My initial encounter with the petite port city of Campeche was one of nostalgia. The colorful fachadas and the scrambled stones beneath my feet tickled my memory. A wave of the same senses that consumed me during a short trip to Trinidad, Cuba in 2009 came back to full fruition. The salmon colored walls, yellow sidewalks, green doorways, blue esquinas, and the freshly coated red surrounding the windows to the departamento next door distinctly mirrored the callejones of its humble colonial Caribbean counterpart, Trinidad. However, Campeche’s vibrant economy and obvious presence of an elite social class differed to that of the barrios of Trinidad. In Trinidad there more dogs and donkeys than cars, and more children played suelta in the streets. I had forgotten how the sunlight hits these colonial structures in a distinctly mystical way. The pastels change from bright to dull throughout the day depending upon where the sun hangs in the sky. These pastel colors are soothing upon the eye in comparison to the harsh white that defines the colors of the buildings outside of the colonial Muralla. The Muralla’s walls and protruding baluartes once provided protection from pirates and other undesirable foreign instruders. Now they act as a mark for the historic center of this UNESCO World Heritage site. What lies on the outside of the Muralla seems to be mainly commercial buildings: The Best Western Hotel, Tourism Offices, and the local shopping mall to name a few. These businesses that dominate the outside seem to portray a more contemporary form of invasion: American Capitalism. This was the most drastic difference between Campeche and Trinidad that I could observe. I decided to remain within these colonial walls as often as the time would allot me; not just for the sake of my eyes, but to ignore the aspects of my own country that make my stomach churn. We wandered north during our afternoon lunch hour and abruptly came to what seemed to be a four-laned traffic circle without any lanes. In Campeche, signs marked on the inside of the local buses tell you where to go: Circuito Palmas, Correos, Centro, Fidel, Centro, Palmas, Mercado for example. These buses are identical to the ones in Merida, and they most certainly run the local transportation life in the city. Here, the buses and cars don’t stop for anyone. Pedestrians rarely receive the right of way. The lanes in the road are unmarked and it’s best if you run across to the other side instead of walk. You just might get hit if you don’t. When a bus isn’t passing it’s either a giant Volvo, Suburu, or a cute vintage buggy with chipped paint and an engine that mocks the sound of a motor skooter that won’t start. Once we successfully crossed the street, the tranquility of the colonial city got interrupted by the rumbling commotion of the local market. The Market: a labyrinth of man-made Mexican commodities mixed with a wide array of equally imported goods such as dresses, bags, piñatas, pants, hygienic products, shoes, hats, underwear, fans, household pets, makeup, sweaters, blankets, belts, jewelry, music, pirated movies, musical instruments, cell phones, cleaning supplies and other goods enough to satisfy anyone’s materialistic desire. However, my previous excitement to try some authentic Campechano cuisine faded as the potent stench of the freshly killed fish and poultry from the indoor carniceria spilled out into the street. My senses were unpleasantly raddled, like a reaction to high-pitched scream. As we walked in, a butcher was sweeping the water that had collected inside from all of the commotion out onto the sidewalk. This strange carniceria juice had a suspicious greyish-pinkish color. From what I could see, it was mostly men who dominated the meat stations. On top of the stench and the heat, I had entered into a highway of catcalls. The sound of a butcher knife hitting the cutting board preceded the awkward stares, glares and occasional shouts from the men behind the counter. After about five feet and a turn to the left I was able to find a bit of refuge in the fruit and vegetable station. The tenderness of the local fruits and vegies seemed to council out the unsatisfying commotion that remained behind. Amongst the dead animals, the vegetables glowed with lively hues of green, orange, red and yellow. Fresh aloe and beet greens lied on top of a strange fruit with green skin that seemed to be a peculiar cousin of a grapefruit. The tomatoes close by were sold alongside of the zanahorias. The oranges coupled by the cantolopes, pineapple, apples and watermelons were enough to compile a beautiful pointillist painting among this chaotic Market madness. A simple lunch of pavo, tomato, lechuga and a little picante seemed to add a sense of subtlety. The beads of sweat on the lunch ladies faces seemed to weigh them down as they dug their hands into a fat pan of pavo. However, the simplicity of their work produced the perfect meal. Aside from the blatant capitalist world that remained on the outside of the Muralla, there was never a lack of North American presence within the colonial walls; even if it was through elusive imagery. Marilyn Monroe pegado a la pared of a nearby ice cream parlor made me remember my childhood obsession with the fallen Hollywood Star. She acted as an intriguing toping in this Mexican sweet ice bar. The photo itself looks like it was taken in 1949. As an initial first impression, I would say that Campechanos do not seize to be skeptical of outsiders. Perhaps it is linked to their historical past of outside invasion from various Caribbean, European, and North American forces. The common suspicious gazes I received from a few locals made me wonder how they felt about an obvious outsider gawking at their village and spaces. However, my short stay in Campeche did not lack moments of complete friendliness and welcoming by the locals as well. Many were joyous, festive, and willing to meet you with open arms. I regret not entering the Cantina that night.
