Two On Tour

Into the old colonial heartlands...and back to Mexico City for a memorable gig

Monday 20 April

We’ve barely done Mexico City justice, but accommodation — or anything else — in big capital cities doesn’t come cheap. Time to move on.

Reaching Puebla is straightforward: Uber to the bus station, locate the bus, climb aboard, stare out the window for two hours. Gliding past the gritty outskirts of Mexico City, from the motorway there’s a brief stunning view of the mountains rising beyond its furthest-flung shabby suburbs. Unfortunately, I’m too slow opening my camera app.

Puebla doesn’t look promising as our taxi passes block upon block of scruffy identical houses. The historic centre arrives with some relief. Our flat is one of a dozen refashioned from an old brick and stone warehouse. Spacious, comfortable, and above all clean. It’s a breath of fresh air after our shoddy Airbnb in Mexico City.

The local supermarket is ten minutes’ walk from the flat. Handsome colonial architecture quickly gives way to functional buildings on drab streets. A busy fruit and veg market covers a couple of blocks, making the area feel safe enough by day, though I don’t think we’d test it after dark. The supermarket would make Lidl look upmarket. This is clearly not where timid middle-class folk like us usually shop.

More promising is Avenida 5 de Mayo, just a block away from the flat and Puebla’s showpiece historic avenue. It’s pedestrianised and shaded by weeping figs as high as the surrounding buildings. We amble about, me on the lookout for zero-alcohol beer, K hunting for a bottle of wine — neither were available at the local supermarket.

It’s already getting late, so we opt to eat out. Despite the packed streets and central location, restaurants seem thin on the ground. Google Maps throws up a promising option nearby. It closes at eight. It’s already seven. We’re the last customers of the day and the staff are clearly less than thrilled to see us. Still, the chicken in peanut sauce (me) and adobo sauce (K) is tasty, and there’s beer and wine on hand.

Heat rises, and the mezzanine bedroom area is a bit toasty. We’ll need the fan at nights. Otherwise, the flat is close to perfect.

Tuesday 21 April

A quiet first full day in Puebla. I’m busy with work until mid-afternoon, at which point we set out on a half-hour amble to the nearest hypermarket. Again, our route draws us beyond the prim colonial centre, out into the monotonous grid of near-identical streets that is the rest of the city. Again, it feels safe enough by day, but I’d give it a miss after sunset.

Besides decent bread, we find everything finicky middle-class types expect of a supermarket. We haul everything back on foot to ensure we get our daily steps in. And that’s it for today. The flat is comfortable. We’ll be here for three weeks. No rush. 

Wednesday 22 April

Time to start exploring. It’s gone three by the time we head out, so we keep it modest. Our aim today is to get a feel for the historical quarter without targetting specfic sights.

But first, Google Maps is showing a small mall fifteen minutes away. Might it have a decent supermarket? Alas, no. Half the shops have closed down; the others appear to cling on thanks to a multiplex cinema and a gym. Still, drifting this way takes us through handsome colonial streets. There’s much to return to explore.

The afternoon has turned ominously dark. The first drops of rain fall on the way back to the flat and the moment we step inside, a torrential downpour lets loose. I busy myself decoding the online menus of a couple of restaurants we’ve earmarked. There’s clearly much more to Mexican grub than tacos and enchiladas: nearly half a year of reading Spanish menus hasn’t prepared me for the food here: Mole poblano? Pozole? Taco placero? Poblanos rellenos? Chanclas poblanas? Enmoladas? I soon crack that poblano/a means ‘Pueblan style’. Picture searches and Wikipedia do the rest. By the time we arrive at the restaurant, its menu greets me like an old friend.

K tries the mole poblano — a chicken leg in a rich mole sauce served with rice; I go for a chicken pozole — a spicy stew made from hominy. (Even the words used to describe new words are new words.) Our friendly waiter makes a polite fuss of us — the heavy rain has kept almost all customers away tonight.

Back at the flat, we’re making use of our Netflix subscription for the first time in weeks to watch vaguely dark Mexican comedy drama La Casa de las Flores: “A wealthy matriarch tries to maintain her family’s façade of perfection after her husband’s mistress exposes their dirty secrets.” It’s insanely moreish.

