Mascota is timeless

I don't know what it is about this place. I'm here with my grandma, sister, nephew and uncle after three years of not visiting, and somehow the place is remarkable unchanged. There are newer cars on the road, some restaurants have closed, replaced by a trade shop or even another restaurant, it seems to be raining a bit more, but the people still smile and laugh like nothing is different.

And in a weird way, nothing is. In other parts of Mexico, people are very affectionate, with PDA being expected, especially from young couples. This mainly speaks to the urban cities of the country: Puerto Vallarta and Mexico City, specifically. But Mascota, a "big" town of 8,000 residents, is still stuck in past. The planned construction of a movie theater was halted because older folks didn't want kids going there to make out. The half-built concrete skeleton still stands, without any current plans or demolition or construction.

I guess that adds to the feeling of the incomplete-ness of the town. The Preciosa Sangre, a 19th Century church that was never completed, stands about 4 blocks away from the Centro. It's clearly unfinished, but still beautiful, filled with bright fuschia buganvilias. It has come to serve as a local attraction, despite its crumbling walls and unintentionally exposed bricks. It serves as a symbol of how these people live: outdated and maybe a little broken, but still functional and beautiful.

Mascota, surprisingly, is a central hub to 5 satellite towns, the start of a chain of pueblitos with quirky names including Yerbabuena (Spearmint) and Navidad (Christmas). These towns are even smaller than Mascota, and much more desolate. Some would blame this perpetually-nostalgic phenomenon on the fact that, decades ago, many men would seek work in big cities, leaving their wives and children as the sole occupants of the towns. But I think it's more than that.

Despite being on the main route between two major cities (Puerto Vallarta and Guadalajara), Mascota is relatively isolated, located in the middle of a valley and surrounded by mountains. You see a sky full of stars on clear nights, unlike any city I've been to in the States or elsewhere in Mexico, and all movies on TV are at least 5 years old. I can't tell if the isolation of the Mascotenses is a product of the town's size and overall antiquated character, or if these "factors" are products of the people themselves.

There is some unspoken conversation between the people and the land here that sometimes makes me wonder if I can never truly belong. But when I take a look out the window at the gorgeous landscape while simultaneously receiving smiles from the kids across the street, I know that there's no way to separate them, and no use trying. I guess I'll just sit back and enjoy the reruns and Coke made with real cane sugar while they last.