I’d learned by now that the sun rises in Mexico about 7am so I set my alarm for 6:30. It was about 6:40 when I finally heard it over the thunder of my antiquated air conditioning unit. The night before, I’d checked into my ten dollar room, a sweltering box with a simple ceiling fan that served only to circulate the oppressive heat around the room like a convection oven. Because the windows had been left shut all day, allowing for none of this superheated air to escape, I suspected it was a ploy by the owner to get me to shell out an extra seven dollars a night for air conditioning, which I quickly conceded to doing.

The first order of business on my first morning in any town is to locate the fresh orange juice vendor, usually parked on a corner with a bicycle rack big enough to hold a bushel of oranges and a folding stand to hold his orange juice press. I’d learned a new trick about pressing your own oranges from one of these vendors last year. Before slicing the orange in half, you slice off a little from each end so that when it’s in the press, there’s no resistance from the other side, resulting in more juice in less time. You can order your juice “en bolsa”, which is a plastic “to go” bag about the size of a ziplock freezer bag with a straw stuck out the opening, “en vaso” which is a medium sized plastic cup, or “un litro”, a full liter of freshly squeezed citrus goodness. I opted for the latter as I planned to be here several days, and the hotel had a refrigerator. I headed back to the hotel to sit with my guidebook and plan my day.

Having listed the highlights and plotted them on a hand scribbled map in my notebook, I headed out to discover the place the locals call Zihua. During my stroll the night before, the place reminded me of Sausalito, a small town on the bay just north of San Francisco. The perception was reinforced in the morning as I scanned the bay encircled by small mountains dotted with homes overhanging steep cliffs. This is a place where the views are stunning from any shore.

I noticed some activity down on the beach and headed over to see if there were any good photo ops of the fishing boats on the sand, since that is how anyone who has seen the movie, Shawshank Redemption, pictures this place. The fishermen were coming in from the morning catch, and the beach was filled with empty coffee bean sacks loaded with fish. The fisherman stood on one side while patrons strolled along looking for the best selection. Once a deal is made, the fisherman loads a bucket or bag, and money is exchanged.

I imagine the patrons to be local restaurant owners coming to get something good to put on the “catch of the day” menu, and if I heard right, one of them paid about $2 for a bucket of fish. As in America, those who have to get up early and spend hours in the field or at sea, get the smallest reward in the food supply chain.

After buying the fish, the patron can take them to another station where they can be filleted before taking them home. Throughout my visit, I saw people in town selling fish out of bags on the street corners. No need to get up early to get the day’s catch.

From the fish exchange, I headed into town to explore the streets of this neatly gridded town. There is some execution of a standard here as a red tiled overhang projects from every building in the downtown area, providing constant shade as you stroll the sidewalks in front of the shops. It felt like the kind of outdoor mall you see in cities in America with warmer climates, and with pretty much every storefront selling something, that’s what it was.

Despite now being at the ocean, I’d been craving grilled chicken for the last couple of weeks and returned to a place whose sign I’d seen the night before. It was empty of any customers, and when I inquired where everyone one was, I was told today was Pozole day. Pozole is a regional soup famous in the state, so I wasn’t entirely surprised by this answer. I’d also learned that there are certain foods or breads that are only available during certain times of the year, so the fact that Wednesday was Pozole day, didn’t faze me, and they seemed more than happy to make me some grilled chicken, despite it being soup day.

What followed was one of the things that really makes Mexico a special place and teaches me the beauty of being flexible. I’d finished my lunch and was craving fresh fruit so I asked if they had any. The cook told me that there was a produce market across the street and that she’d send her daughter there with me to help pick out what I wanted. After showing me how to find a ripe papaya and a couple bananas, we returned to the restaurant where the mother prepared the fruit for me.

I thought the bill was rather low when I looked it over, and the woman told me that the prepared fruit was their gift to me. Time and again, I am shocked at how the poorest of people can be so generous. I still tipped fifty percent of my bill to express my thanks for their hospitality.

This wasn’t the first time I experienced this either. The night I arrived, I went to a place recommended in the guide book to have one of my favorites, chicken in mole sauce. To offset the spiciness, I ordered an agua de horchata, which is rice milk seasoned with cinnamon. As promoted by the manager, it was one of the best versions of the drink I’d ever had. Since I was anxious to try some of the regional cuisine the next night, I’d asked if they served Pozole. He told me that they did not, but if I came the next night for my horchata, he would go two doors down and bring me some Pozole. He followed this with “mi casa es su casa”, meaning “my home is your home”. I was once told you can can get anything you want in Mexico; you have only to ask.

When my bus arrived in Zihuatanejo the day before, I’d noticed the steep hillsides which appeared to be littled with staircases, so despite the fact that the sun was at its apex, I headed up into the hills. I ran into a couple dead ends at first, as gringos are compelled to live in walled compounds to avoid exposure to the people whose country they’ve chosen to live in. Once I headed inland, however, I was rewarded with a maze of staircases not unlike walking an Escher illustration. The “streets” connecting these stairs were more like footpaths running along the contour of the hills. I chuckled at a signed intersection that was nothing more than an intersection of two dusty trails,with the sign pole being used to secure one end of a clothes line, undergarments flapping in the warm afternoon breeze.

Here was a magical land that felt like being on the set of one of the Lord of the Rings movies. Every path led to a cluster of homes constructed out of cinder block, corrugated tin, or simple sheets hanging from a wood frame to provide shade from the intense Mexican sun. Though the gringos claimed the best of the waterfront, the locals had the best views of the bay from the hills surrounding the city. There was also a sense of community and life here that was lacking from the gringo enclaves. Within the cluster of ramshackle homes were stores, restaurants, and playing fields. They were always filled with children flying kites, women preparing food, and young couples lost in each others lips.

While near the top, I made note of a restaurant that had a sign for Pozole and a million dollar view of the bay below. I also wrote down the name on the minibus that passed in front should I decide to venture here another night, but tonight, I had seafood in my sights.

When I was watching the fisherman in the morning, I noticed another restaurant from my guidebook called Sirena Gorda (the fat mermaid). The menu looked delicious, with garlic shrimp and bacon wrapped cutty tuna. Having worked up an appetite from an afternoon of stair climbing, I descended the hills to the restaurant where I quickly exceeded my daily food budget.
The day was still warm when I finished my meal so I headed to the beach for a sunset swim before returning to the hotel to catch up on email and watch an episode of Dexter on Netflix before going to bed early so I could be well rested for another adventure the next day.