Thursday 23 April

I’m still unsure how Puebla is going to keep us entertained for three whole weeks. I’m taking it a day at a time. The flat is spacious and comfortable. I’m happy enough if we only go out two or three hours a day. There are always things to occupy me at home.

Today, a bus tour. It lasts little more than an hour, but it’s enough to give us a feel of what’s what in Puebla. We’re the only passengers this afternoon, the Spanish-only commentary falling on desperately untuned ears. I manage to decode just enough to add a bookmark marking the entrance to the much-hyped 500-year-old secret tunnels.

Back on the Zocalo, we pause for ice cream — mezcal and hibiscus for me: heavenly — and sit on a shady bench people-watching, before ducking into the cathedral. It’s a vast, ghastly showcase of Catholic bling. Gold stars to the architects and engineers; wooden spoons for the interior decoration team. It’s a shame they had so much space to clutter up.

Friday 24 April

We’ve never been in accommodation so far from a decent supermarket. On Tuesday we traipsed half an hour to the ‘local’ branch of Mega, but still couldn’t find a couple of basics. Today we Uber to the nearest Walmart — 3km away — and stock up like pros. Now we’ve never had so much food and drink stashed away. Taking taxis to buy groceries focuses the mind.

Our new letting agent, Soane, take a look at our now empty Portsmouth flat to assess it for decoration and maintenance. More monies out ahead, but with a new tenant in place we’ll have a little more monthly income. Again, big-picture thinking required. The big picture is fine.

There wasn’t a lot to take photos of today, so here I am sitting halfway down the stairs:

Saturday 25 April

I’m on top of work and admin for now. I reward myself by sorting a load of half-listened music that’s been piling up for weeks.

Saturday afternoon in Puebla is busy. Everyone’s out and about. We head for the ‘Alley of the Frogs’, where a busy weekend market sells an eye-popping assortment of handicrafts and bric-a-brac. The atmosphere is contagious and we abandon a plan to return to the flat to recharge before dinner. Instead, having exhausted the market, we settle with a coffee and read until it’s almost late enough for an early dinner.

But first, a detour to tiny historic bar La Pasita, which serves shots of raisin-flavoured liqueur with a cube of goat cheese and a raisin on a toothpick. I’m sceptical, but it’s delicious.

Rather than return to the tourist-priced Zócalo, we pick a modest place nearby for dinner. Mine’s a simple cemita, an over-stuffed sandwich served with a small dish of smoky chipotles. K goes for spicy tripe soup. Ughhh.

Back in the Zócalo as night falls, everyone is promenading. We join them, soaking up the atmosphere before meandering home through noisy Saturday night streets. Good to explore at leisure today. I feel more settled.

Sunday 26 April

A day at home. Sorting music. Studying Spanish. Reading. I’m about to get out for a late afternoon walk when K points out that the flat is almost dark. I step onto the balcony to see storm clouds overhead. Within five minutes, it’s raining heavily. I stay in.

Monday 27 April

Reletting the Portsmouth flat is setting the agenda right now. This morning, a deep dive into Energy Performance Certificates: How are they weighted? What energy rating do other flats at Admirals House have? How are modern high heat retention storage heaters different from the ancient ones we had at Arun Court nearly fifty years ago? I need to know this information, but the sheer volume of what’s out there threatens to overwhelm.

After lunch, a visit to the Museo Amparo, apparently one of Mexico’s finest. We initially blunder into the museum office instead of the ticket counter, then start in the wrong place. We clearly weren’t cut out for high culture. I spend the first hour mostly sleepwalking through galleries of old photos and colonial-era artefacts — mostly religious. Since arriving in Spain last November, I feel like I’ve seen Christ nailed to a cross almost every bloody day. I drift ahead of K, more interested in what Google has to say about smart tariffs versus Economy 7 tariffs, and whether installing storage heaters might land a future tenant with a bigger electricity bill instead of saving money.

Eventually, we bumble into the museum’s main collection of pre-Hispanic bumpf. In one sense, it’s like any other museum of ancient art and craft: all pots, pans and figurines. In another, here’s the handiwork of an advanced ancient civilization I’ve only been dimly aware of until now. In Europe, my eyes can easily glaze over when confronted with two-thousand-year-old relics. But here, I’m transfixed. Some of the most spectacular pieces are clearly modern reproductions. Nothing wrong with that. Seeing them as they would have looked millennia ago has its own appeal — especially when the craftsmanship is so different to anything I’ve seen before.

