September 21 – 25, Mexico. I was reluctant to leave Tlaxcala, as I had a wonderful Airbnb and a great experience wandering around the historic city. But I wanted to see Puebla. I’d hoped to make it further south to the states of Oaxaca and Chiapas, but was running out of time. I booked an Airbnb outside the historic center in a gated community of sorts. Prior to leaving on the trip, I’d been advised to always park off street overnight. That or lose parts. That influenced where I chose to stay, and Puebla was no exception.

Upon arrival, Mari emerged from behind the gate and welcomed me. It turns out she is Italian, and lived and studied art in Italy. My Italian is rusty, but I enjoyed hearing her talk with her daughter, who was currently staying at the house. Mari is an artist, and the house reflected her lovely sense of color and aesthetics. Amazingly, there was a pool in the back yard, though it wasn’t available. Besides, a giant dog who lived next door barked ferociously, hurling his full weight against the fence every time I stepped outside. I didn’t want to risk an encounter.

I was offered a choice of two rooms. I chose the one upstairs with a view of behind the house of a tangle of trees surrounding a meandering river. The day was hot, so I left the screenless windows open. Mari gave me a lovely tour, tempting me with her tantalizing description of her homemade bread. I thanked her and headed to the historic center. It was Saturday, and everyone was in the streets. I parked at the edge of the historic center in the only free parking I could find, and headed toward the center, discovering special spots and cafes tucked away on quiet streets. All streets led to Rome, the Zócalo de Puebla. As it got dark, crowds gathered around jugglers, clowns, musicians, and other street performers, making for a raucous and lively atmosphere that rivaled Central Park. I gaped at the monumental Catedral looming over the main square. A masterpiece of Mexican colonial architecture, construction began in 1575 and continued until 1768. I was in awe of the masterful way Renaissance, Herrerian, and Baroque styles had been combined. And couldn’t help but notice the 230-foot tower, tallest in Mexico.

I stayed late into the night. I loved roaming the streets till midnight, watching the revelers and crowds. It was a festive atmosphere. As usual, I didn’t realize Puebla was a foodie capital until I returned to California. I usually ate pollo asado and soup if I could find it. I’ll have to go back for the Chile en nogada, though I’d had it homemade from the source in Adelfa’s kitchen.

When I got home, my room was full of mosquitoes. Darn. I could either opt for cooler air, or a mosquito party. I pulled the covers over my head and tried to ignore the droning in my ears. It took a few hours, but I finally fell asleep. I awoke early hoping to catch the atmosphere downtown, as it was a Sunday. A quick coffee and Mari’s delicious bread, then off to town. First stop was Zaranda Café Palafox, a lovely cafe I’d discovered the day before. I felt decadent sneaking a peek at the New Yorker magazine on my phone. I rarely did so and that had kept it special. After my ritual latte and croissant, I set out to discover every church in town, poking my head in when possible. Sunday is the only day that many are open. In many cases, churches are the only places where you can see the artistry of indigenous people from centuries prior. That’s what draws me. Though I generally find the atmosphere morbid and unpleasant, I focus on the artistry in the paintings, sculpture, and architecture.

I’d been recommended to try the cemita poblana, a sandwich with sesame seed bun, at el Mercado La Victoria. Built as a public market in 1854, the building was reconstructed in 1910 with a focus on a French style and wrought iron architecture. It was abandoned in 1986 due to unsafe and unsanitary conditions, and only resurrected in 1994, when the Amparo Foundation restored it as a modern commercial plaza, preserving the historic wrought iron and stained glass structure.

I loved walking through the bustling market, and took my time checking out its amazing structure. Then I headed out the back along Avenida 6, also known as La Calle de los Dulces. Making my way through the throng, past a bronze statue of a sweets seller, I came onto a wide pedestrian street decorated with colorful banners. There are 40 dulcerías that line the street on a concentrated two blocks. Many shop owners live above the shops, and set out displays of crystallized peaches and rainbow oblea wafers packaged like poker chips. Others polish glass cases of sweet potato camotes and caramel-colored Tortitas de Santa Clara.

I learned that every shop had its own recipes, which are guarded like family secrets. The owner of La Gran Fama inherited the shop from her grandmother, Dolores Espinoza. In the nearby front room, two-dozen types of Poblano sweets—from dulce de leche varieties to hen-shaped sugary figures—sit under a glass display case, glittering like pieces of jewelry. For example, in some sweets, she uses pine nuts, while the others use almonds.

Although dulces existed in Mexico long before the Conquest, the Spanish influence—along with the Arabic and French—had an impact on present-day varieties. Seventeenth-century Franciscan monjas, or nuns, are often cited as its originators (such as Santa Clara of Assisi, patron saint of her eponymous cookie). In the kitchens, they mixed together milk and sugar cane, along with pumpkin seeds or almonds cultivated from native land.

Popular recipes emerged from nearby convents, like the one La Gran Fama’s building used to be, and were both produced and perfected by the nuns’ African and Indigenous slaves. That production kept Santa Clara’s proprietor as one of the wealthiest convent owners in the city. The owner of Dulcería Maryfer said that while popular myth attributed success to the nuns, the greatest part of the process were the people laboring in the kitchens. By the 1950s and 1960s, La Calle de los Dulces grew into a centralized hub for típico-style confectioners, backed by Puebla’s government. A burst of tourism in the 1970s birthed nearly half of the dulcerías. I bought traditional candies from a few of the shops, and especially enjoyed the fig cake procured from Navidad La Lupita.

There was another piece of history on this street. On November 18, 1910, Carmen Serdán—whose brothers Aquiles and Máximo wrote anti-government treatises and stockpiled rifles for Emiliano Zapata from their boarding house on 6 Oriente—is said to have fired the “first shot” that sparked the Mexican Revolution. All the while, La Gran Fama operated next door. Today, a placard hangs on the shop dubbing it “witness to one of the most significant events in Mexico.”

It was 5:30, and starting to hit dusk. I decided to walk back to the public market, and out the front exit. A block and a half later, I came upon a small store filled with antiquities, and candles hanging in the window: Cereria La Jalapeña. The shop seemed a throwback to the 1950s or even earlier, and I was jolted by the strong smell of paraffin and beeswax. Against the back wall was the largest candle I’d ever seen. Apparently this was a candle made especially for a special church function. They not only formed candles, but carved and painted them as well. Two men were standing on either side of the counter conversing. One, who I learned was the owner, seemed quite intoxicated. The other, who told me his name was Francisco, appeared to be a good friend. He asked me what I was doing and I told him about my trip. This seemed to excite him and he proceeded to give me a tour, sharing everything he knew about the place. He was extremely kind, and like the shop, seemed to belong to another era. We exchanged contact information, and true to his word, he stayed in touch with me long after I arrived back in the states.

A few months after I returned home, I learned he had been diagnosed with what sounded like pancreatic cancer. He didn’t have the money for the treatments recommended by the doctor, and reached out. I was very concerned, and offered to help. I sent several payments to Francisco via his son, and kept him in my thoughts. For months, he continued to be weak, dizzy, losing weight, and in tremendous pain. Then one day, as if a miracle, he started to feel better. Slowly, his symptoms began to dissipate. We are still in touch, and as of this writing, he seems to be improving. It’s people like Francisco that make traveling worthwhile. I am richly rewarded when connected with the world and its inhabitants.