Morelia

My first impression five years ago of Morelia, the capital of Michoacan, was a condensed, almost archetypical expression of the word "Colonial".  You walk through El Centro Historico (which has in fact been named a UNESCO World Heritage site for its concentration of Colonial architecture), and see almost nothing but stone on stone.  The massive right-angled buildings overwhelm the narrow sidewalks, which drop into narrow streets, some of which are still cobblestone.  The skyline, where you can see it looking up out of these lanes, is liberally punctuated with church towers ("How many churches does this city have?" I asked a taxi driver yesterday.  "Phhhooooo!!" was his you-got-me answer.)  In between are universities, museums, and former houses of famous officials (I did not realize that the city, formerly called Valladolid, was renamed for Morelos after the Revolution, as he was born here). It would be easy to spend a week here with a camera, solely capturing the angles of light on rock-face and wrought iron. I could also imagine hanging out here a few months, closed up in a wood-beamed room with a view of the rooftops or at one of the many sidewalk cafes, writing a novel.  Morelia´s probably not a place I could call home. But it feels like a home for the mind.

I gave the place a less-than-fair evaluation on this visit, though:  I arrived after dark, when most of the shops were closed.  What in daylight is imposing can at night feel downright forbidding.  The place actually looks abandoned.  There are no signs to tell what this building or that might be, no windows through which you can see if there are people inside.  You feel like the medieval traveller arriving late on your dusty horse, calling out "Water! Lodging!" while anxious women quickly bar the shutters overhead.  But, thankfully, I had found a hotel in advance, and it did in fact have water (though it was cold).  A deep sleep restarted those perceptual clocks. With a reemergence in early light, it´s another city.  Because, as I completely forgot, all the life is contained inside those buildings.  This is such a simple but profound shift for those of us used to built environments that communicate more outwardly, with their round-the-clock advertising and high-maintenance landscaping and expanses of parking lot.  Here, massive wood or iron doors open only in daylight to reveal inner courtyards verdant with trees, gardens, fountains, columns, stairways.  The tiny shops essentially squeeze themselves inside out, pushing carts and counters out to sidewalk´s verge and hanging signs that were brought in for the night.  Suddenly it all takes a form that makes sense.

And the city in its entirety is much more modern and diverse.  Outside the historic zone are the same tire shops, cellphone stores, and microbuses competing for a lane as in other cities.  And outside that is another layer of green: the city rests in a wide valley surrounded by irregular hills.  Viewing the place as a whole (as I had the chance to do yesterday, from a higher elevation), I realize that only the center is squared and stone-faced.  Really, the city`s a series of concentric ovals.  El Centro`s four quadrants form an elongated shape that is enveloped on all sides by the crowded newer city.  Which in turn is centered in the valley, which is held by the green hills.  The green shows itself at the furthest edges, and then at the hidden centers: the life of the land preserved in miniature, in living spaces that are only half-indoors. And the layers inbetween take the brunt of the noise, the constant movement, and the too-too-concentrated car exhaust, leaving (hopefully) some quiet greenness...sound. I think there´s a metaphor here.  For the constructed society, and for the structure and maintenance of inner lives.  It´s what I´m meditating on, as I walk these stones with my worlds inside and out.