Back at the flat, I head up to the roof terrace to reassess my bearings. We’ve been in Puebla a week. Looking out from the rooftop for the first time since the day we arrived, the city centre looks familiar, full of landmarks I recognise.

Tuesday 28 April

We forgot to buy toothpicks last week. And now we’ve run out. I doubt I’ve ever walked further to a supermarket for one item. Different route to Mega this time, without the initial tree cover of Av. Cinco de Mayo. It’s hot and sunny, but late enough to find shade in the shadow of buildings. Of course, we leave with more than toothpicks — needs have a knack of multiplying once inside any supermarket. We’re still well-stocked after last week’s grocery marathon. Once everything’s put away, both cupboard and fridge look as if we’re preparing for a siege.

We’ve bookmarked a café to drop into on the way home, set in a handsome courtyard away from the city bustle. We arrive to find an oasis of calm. Espresso tonics aren’t cheap — we’ll be paying for the ambiance, but it’s worth the few extra pesos. At the next table, two women are deep in conversation. I can tell one isn’t a native Spanish speaker, although she’s way more fluent than I am. We nestle down with our Mexican history tomes, sip our drinks, and pretend to be cleverer than we really are.

No work to distract me at the moment, so I’m on cooking duty tonight: a simple pesto pasta with plenty of crunchy veg and lashings of black pepper. Michelin-star chefs needn’t mind their backs, but it’s good enough.

Wednesday 29 April

Some days, we just get lucky. After a frustrating hunt for affordable accommodation in Quebec City in July, I’m just a little grumpy as we head for the Palafoxiana library — the oldest public library in the Americas.

To reach it, we have to pass through the colonial courtyard of Puebla’s Casa de la Cultura. It’s just a regular Wednesday afternoon, but it’s full of people sitting on fold-out chairs as a dozen ladies of a certain age perform clumsy folk dances. The music sounds more East European than Mexican. This is confirmed when they launch into Zorba the Greek, all but three dancers haplessly struggling to keep up with the spritely group leader.

A security guard directs us up a handsome stone staircase to the library. For colonial grandeur in public services, the Palafoxiana library is worth seeing. The carved wood and beautifully bound tomes soon dispel any lingering grumpiness:

It’s all very nice and all that, but we’ve yet to reach the best bit. We emerge from the library to find the folk dancing continuing in the courtyard below. The ladies have retired, replaced by a group of teens and even younger kids — everyone in white with red trim. The youngest boy is a mere shrimp in thick-rimmed glasses. He can’t be more than eight, and he’s already a way better dancer than me. Unlike the ladies, everyone knows their moves and apparently has unlimited energy. We didn’t come for this, but it’s free, and the audience is mostly adoring parents —  not pesky tourists like us.  

Ater an hour of downtime back at the flat, we’re off to the Zócalo to eat. We’re perched on seats overlooking the plaza just as the sun starts to set. Aware of being in a tourist hotspot, we order cautiously, then settle down to discuss the ongoing enquiry into the awful Tai Po fire last November. Hardly upbeat dinner chat, but K’s following the news in Chinese and has a far better grasp of what’s going on. Nothing like Hong Kong politics to fill a date night…

Thursday 30 April

I wake up to find a quote for the reletting works on the Portsmouth flat in my inbox. It’s twice what I’d anticipated. Ouch. I’d failed to appreciate that when it comes to water heaters, it’s all about the installation costs and less the device itself.

Still, even after redecoration, a new water heater, ripping up and relaying the balcony decking, and assorted odds and sods, total maintenance costs over the ten years we’ve had the flat are nothing to grumble about, although I’ll doubtless find a way.

I speak to Anna ahead of what would have been Dad’s 81st birthday tomorrow. She’s considering finally scattering Dad’s ashes in the bluebell wood near the canal. I think it’s a lovely idea. He’s been sitting in a plastic box on the patio for the last ten years. I’m sure he’d appreciate a change.