Campeche
My initial encounter with the petite port city of Campeche was one of nostalgia. The colorful fachadas and the scrambled stones beneath my feet tickled my memory. A wave of the same senses that consumed me during a short trip to Trinidad, Cuba in 2009 came back to full fruition. The salmon colored walls, yellow sidewalks, green doorways, blue esquinas, and the freshly coated red surrounding the windows to the departamento next door distinctly mirrored the callejones of its humble colonial Caribbean counterpart, Trinidad. However, Campeche’s vibrant economy and obvious presence of an elite social class differed to that of the barrios of Trinidad. In Trinidad there more dogs and donkeys than cars, and more children played suelta in the streets. I had forgotten how the sunlight hits these colonial structures in a distinctly mystical way. The pastels change from bright to dull throughout the day depending upon where the sun hangs in the sky. These pastel colors are soothing upon the eye in comparison to the harsh white that defines the colors of the buildings outside of the colonial Muralla. The Muralla’s walls and protruding baluartes once provided protection from pirates and other undesirable foreign instruders. Now they act as a mark for the historic center of this UNESCO World Heritage site. What lies on the outside of the Muralla seems to be mainly commercial buildings: The Best Western Hotel, Tourism Offices, and the local shopping mall to name a few. These businesses that dominate the outside seem to portray a more contemporary form of invasion: American Capitalism. This was the most drastic difference between Campeche and Trinidad that I could observe. I decided to remain within these colonial walls as often as the time would allot me; not just for the sake of my eyes, but to ignore the aspects of my own country that make my stomach churn. We wandered north during our afternoon lunch hour and abruptly came to what seemed to be a four-laned traffic circle without any lanes. In Campeche, signs marked on the inside of the local buses tell you where to go: Circuito Palmas, Correos, Centro, Fidel, Centro, Palmas, Mercado for example. These buses are identical to the ones in Merida, and they most certainly run the local transportation life in the city. Here, the buses and cars don’t stop for anyone. Pedestrians rarely receive the right of way. The lanes in the road are unmarked and it’s best if you run across to the other side instead of walk. You just might get hit if you don’t. When a bus isn’t passing it’s either a giant Volvo, Suburu, or a cute vintage buggy with chipped paint and an engine that mocks the sound of a motor skooter that won’t start. Once we successfully crossed the street, the tranquility of the colonial city got interrupted by the rumbling commotion of the local market. The Market: a labyrinth of man-made Mexican commodities mixed with a wide array of equally imported goods such as dresses, bags, piñatas, pants, hygienic products, shoes, hats, underwear, fans, household pets, makeup, sweaters, blankets, belts, jewelry, music, pirated movies, musical instruments, cell phones, cleaning supplies and other goods enough to satisfy anyone’s materialistic desire. However, my previous excitement to try some authentic Campechano cuisine faded as the potent stench of the freshly killed fish and poultry from the indoor carniceria spilled out into the street. My senses were unpleasantly raddled, like a reaction to high-pitched scream. As we walked in, a butcher was sweeping the water that had collected inside from all of the commotion out onto the sidewalk. This strange carniceria juice had a suspicious greyish-pinkish color. From what I could see, it was mostly men who dominated the meat stations. On top of the stench and the heat, I had entered into a highway of catcalls. The sound of a butcher knife hitting the cutting board preceded the awkward stares, glares and occasional shouts from the men behind the counter. After about five feet and a turn to the left I was able to find a bit of refuge in the fruit and vegetable station. The tenderness of the local fruits and vegies seemed to council out the unsatisfying commotion that remained behind. Amongst the dead animals, the vegetables glowed with lively hues of green, orange, red and yellow. Fresh aloe and beet greens lied on top of a strange fruit with green skin that seemed to be a peculiar cousin of a grapefruit. The tomatoes close by were sold alongside of the zanahorias. The oranges coupled by the cantolopes, pineapple, apples and watermelons were enough to compile a beautiful pointillist painting among this chaotic Market madness. A simple lunch of pavo, tomato, lechuga and a little picante seemed to add a sense of subtlety. The beads of sweat on the lunch ladies faces seemed to weigh them down as they dug their hands into a fat pan of pavo. However, the simplicity of their work produced the perfect meal. Aside from the blatant capitalist world that remained on the outside of the Muralla, there was never a lack of North American presence within the colonial walls; even if it was through elusive imagery. Marilyn Monroe pegado a la pared of a nearby ice cream parlor made me remember my childhood obsession with the fallen Hollywood Star. She acted as an intriguing toping in this Mexican sweet ice bar. The photo itself looks like it was taken in 1949. As an initial first impression, I would say that Campechanos do not seize to be skeptical of outsiders. Perhaps it is linked to their historical past of outside invasion from various Caribbean, European, and North American forces. The common suspicious gazes I received from a few locals made me wonder how they felt about an obvious outsider gawking at their village and spaces. However, my short stay in Campeche did not lack moments of complete friendliness and welcoming by the locals as well. Many were joyous, festive, and willing to meet you with open arms. I regret not entering the Cantina that night.
Campeche 
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