Going to Guadalajara.

At the end of the Baja peninsula, the plane turned left and headed in land towards Guadalajara, Mexico’s second city. As we started our descent, the ground below changed from glowing sandstone to a murky colour. The roads were water logged. A torrent was raging – the tail end of a recent typhoon.

Most of the time, when arriving in a new country, walking across the ground from plane to airport building, breathing in the fresh air, feels preferable to being marched through some steel tubing which connects the plane directly to immigration. Unfortunately, this evening wasn’t most of the time. With the remnants of the typhoon blowing up my trouser leg, whatever I muttered, as I received a good drenching at the bottom of the aircraft steps, it certainly wasn’t ‘Well hello, Guadalajara.’

I sat dripping on a bus that ploughed it’s way through deep puddles and sprayed anyone who was unfortunate enough to be on the footpath. For several miles ahead, along a straight road into the city centre, through the torrents and a misted up windscreen, I could make out a trail of red rear lights that formed a bumper to bumper convey of vehicles edging ever closer to the city limits. The driver dropped me at a cross roads before turning off for the station which, as with most Mexican cities, was several miles outside the centre.

Standing on a dark crossroads in this weather, trying to focus on a map, was not really an option. As a matter of urgency I hailed a taxi and sat on a cellophane covered seat. My sodden trousers added to the small pool of water that was already on its surface.

I checked in at Hotel Jorgeo Alejandro, a former convent. Undeterred by the elements, I showered, changed, put on some water proofs and headed back out for a spot of exploring. The neighbourhood was a short walk away from the historic core of Guadalajara old town, which surrounds the Plaza de Armas. On one side of this square, I paused by a flower seller’s market, stall holders huddled under canvas. On another side, the silhouette of the city’s fifteenth-century cathedral dome loomed large, flanked on either side by blue and yellow tiled spires. These landmarks were to provide a frequent reference point for me over the next couple of days.

I continued searching for a restaurant. However, as I was to find throughout my Mexican travels, in old colonial town centres, finding an eating and drinking hole, which is open after 8 pm is a rare feat indeed. Anything that might be called nightlife tends to be some distance away in residential districts. Not that the streets of Old Guadalajara were deserted as the cathedral bell chimed midnight. Legions of municipal road cleaners made their way down boulevards and side roads, diligently clearing the ground of refuse.

The rain still fell heavily. I walked down narrow back streets, frequently having cause to prostrate myself against a wall, at the sound of an approaching vehicle, which fifteen seconds later would cascade a shower of water over me.

Back at the hotel, giant crucifixes tentatively clung to the four walls of my room, looking like they might fall down in the middle of the night. I moved my bed away from the cross which looked down onto it, not willing to put my faith in divine intervention.