We traversed state lines and windy dirt roads from Sayulita to the old mining town of San Sebastian del Oeste, one of México’s "pueblos mágicos."
Hidden deep in the mountains some 4,600 feet above sea level, we were transported to another place in time.
A time of cobblestone streets and white adobe houses, of moss-covered walls, and fairytale creeks; where the fog waltzes in in the early evenings and hangs low, lulling its slow, sleepy villagers back to their restful state.
San Sebastian was full of secrets, we learned, as we explored its narrow streets. We poked at the fruit trees, and peeked in to open houses. We sat inside the church, studying its elegance. And we imagined—we imagined in all the emptiness. In all the stillness—we couldn’t help but think to ourselves, what was this place? Where did its magic come from?
And the day was spent like this: Wandering, wondering.
Wondering, as we passed the lonely village cigar maker, what had led him here? The pungent scent of tobacco lingering, longingly, in the air, enveloping us in its sweetness, begging us to go, to ask him all our questions. But we had too many and silence seemed to suit him. When we wandered into the Quinta Maria, while sipping on their local, organic highland coffee, the warm aroma swept into our noses, nestling deeply into our hair, we wondered—how long had all this been here, what had time stopped and settled on?
It seemed even the sleepy cat wanted to know. Though with his long, drawn-out yawns, he, like all the rest of us, was in no hurry to find out.