My head’s spinning with reletting admin. All I want is somewhere quiet, an espresso tonic, and a good book. And that’s exactly how we spend the afternoon, in a shady courtyard engrossed in Mexican history. Apparently, despite three centuries of European settlement, large swathes of Mexico remained unmapped until well after Independence in 1821. “At the beginning of the nineteenth century the north of Mexico was about as well surveyed as sub-Saharan Africa”, claims my book. No one was quite sure where El Paso lay on the map. Most Americans today would probably still look for it in New Mexico. Ho hum.

Friday 1 May

Happy Birthday, Dad. You would have been 81 today. Just imagine how grumpy that would make you.

I’ve approved most of the renovation works in Portsmouth. The initial shock at the cost has worn off. The flat went on the market yesterday and we already have viewings lined up for next week. With a bit of luck, we’ll have a new tenant by June.

We’re halfway through our stay in Puebla. We haven’t ventured far, and haven’t felt much need to. The one out-of-town sight I wouldn’t mind seeing is Cholula. The church on a hill with Popocatépetl volcano looming behind it looks impressive in the tourist marketing, but it’s a pain to get to. We’ll see.

The church-with-Popocatépetl backdrop is also a staple at Puebla’s art museum, where we fritter away a couple of pleasant hours this afternoon. A modest street entrance leads to yet another handsome colonial courtyard with galleries arranged around it. We see no more than half a dozen other visitors. It’s a shame it doesn’t have more; it’s a lovely space full of colourful art:

We’re both especially taken with this painting, The Invention of Mole, for its mash-up of pre-Colombian and European Mexico:

Even the occasional kitsch (see the ringtail below) is fun and playful:

After dinner, we take a break from Mexican dramas to watch new Taiwanese film Left-Handed Girl on Netflix. Riveting stuff — comfortably the best Taiwanese film I’ve seen, and I’ve seen more than a few. Superb acting. Stunning cinematography. Great editing. Only when I go onto IMDB do I learn it was written by Sean Baker (Anora, The Florida Project, Red Rocket). I’m still unsure how he came to write a Chinese-language film laced with cultural connotations, but he’s done a first-class job.

Saturday 2 May

I’m working on a speech for PolyU when there’s an incoming video call on the Basingstoke Boys chat group. My first, incorrect, thought is, “C’mon, not now. I’m busy”. My second, correct, thought is “How many more times am I going to have a spontaneous video chat with my old teenage buddies?” I answer. Paul’s popped up seconds before me, on holiday in Faro. In Glasgow, Mike has managed to bum call us while cleaning up after dinner with his phone in his back pocket. We’ve all been caught offguard, but three of us are here now, marvelling at each’s other’s ageing features. We chat for the best part of an hour. I’ve known these guys more than forty years. It’s one of life’s finest pleasures to simply prattle on with my old buddies. A shame Dave was fast asleep in Brisbane.

Later, a reprise of last Saturday afternoon: back to the bric-a-brac and craft market in the Alley of the Frogs, where we pick up something for Rose’s upcoming 50th. Next, a repeat visit to La Pasita for a shot of raisin liqueur with a cube of goat’s cheese. We’re accosted by the toothless local drunk, who unsuccessfully tries to engage us in conversation. We drink up and leave.

Then back to the same friendly, affordable restaurant as last Saturday. We’ve no sooner ordered than the evening’s entertainment/torture begins: a young crooner belts out karaoke tunes to the tiny restaurant’s half-dozen customers. It’s excruciating, but we soldier on, remapping our rough plans for 2027: K’s still keen on Corfu all these years after watching The Durrells during covid. Albania’s already pencilled in for next year, so Corfu would make sense.

Sunday 3 May

Little to report. Work keeps me busy until lunch. The afternoon is for recharging. There’s a toothpick-sized errand to briefly get me out of the flat: locate the entrance to Puebla’s ‘secret’ tunnels so that I’ll know what to look for when I drag K in that direction next week.

Our next destination is barreling towards us. I start reading up on San Miguel de Allende. We spend the evening watching years-old 2GoRoam videos from the town — archaeology by YouTube travel video standards. San Miguel is clearly going to be a very different experience to Puebla: smaller, more expat residents — and doubtless more expensive.

