Morning in Guanajuato: Tea, Song, and Soul Connection
This morning unfolded like a painting in motion—its edges softened by steam rising from coffee cups and voices warmed by friendship. We began in the heart of Guanajuato, tucked inside an old colonial building whose heavy wooden doors opened into a world that whispered stories from centuries past. The tall ceilings gave the space a sense of openness, and the walls—adorned with decorative plaster frames—held floral wallpaper like precious cameos from another time. Each table and chair set was distinct: some shabby chic with distressed pastels, others mid-century modern with sleek lines, and a few with a bohemian flair—woven seats, carved details, pops of vibrant textile. No two sets matched, yet together they formed a harmonious, eclectic whole.
Light filtered in through exquisite Art Deco stained-glass windows, casting soft patterns of amber, jade, and sapphire across the floor. The entire space felt like an artist’s daydream—carefully curated, warm, and layered with textures of history and reinvention. It was the kind of café where time slows down, where you could stay for hours and still feel like you’d only just arrived.
The cream and pastel colored walls held the memory of time, crumbling just so, brushed with vines and morning light. Inside, the structure had been lovingly reimagined: a charming café with neighboring shops equally intentional in their décor and placement within this large building.
Sol, Estela, and I ordered drinks—lattes for Estela and Sol, and a herbal tea for me—alongside a selection of pastries, including a decadent cheesecake on a chocolate brownie crust topped with caramel and chocolate frosting and delicious warm, light, and flaky croissants. We sat by the open window, where the air drifted in with a chorus of bells and market laughter. As we sipped, I wandered through the adjoining rooms—each one a tiny universe: a bookshop filled with poetry and old editions of Sor Juana, a wellness apothecary humming with incense and soft jazz music, a florist bursting with native blooms, and a children's area full of whimsy and laughter, anchored by a sculptural play structure carved from local wood.
It was there, in the bookshop, that I found two oracle decks—entirely in Spanish, their artwork shimmering with ancient symbolism and myth. I bought them not only to deepen my language skills, but also because the wisdom they offered felt ancestral, as if it had been waiting for this exact moment to be rediscovered.
We opened one of the decks together at our table. As I turned the first card, silence swept in, soft and sacred. The illustration was of a starry night sky and a girl with a diamond-shaped opening for multicolored beams to fill her head- “Soy un ser Abierto a recibir”—felt like a benediction for the day. We each pulled a card, shared, reflected, and laughed. It was effortless, the way good conversation should be.
Sol, ever luminous and in motion, stood with a smile and said, “Meet me at the park when you’re done.”
Estela and I finished the last bites of our pastries and strolled down the road between pastel buildings—to a plaza bordered by jacaranda trees. The air was pulsing gently with music. Before we saw the band, we heard it: the strum of jarana, the textured rhythms of the cajón, a violin playing a hauntingly sweet melody, and then—Sol’s voice.
She was standing in the gazebo, surrounded by her band Flor de Autonomía, their instruments arranged in a loose circle. We stepped into the shade of the enormous, white-painted wooden canopy and sat down beside them, welcomed as though we had always been there. The sound was deep and rooted, yet fluid and new—like rain soaking into ancient soil.
Sol caught my eye mid-verse and asked, “¿Tienes algo que quisieras sugerir?”
“¿Les gustaría cantar?” I asked.
They nodded.
What followed was the kind of musical exchange that only happens when trust and artistry collide. I offered a simple three-part harmony based on their chord progression—shaping each voice like a gift, and they received it with joy. They sang together, tentative at first, then bold, their voices blooming into harmony like flowers daring to open.
One of the women, Marisol, admitted softly, “Siempre me da miedo cantar sola. No creo que mi voz sea buena.”
I placed a hand gently over my heart and told her, “La voz se fortalece con amor, no con juicio. Tu canto no necesita permiso. Solo preparación… y valentía.”
She nodded, eyes shining.
I recorded their parts for them to rehearse later, and we made plans to meet again—mezcal, music, more stories. Before we left, Sol hugged us tightly. I said, “Let’s make something together. Flor de Autonomía and the Latinx Choral Project.” Please come to Portland, Oregon, to sing with the Latinx Choral Project.
On the bus to Resplandor, Estela and I sat quietly, holding the warmth of the morning close like a shawl. The hills of Guanajuato rolled by, sun-dappled and full of possibility. We weren’t leaving this place; we were carrying it with us.
This morning was not just a memory in the making—it was a seed. A promise that collaboration, beauty, and community can bloom anywhere we water them with intention.
Until next time.
This is only the pause between verses.