner with a side of Cabuche and a Mezcal, $345. A one-day pass at Disneyland is $120 to 200 USD.

Photos of This Day

After a wonderful traditional SLP breakfast of Enchiladas Potosinas, the iconic dish of the state, I was ready. They are made with corn dough mixed with guajillo or ancho chili sauce, which gives them their reddish color. They are filled with cheese, folded like quesadillas, browned on a griddle, and fried—truly a plateful of Umami.

On the road at noon, my navigation showed a 3½-hr ride to Real de Catorce. With a stop on the way, I would still arrive well before the 5 PM cutoff, when the people managing traffic through the tunnel to Real de Catorce end their day. After that, you are on your own. The Ogarrio Tunnel is the only non-mule way in and out of R14. It’s three meters tall and one car wide for nearly 2 km. After the guys leave, you may or may not make it without meeting another vehicle. I could manage with my bike, but even then, it would be a tight squeeze.

My route today took me through the Altiplano Potosino, a high plateau of semi-arid lands, open sky, and endless horizons. The narrow paved road was in immaculate condition, encouraging high-speed cruising. Even the Harley rider I came upon was going almost fast.

My midpoint refueling and rest stop was Charcas, a town founded by Spanish conquistadors in 1578 as a mining center. The moto riders wear mining hats instead of helmets, so it appears that is has once again become a mining center.

I had taken up a park bench on the plaza in front of the church and stretched my legs. Before long, a teenager and a middle-aged working-stiff guy started a conversation. Using Google Translate, Tarzan Talk, Advanced Sign Language, exaggerated facial expressions, and pointing at mobile phone screens, we discussed International Economic models and globalization. The talk veered into Fission and Quantum Mechanics.

And then it happened. A thundercrack jolted me from my intellectual soliloquy on Cosmology. My face surely resembled that of the old RCA dog. What the hell! While we were talking, afternoon thunderclouds had amassed. Someone lit the fuse.

I said my Adioses, quickly geared up, and sped out of town, confident knowing I’d quickly outrun it. The execution of the plan was perfect, but the plan was wrong. Within minutes, sheets of rain were in my future, about a kilometer of the future ahead. I pulled over to put on my rain jacket. I tore through my side luggage, but it wasn’t there. Meanwhile, all of the contents were getting soaked, as was I. The thunder followed the lightning by less than half a second, and the smell of ozone was in the air. I remounted, hoping that a moving target is less likely to be hit. That’s bullshit thinking, but it’s all I had. Certainly, riding in the rain gets you wet much faster than standing in it. But then, why would one stand in the rain?

Riding through the pelting rain and pea-sized hail—that’s my kinda adventure. In 10 minutes, the hell faded, and it wasn’t long before I rode in sunlight and warmth. I dried out in an hour. But oh crap, another challenge: I was running tight on time. I dialed it up to 130 KMH, about all my little KTM 390 can summon.

The last 26km to the entrance of the tunnel is challenging cobblestones. Being from San Miguel, I was not unfamiliar with this road surface. I followed cars going 20 kph for a bit, but that was torture. I found that, once I sped up to 60 kph, everything smoothed out and the bike floated effortlessly.

I arrived at the Ogarrio Tunnel at 4:53 PM, with only seven minutes to spare. I dallied about taking a few photos, so I could be the last vehicle to cross before the guards stop controlling single-lane flow, making for really dicey conditions when you meet someone.

To make the introduction, R14 (as those in the know call it) is a jewel, an old Spanish mining town, now a popular Pueblo Magico. It’s high up at 2,730 meters (8,950’) in the Sierra Madre Oriental Mountains. It is so rich in history and stories that I’ll spread them over three posts.

Adrenaline now drained, I craved a drink and dinner. I wanted a damned good meal and a stiff Mezcal. A fundamental part of my travel is studying and devouring the local cuisine. Restaurante La Migaja was this night’s logical answer as they serve Italian food. Never mind that their sign indicates it’s a panaderia (bakery). I was hungry and didn’t have many choices. And it was raining here, as that storm came north, moving a bit slower than a KTM moto rider, but steadily determined. Walking in the dark, dodging puddles, I came across a well-lit sign and, before me, a monumentally steep and narrow set of stairs. My kinda welcome mat. I arrived, tired, and lightly moistened.

I was greeted by a youngster who seated me at my table, welcomed me, and presented me with a menu. I asked if there was a local Mezcal, and he asked, “Naturel or Curado”? That little shit was not going to foist some kind of flavored Mezcal swill on me. “Naturel!” And it better be good, I said under my breath. After all, best to show your manners in front of a 12-year-old server.