Monday 4 May

Short entries at the moment. We’re fairly settled in Puebla and days are by and large routine. Today involves sorting bus tickets back to Mexico City and on to San Miguel de Allende, a grocery run, and an espresso tonic in the same courtyard café as last week. Tomorrow’s a public holiday and a lot of Mexicans appear to have taken leave today — the streets are conspicuously busy for a weekday. Inside the café grounds, we’re unceremoniously shooed into an indoor nook. Patio privileges are strictly for diners today, we’re told.

In the evening, another first-rate film. I’m watching a Dreaming Spanish video about ten iconic Spanish language films and realise one of them, Y Tú Mamá También (2001), is on our Netflix list. It’s Mexican. It’s a much-loved classic. It immediately jumps to top priority and doesn’t disappoint.

Tuesday 5 May

It’s a public holiday as Mexico celebrates stuffing the French right here in Puebla in 1862. Who knew? We head out late morning to locate the promised 12,000-strong parade.

We don’t have to go far, but finding an unobstructed view is impossible. The crowd is five deep and the side streets slope unhelpfully upwards towards the parade route. We drift along the route until we eventually find a spot from where we can peer past other folks’ shoulders:

I’ve never seen so many marching bands. If they’re all local, every other person in Puebla must play brass. It must be the perfect city to set up as a saxophone vendor. Those who aren’t playing brass are drumming or waving flags. We crane our necks for twenty minutes, then diminishing returns start to set in and thoughts turn to lunch.  

A first-floor perch overlooking the Alley of the Frogs suits us fine. Lunch is a late affair in Mexico and the chef isn’t due until one. We’ll wait. We order fresh lemonades and are handed pieces of fabric and a marker pen to write a wish. We tie our two pieces together, write the Spanish translation of a slogan that would invite arrest and detention in 2020s Hong Kong, and carefully knot it to a  railing next to our table.

We’d planned to explore Puebla’s ‘secret’ tunnels this afternoon, but the ticket office is closed. Another couple arrive and huff that Google Maps said nothing about closing for today’s holiday. It’s one of our rare spontaneous encounters in Spanish that doesn’t involve ordering food or refreshments.

It’s hot and most places are closed for the holiday. We cut our losses and return to the flat, which is being cleaned. Yolanda is still inside with a mop and bucket, so we head up to the roof terrace to read. She’s still there when we return, but insists she’s almost finished and beckons us in — cue a second spontaneous encounter in clunky Spanish as we exchange skeleton biographies.

By now it’s late afternoon. Trembling Blue Stars’ Her Handwriting is thirty years old this month. I clamp on my headphones and listen from beginning to end for the first time in years. Suddenly I’m back in the sun-dappled summer of 1996 living briefly with Ian and Anne-Mari in south London; in my first strange, lonely weeks in Baku that autumn before finding my feet; ceiling gazing on a hot, sticky Lamma night listening to The Far Too Simple Beauty endlessly on repeat, trying to piece my life together after another relationship didn’t work out. It’s all so long ago. I don’t want to return to that time — life has worked out just fine — but sometimes it’s unbearably sad that my younger self is so far out of reach. By the time the gut-punch coda of To Keep Your Heart Whole chimes in and the album slowly fades, I’m a wobbly wreck.

Wednesday 6 May

We’ve secured new tenants for the Portsmouth flat. There’s been less interest than anticipated, but it only takes one fish to bite. It took less than one week. Who’s grumbling? If all goes smoothly, they’ll move in at the end of May.

Back in Puebla, we finally descend into the ‘secret’ tunnels, long dismissed as urban legend, linking the old city with the fort above. Cool stone walls, soft lighting, and ceilings high enough to pass on horseback: it all creates a suitably dramatic atmosphere. Certainly an impressive feat of engineering for the sixteenth century.

It’s all very evocative picturing soldiers and clergy moving quietly beneath the city centuries ago, but the bilingual displays insist the tunnels were built as hydraulic infrastructure before gaining a second life as strategic hideaways. Somehow water pipes don’t evoke the same sense of daring adventure.

After half an hour underground, we pop out blinking like moles into bright sunshine and climb towards the low hilltop nearby. Before long a cordon marks a paid area where the Cinco de Mayo fair is continuing. May 5 has been and gone and tickets are two-for-one. Maybe it would have been a bargain, but we’ll never know because a short distance further on we’re subjected to a security scan. Half the items in our backpacks — cameras, chargers, flasks — fail the inspection. We could ask at the ticket booth for a refund, but realistically our Spanish isn’t up to the task. The entry fee was minimal anyway. We buy pineapple and coconut ice pops and head downhill back into the city.

