It’s early Sunday morning; the doves clamor annoyingly, insistently, cooing outside windows. The caged parrot yaks at us to take off his nighttime shroud, and the dogs moan for breakfast, pushing their cold noses into our warm bedtime faces.


But more than those things, there’s that distant banging of the church bell announcing the hour. It clangs out from the town’s central Plaza de Armas, from the erstwhile cathedral, called such from the old days of the bishop. He’s gone and the status has been demoted from cathedral to church, but nobody pays attention to that. The faithful are noisily, vigorously, invited to early mass, bells clanging the call over the town. No mistake – they clang, they bang– the tower doesn’t hold a bell that traditionally tolls. The Alamos cathedral bell has an endearing if idiosyncratic thwanging clang, firmly announcing calls to mass. If there are bats in this belfry, they have to be truly jangled.


But never mind. It’s also a welcome alert to the township. This clarion gives the early heads-up for the soon to be opening tianguis, the popular farmers’ market lining the sides of the main arroyo. It’s loaded with everything from fresh vegetables trucked in from outlying fincas, to clothes swinging in the breeze, hanging on racks under shady canopies. And tools. And meats. You need it, it’s got it. And it has great stuff that you don’t need, too.

You arise, ready yourself for the day, and maybe indulge in breakfast out at any of the tempting breakfast places offering huevos mexicanos or plates of scrambled eggs laced with chorizo, that delectable spicy sausage that tingles the tongue. Afterwards, if you chose to eat at the Terra Cotta across from church’s bell tower, the church de la Virgen de la Purissima Concepcion, you make your way down challenging stone steps, turn left immediately at the Plaza, and haul yourself and your empty bags off to fill at the tianguis. Via, of course, the Kissing Alley, “callejon de besos”.


And there happily find that, by golly, the early birds haven’t wiped it all out – there’s still a profusion of good things to ponder. To collect, weigh and fill those bags.

You wander entranced past colorful piles of avocados and bananas, fat bunches of bright orange carrots, boxes of onions, boxes of potatoes – lovely groceries all interspersed with kiosks of shoes and handbags. You’re drawn to it all, fingering your pesos. “How much for that cute blouse with the sparkles?” you muse…and “What would that guy want for those fabulous figs?” you wonder, thinking about your ability to discuss it with him. You struggle with Spanish. They don’t mind. The folks are warm and understanding, and don’t care at all about your grammar.


The tianguis has a long-standing tradition entrenched in the weekly routines of many – Mexicans and expats both. Truth? In this Catholic town, some no doubt would rather miss mass than the tianguis. You stroll the crowded dry arroyo (locus of rain run-off from the neighboring Sierras) lined with tables of wares, crossing paths with neighbors that you stop and greet, and there go your own household workers! – they love the scene and know how to shop it successfully. They point out the fish monger down at the other end who has the biggest shrimp, the kind they know you like, the fish sellers set up by the bridge at the monastery. You note that the fellow’s wife is one who works at a local restaurant, and you grin happily at each other. “Hola senora, como esta?”

You glow from the recognition, and realize this has become your routine, too. It has become your town.

You belong.

The day is over, afternoon siesta is done. Nightfall begins, and you stroll back to the Plaza de Armas. On the Portal of the Hotel Portales, overlooking the plaza, friends are grouping up to have tacos and beer. You join them. The cathedral bell clangs again, and people flow out from mass. It’s beautiful. It’s all good.