I had an amazing Italian dinner by candlelight. The pasta was perfect, and the focaccia was equal to the best I’ve had. As the night progressed, I met the family: Martin, Mom Maria, Server Extraordinaire Angel, and much younger brother Matias.

What a fine meal, and so special to meet this family. I got a full restaurant tour, and to reciprocate, I took photos and posted them along with a rave review. The next morning, I was walking down the street and heard a young boy’s voice: “Randy!” I turned around, and it was Martin and Matias walking from school. That’s what this trip is about.

I nodded off to the surprisingly muted roosters’ crows and the distant rumble of thunder.

Today’s expenses: breakfast 187 in SLP, first gas 260 pesos, 2nd gas 220 pesos, catorce tunnel 70 pesos, dinner w/mezcal 340 pesos, room a budget-busting 1,440... It’s a tourist town.

Photos of This Day

Waking up at six, I set a goal to leave by 10 AM. I had futzed around so much the day before configuring my Cardo helmet intercom, Carpuride Display, and mobile phone that I had drained the bike’s battery. A few hours on the charger and it was good. I finalized my packing and put the bike in gear at 10:37 am.

This first day is one of finding a rhythm. There is the rhythm of riding, which is essential. Starting a big trip, I question everything, including my riding abilities. Thoughts of potential problems cycle through your head. The shit I thought I forgot to pack. Then there is the rhythm and ritual needed at your first town stop: take a couple of one-way streets the wrong way, illegally park the bike, seek the best lunch in town, and take the requisite iconic photos. You need to find a way to carry a heavy jacket, helmet, gloves, phone, and camera and try to not look like a dork.

I don’t know about my dork quotient on my first stop, but I do know that somewhere along the line, I lost my stylish and protective Spanish leather gloves. Fortunately, there was a moto shop close by, and I bought some cheap motocross gloves, which turned out to be quite a bit cooler, so maybe it was fortuitous. Carelessness creates new opportunities for change in one’s life. So yes, it was a philosophically valuable loss.

My lunch town was Ocampo, Guanajuato, about 90 minutes, mostly north of San Miguel. An agritown of about 25,000 people, it’s not remarkable—just a working person’s town. However, any first stop on a long trip is special. Checkpoint completed, you are now officially chasing your adventure. You order lunch and realize you’ve left expensive Disneyland San Miguel behind.

While I didn’t have time to stop, I’d still tell you to visit El Cóporo—a 1,200-year-old hilltop city built by nobody-remembers-who on the northern frontier of Mesoamerica, quietly aging while almost nobody bothers to go.

But for me, it was time to shove off to San Luis Potosi, a new destination for me. Arriving on a Saturday late afternoon, I found Centro hopping! Hopping the way a city center of 900,000+ people hops. Many weddings and Quinceañeras that night.

The city of San Luis Potosi is located on a fertile central plateau and is the state capital. It seems a proud, handsome colonial city, one that most tourists skip, which adds immensely to its charm. It has a genuine, lived-in quality. The historic center is compact, anchored by an impressive cathedral and jardin. The neoclassical architecture is quite fine. There are several large churches and expansive plazas within a dozen or so square blocks.

San Luis Potosi deserves more than an overnight — and it’s three and a half easy hours from San Miguel on the back roads. Go there. It’s real Mexico.

Here’s a short list to entice you:

*Their Tianguis has over 6,000 stalls

*Leonora Carrington’s museum is housed in a former state penitentiary

*It was briefly the capital of Mexico

*Their enchiladas are orange

*The plazas are filled with clowns, one of them being clownish for 40 years

*A replica of Jesus’s house sits in the middle of the city.

*It has a National Museum of Death – I need to go.

This is going to be an inexpensive trip. My daily expenses were 300 pesos for fuel and 125 pesos for lunch. Those who travel with me know I seek out inexpensive, quirky accommodations. This night I did splurge on accommodations, paying 1,400 pesos for a room, twice my usual budget. This time I went for the historic Gran Hotel Concordia.

Tomorrow is Finding Rhythm.

Photos of This Day

The past few months, I’ve been thinking about my 70th birthday, what it means, and where I go from here. If I’m lucky, I figure I’m good for another ten years of adventure. So, what was the best way to kick off this plan? I thought long and hard and created a lengthy list of places that I wanted to explore, 23 in total!. But I was getting nowhere until one night, staring at a very dark boveda ceiling, the answer became obvious. Travel to all 32 states of Mexico between now and May 24, 2027, the last day of being 70.