After recharging, we set out for a Japanese restaurant just off the Zócalo. It’s closed. Another Japanese joint nearby is empty. We pivot and settle on a general-purpose restaurant right on the Zócalo. K orders tacos; I steer clear of anything based on tortillas and order lasagna. Really, I’d make an absolutely terrible Mexican. At the next table a group of Americans are talking loudly. It’s one of the few times we’ve heard English in Puebla. We spend the meal refining plans for Cyprus, Corfu and Albania in the first half of 2027.

Thursday 7 May

Today I barely feel I’m in Mexico. Morning passes in a flurry of admin: Portsmouth flat matters, Hong Kong tax return; afternoon passes in a flurry of rudimentary travel planning.

We’re beginning to firm up plans for the first half of 2027. Over an afternoon coffee, I grapple a solid itinerary into place: Cyprus (Paphos, Limassol or Larnaca, Nicosia), Greece (Corfu), Albania (Sarande, Tirana) and North Macedonia (Ohrid, Skopje).  Corfu is expensive even in March — how did the Durrells manage? — but a good base for moving onto Albania. Two weeks would be manageable, especially with Albania and North Macedonia so affordable. I’ll be running all this past Tim tomorrow; he’s just sent some SCMP pieces he wrote from all these locations.

Friday 8 May

We decide it’s time for a day trip. Cholula, apparently, isn’t as far away as I’d feared. An Uber won’t tip us into penury.

Our driver speaks execellent English, thanks to years spent in rural Kentucky. He tells us about working on farms with his dad, raising a family in the countryside outside Puebla, and his dislike of the city. I nod sagely, as if I too have wrestled livestock in Kentucky, when in truth my closest brushes with farming have involved feeding ducks in muncipal parks.

I ask about Mexico’s World Cup prospects. He admits he prefers boxing fan. I pretend to know something about boxing, but my knowledge is limited to the fact that Muhammad Ali was very good at it. By the time we reach Cholula, I’ve had my longest conversation with a Mexican to date — though I suspect he now thinks I’m a hopeless metropolitan clod.

We’ve come for the famous view of Popcatépetl, Mexico’s second-highest peak. The brochures promise a majestic volcano looming over the town. What we get is a hazy outline that looks like someone’s smudged the horizon with a dirty eraser. Still, there’s the pyramid. It’s the largest ever built in Mesoamerica, though you wouldn’t know it from the grassy mound that greets us. A small museum displays a cutaway model of what the original pyramid would have looked like.

We circle the base through a park of scorched grass where ruins of the ancient town lie scattered. It feels oddly like an English park in an extended dry spell. I half expect to see pensioners in deck chairs and a putting green. Then we plod up the incline to the church perched on top. It’s a striking sight, though clearly built before the concept of sensitive cultural diplomacy had been invented.

The famous volcano–church shot is clearly impossible without a drone or helicopter. I briefly consider buying a drone, but remember that I struggle to launch a paper plane.

Instead we settle for panaromic views back to Puebla:

It’s hot. We dawdle into town hunting ice cream, but find ice lollies instead. Mine’s watermelon; K’s is fig. They’re so good I briefly consider living entirely on frozen fruit. We bumble around the town square, where the last jacaranda blossoms are still clinging on, and duck into a church notable for its refreshing lack of bling. Then it’s time to Uber back.

Our driver looks uncannily like an elderly Ray Charles. This is disconcerting. I assume he can see where he’s going, though I keep one hand on the door handle just in case. After the chatty ride out, I’m content to stare out of the window. For a few minutes, that’s what I do. Then, at a traffic light, Uncle Ray pipes up: “Les gusta Puebla?” I mumble politely that, yes, we like it very much. Then he’s off, peppering us with questions: Where are we from? Is Hong Kong by the sea? What language do people speak there? Do I speak Chinese? He’s lovely. Genuinely interested, and able to pitch his Spanish to our level. I stumble through answers, mangling verb conjugations with the grace of a toddler. Still, it’s my longest Spanish back-and-forth yet. Next time I stumble over ordering a beer, I’ll remind myself I once managed a whole conversation with Ray Charles’ doppelgänger.

