As we drive in the second tiny lane, approaching the cheese-colored ala telenovela houses, I glimpse overlooked the street: tropical yellow house matched with classic blue door, cream walls with ironed windows embraced by poison ivy and background is rugged green mountains. These have me mildly dè javu.
“Do you guys want to suggest anything for lunch?” My friend asks after stopping Eichhörnchen, the name of our rented Chevrolet sedan, in off-street parking. But none of us offer preference for meal. Mineral de Chico, is a small town not far from Mexico City. On a Sunday noon, it is as crowded as an amusement park could be. Water chirping in the fountain, whilst the air is warm and soothe makes my friends stifling heat. But we keep strolling to find any home of authentic receipt. We pass by the local shops along the street. The walls of every shops are various from rose quartz-colored to serenity. But what they sell seemingly similar; a figure of a woman painted colourful in ceramics, keychains, wooden stuffs and stones. Is she really loved by her nation or she is just the world’s icon? The one that being sold as souvenirs to prop up economy or a symbol of civil revolution? “…Come on,” I follow my fellows walk up the ivory-stone sidewalk. Maybe this country has perspective that an emerging traveler like me will never understand. In this little town I do not see any suffer and thread around, all I can see is bright-coloured houses and a sound joyful music. The markets sells, the demand buys; just like the usual. Town-hall, old museums and outdoor food market, we finally find the house we are looking for; pumpkin-colored building with no door. A woman welcomed us as she smiled. Four of us sit at the porch, sightseeing the almost-empty street. The sky above the dark green mountain is already full of cloud make a contrast gloom of panoramic view. The emerald green mini Volkswagen parked in front of the porch faded by years to shapes her beauty. I dissolve in the squad conversation, but my mind spirals to my own thought, admiring the tranquil day: shady trees, curved windows, the smell of everlasting weekend. The woman who welcomed us returns and gives four books of menu. As I gaze in the faded white colour paper, my eyes stroke at the familiar words; “…La sopa calabaza, por favor?” I said to her. I ask my friends whether they know what calabaza is or not. “Why did you order it when you don’t know what is it?” It actually remain me to a name of a fiction family in my childhood. The colourful pages with contrast colours. One shows me the result of google search; a kind of pumpkin. Pascualina della Calabaza’s journey is the answer of my dè javu. The bright colour in Mineral del Chico is similar with the colours in Pascualina’s visuals. I can not wait to end my trip sipping a tasteful soup amidst the panoramic view of Mineral del Chico.v
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