“. . . as ideal as the restaurant at Hotel El Meson is, this afternoon’s attendance would be cut slightly short for I had an eagerly anticipated afternoon date with Valladolid. However, there would be no walking, no touring, no history lessons and no cultural or culinary exploration aside from an indigenous refreshment of barely, hops and water. Acquiring a six-pack of Sol from a local Maya carry-out and gathering my camera, iPod, journal and assorted reading materials, I joined the city, perched on the rooftop terrace that fronted our hotel room. The sounds and smells of mid-week Valladolid permeated my brain. From above the treetops, the Iglesia de San Gervasio’s facade of arrow-slits and twin towers rise above all else. Like a former Governor of yore, I enjoyed surveying the dominion. Sopping up the daily happenings, from the whirl of autos, the buzz of builders and the chatter of children, to the vein of visitors, the hum of buses and the snapping of camera shutters, I could see that it was good.”

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