The day’s still not done. After dinner, a long chat with Tim in far-off Hua Hin. Besides simply being a pleasure to catch up, he talks me through our rough plans for Cyprus, Corfu, Albania and North Macedonia, suggesting where to linger and where not to.

Saturday 9 May

With yesterday’s trip out to Cholula behind us, we’re starting to wind down in Puebla. We kill a museum plan when I discover that despite its modern building, the museum is full of blingy Baroque art. My tolerance for cherubs is limited.

Instead, we Uber out to Puebla’s Ecological Park. For a second day, our driver wants to know all about us. He collects coins from around the world and is disappointed that we don’t have a Hong Kong dollar to show him.

The park is a pleasant enough. There’s nothing especially ‘ecological’ about it, but it’s at least a welcome green space in a city desperately short of them. The boating lake and zipline are deserted, but the volleyball court is buzzing and the skate park full of skater boys. Couples cuddle on the grass while ducks laze around the lake, skitting into the water as we pass. We slip into a café by the lake for coffee, read the news, amble back to the gate, and Uber home. Nothing jaw-gaping, but a pleasant couple of hours.

It’s our final night out in Puebla. There’s a now-regular stop at La Pasita for a shot of raisin liqueur, then back to the Zócalo for seats overlooking the plaza. The food is average again, but we’re paying for the view. It’s just about worth it, given it’s our last time eating out in town.

Before heading home for Match of the Day, we amble around the Zócalo sizing up a quirky sculpture exhibition that’s just been installed:

Sunday 10 May

Today is lived almost entirely in other places inside my head. After lunch, we get down to the business end of planning our ration of EU time next winter. Corfu slots into place first, even though it will be our final stop before the EU boots us out in mid-April. It might be early in the season, but affordable accommodation is already a challenge.

Next, Cyprus. Our original plan to fly into Paphos immediately smacks into a wall: only budget airlines with extortionate baggage fees fly to Paphos in mid-January. BA fly to Larnaca, so we may as well start there. Nothing booked yet — only a fool books flights on a Sunday afternoon. Still, we now have a solid itinerary: Larnaca – Paphos – Limassol – Nicosia – Girne. Then short stops in Athens and Patra en route to Corfu.

All this is a year away, but I’m curious how we’ll feel returning to Athens and Patra three-and-a-half years into our travels. Probably exactly the same, only with me older and more confused.

I head out for a short stroll while K continues with travel research. Back at the flat, she asks if I know our Guanajuato booking is next door to a nightclub. I wasn’t. To be fair, the host did describe the area as ‘lively’. Recent reviews qualify this as thudding techno music until 3am. Fortunately, cancellation is free until Tuesday. Considering we booked it six months ago, K’s sleuthing couldn’t have been better timed.

I’m not hopeful about finding an alternative 28-day stay at a month’s notice. But surprisingly, we have options. I fire off questions to our prospective host; she replies almost immediately. Soon we’ve cancelled the downtown flat and booked a new place way above it with a view. It’ll be quieter, but less convenient. Something like housesitting Ashley’s place way above Bodrum, perhaps — only with fewer stray cats and dogs. We’ll find out next month.

Monday 11 May

A low-key final day in Puebla. After booking accommodation in Paphos next winter, our last venture out and about is to our favourite café. It starts to rain. Despite being mid-afternoon in the tropics, there’s a slight chill in the air and I wish I’d brought a long-sleeved top.

And that’s it. Conscious of our budget, we eat at home for our final night — we’ll be eating out the next couple of nights.

I’m glad we came to Puebla. It feels like the ‘real’ Mexico — not that I have much experience of Mexico yet. But Acapulco or Cancún it’s clearly not. Lasting memories: morning ambles to the local street market — barely touched on in this blog — for fresh fruit and veg; wandering the Zócalo on Saturday evenings; and our day trip to Cholula. Modest memories, all. But not every memory can squeeze into some whimsical compilation of the 20 Greatest Memories of the Never-Ending World Tour.

