When we finally make it to Zacatecas, the city, grown tired of waiting, welcomes us with a cold drizzle and then throws in some fog to emphasize the message.
Wet and tired but resigned not to be muscled around by some 16th century colonial pueblo, we check in a ***** star hotel. The bellhops, in starch ironed blue uniforms and matching hats with golden bands, shuffle around us, eager please. Their hopes of gratified servitude are quickly crushed, as we inquire about camping on the premises.
We’re granted permission to camp by the hotel manager, at a fraction of a regular room price. Sullenly, the bellhops resign to their faith and disperse as quickly as they have appeared. The unlucky one left behind hands us the bathroom and shower keys and nods with a smirk towards the bay windows of a restaurant overlooking the city – “Si desea cuidar a unirse…”. A glance at a cobblestone parking lot surrounding a water fountain, packed with Policia Federal and mostly German cars, makes me realize these guests belong to another place and another time. We make our way to a side alley, where we anchor the rig.
Another day, another chance. We wake up to the sound of rain drumming upon the roof. We go back to sleep, then wake up once again. More rain. We stay home until night falls and truly enjoy the comfort of being all together, in a small house on top of a pick-up truck.
all of us.