Today begins that adventure, with a departure for the state of San Luis Potosí. I plan a total of five legs of travel this year, each lasting between 12 and 20 days. A total of 60 days + on the road. What started out as a simple concept was quite a journey to get to this journey: new camera gear, a photography teacher, a website to document everything, and convincing my wife that this idea was brilliant. Still working on the final point.

I felt I needed a theme, a purpose, and an approach; I want to give more than take — to share the lesser-known parts of Mexico, not just photograph them. I’m carrying postcards and stickers to leave behind as I go, inviting people to visit the website to see photos of themselves and their land. Note that the postcard posted here is bilingual for those who don’t speak Spanish. The actual postcard is only in Spanish.

My plan is to post photos and thoughts about my experiences regularly (daily?). I have committed to this.

Yesterday, as the last step, my friend Michael put the bike and me through a blessing ritual, and I’m departing in minutes.

Randy

Photos

For my 60th, I rode through the Western Balkans. So now I needed to plan something bigger for my 70th. Over a few months, I built a list—Hunza Valley in Pakistan, Kyrgyzstan, Vietnam, parts of Africa and many more destinations. It was a go-big list.

Then one night, lying in bed staring at the ceiling, it hit me. Whammo!

Mexico.

Not just a trip. The whole country. All 32 states. Ride it. Explore it. Photograph it. Write it.

So here we are.

My name is Randy Kremlacek. I’m a photographer, a writer, a lifelong motorcycle rider, and a former San Francisco business owner who had the lucky good sense to sell the business and move to Mexico in 2019. I live in San Miguel de Allende in the high semi-desert of Guanajuato. I’m a damned lucky man.

I’ve fallen hard for Mexico. San Miguel is world-class—maybe even world-beating—but what really grabs me is everything beyond it. The back roads. The small towns. Not the tourist destinations, shopping trips, senior entertainment, or curated “experiences”. I have come to loathe that word “experiences”.

I ride my motorcycle in largely unknown areas that few, other than locals, have seen. With so much to share, I improved my photography and sharpened my writing skills, and am passing on my discoveries of the hidden Mexican treasures.

And now I’m embarking on something that is either a great adventure or a spectacular miscalculation, possibly both: riding my motorcycle, discovering all 32 Mexican states, and writing about every one of them. Geography, history, culture, natural wonders, and most of all, the warm and kind people of Mexico.

Why 32 states?

Because it’s the whole country. Because most people — including most people who live here — have seen maybe a handful of them. Because Mexico is one of the most geographically, culturally, and historically complex countries on the planet, and it gets reduced in the international imagination to beaches and drug cartel headlines.

Because I’ve been living here for years and I still feel like I’m just getting started. And because at 70 years old, I figure if not now, when?

I’ve already visited 14 states, and I know some of them well. Others I’ve barely touched. And the remaining 18 will be totally new to me. I’m cramming in as much reading and research on each state, between my “campaigns”. It’s turning into a full-time endeavor.

This isn’t a bucket list project. I’m not racing the clock; in fact, I’m deliberately slowing down my usual pace. The goal is to actually immerse myself in this country and have enough time to fully absorb and reflect on what I will experience. The plan is to have this grand project complete by May 24th, 2027, the eve of my 71st birthday. And I want to write a book - a collection of my travel stories. That will call for a celebration. Until then, I’m celebrating every day I’m on the road.

What you’ll get here

I have sliced this adventure into five separate trips, each trip from 10 to 18 days. When I’m on these trips, you’ll find a stream of stories in your inbox. What you won’t get: “10 Things You Must See in Oaxaca.” Travel writing as an influencer. What you will get: my impressions about what it’s actually like out there, sprinkled with my own brand of raw humor, and little-known stories of Mexico.

The full photo galleries live on my SmugMug Site. I’ll link to them in every story so you can see the images at full size. Think of what you read here as the voice of the trip, and what’s on SmugMug as the wall of photographs behind it.

One thing I’d ask

If something resonates — a story, a photo, a line — share it with someone who’d appreciate it. This whole thing grows one reader at a time, and the readers who find their way here are exactly the kind of people I want in the room: curious, independent-minded, and not afraid of a lone road.

Welcome to My Stories of Mexico and My Photos of Mexico.

Let’s go see what’s out there.

— Randy