I wouldn’t want to live in Puebla. Beyond the charming colonial centre, it’s too big, too flat, too featureless. The rigid street grid makes navigation easy, but drains any imagination or adventure out of getting around. I’ve even caught myself feeling rather sorry for the locals — though they’d no doubt feel equally sorry for me ordering lasagna. And yet by all accounts, it’s one of the country’s most handsome cities.  

It’s time for smaller places. But first, we have a date with Belle and Sebastian back in the capital.

Tuesday 12 May

We’re back in Mexico City. Uneventful journey from Puebla despite some trouble locating the right bus. Once onboard, I settle down and listen to If You’re Feeling Sinister ahead of seeing it performed end-to-end tomorrow night.

Any plans to explore Mexico City further are thwarted when shortly after checking into our hotel, an almighty thunderstorm erupts. We bunker down in the hotel room. Neil and Sarah of 2GoRoam have sent us a chatty video. I think I’ve recorded a reply, only to find I’ve only taken a screenshot. A second attempt is more successful. We have an outline of a plan to cross paths with them sometime this winter.

By dinnertime the rain has thinned enough to walk ten minutes to Chinatown for ma po tofu and chicken noodles. On our way back to our hotel, we pass the venue we’ll be at tomorrow night. The doors have just opened for tonight’s performance of Tigermilk. It’s lovely to rub shoulders with Belle and Sebastian fans. We’ll be back tomorrow for Sinister.

Wednesday 13 May

A day to remember. Though not for its glorious start. Breakfast is a cacophony of mainland Chinese guests rearranging tables, squawking across the room, and conducting loud video calls. It’s a masterclass in how not to behave abroad. I sip my coffee and pretend I’m invisible.

Things improve. We head south to Coyoacan, where Frida Kahlo spent most of her life at the Casa Azul. The no frills subway is simple to navigate and soon we’re grabbing a fast-food lunch in a local Shake Shack. Nothing says immersing yourself in Mexican culture quite like crinkle‑cut fries.

Then over a rickety bridge above a busy highway and into a tranquil neighbourhood of handsome villas, bougainvillea, and coffee shops. We’re early for our allocated time slot, so we potter about until it’s time to line up.

I wasn’t fussed about visiting Frida Kahlo’s house, but I’m immediately glad K insisted. It’s a beautiful space arranged around a leafy courtyard, with exhibits ranging from childhood photos to her wheelchair and specially adapted easel, right through to her death mask on the bed on which she died. Normally, I prefer museums almost empty, but here the carefully managed crowd creates its own buzz. I shuffle from room to room pretending that Frida Kahlo’s my lifelong hero, when in fact I’d almost entirely forgotten her until we reached Mexico.  

After a pick-me-up espresso tonic, we retrace our steps to our hotel for a change of clothes. And then we’re off to the gig, literally around the corner. First, dinner in a Japanese restaurant, then that familiar growing excitement as we approach the Teatro Metropolitan. K nabs a Belle and Sebastian t-shirt at the door to add to her collection. Inside, the theatre is all Greek columns, statues, and velvet trimmings. It’s also empty. We panic briefly — have Belle and Sebastian overestimated their popularity in Mexico? No. We’ve misread the tickets. The gig starts at nine, not eight. By nine, every seat is taken.

The show opens with a short video interviewing the woman who starred on the cover of If You’re Feeling Sinister. And then we’re off, straight into The Stars of Track and Field. Stuart Murdoch is charming as ever, chatting between songs and explaining how some of them came about. At the end of Judy and the Dream of Horses, he dons a daft horse mask, and the band stretches an already joyful song until everyone is grinning like lunatics. It’s a perfect 40 minutes.

Part 2 is more uneven. A couple of songs I half‑recognise but can’t place. Dear Catastrophe Waitress remains unlovable, while Chickfactor is mangled by a full‑band arrangement. But there are plenty of highs: Arab Strap, naturally, Dress Up In You, and finally a stirring, strobe-lit Sleep the Clock Around. The lights come up, and it’s all over.

As we file out, the Shop Assistants’ version of The Train from Kansas City plays over the PA. The years roll away and I’m seventeen again, stumbling out of a smoky, sweaty Queen Margaret Union at Glasgow University after a Shop Assistants gig.

A mavellous day. And with that, the first leg of Mexico is complete. Tomorrow we leave the big cities behind for the modest charms of San Miguel de Allende.