Jarocha Journey

Viaje Jarocho

I came to Veracruz for a wedding. I stayed for something else entirely.

"You look lost," she said from behind a market stall.

"Looking for the church of La Candelaria."

"Wrong direction." She smiled. "Want a guide?"

Her name was Citlali, and she sold coconuts on the Malecón. Born in Veracruz, proud of it, with no intention of ever leaving.

"Why would I?" she asked. "This is the best place on earth."

"I've heard that about many places."

"They were lying. This is different."

The wedding was beautiful. My best friend married her Veracruzano prince in a church filled with flowers and son jarocho music.

"You came alone?" the bride asked.

"As always."

"Not for long." She nodded toward the reception. "I saw you with the coconut seller."

Citlali appeared at the reception—apparently she was a cousin of the groom. Of course she was. Veracruz was small that way.

"Dance with me," she demanded.

"I don't know this music."

"I'll teach you."

She did. Son jarocho looked impossible but felt natural once she led. The zapateado made my feet ache; her laughter made it worth it.

"Stay," she said after the wedding. "A few more days. I'll show you Veracruz."

"I have a flight."

"Change it."

"It's expensive."

"Worth it."

I changed the flight.

She showed me everything—the coffee farms, the waterfalls, the danzón in the zócalo, the fishermen pulling nets at dawn.

"You love this place," I observed.

"I love everything that's real." She looked at me. "Including unexpected tourists who can't find churches."

"You love me?"

"I'm getting there."

We made love in her small apartment, with the sound of the ocean through the window and son jarocho playing from her ancient radio.

"This is crazy," I said.

"This is Veracruz. We do everything passionately here."

"I noticed."

"Stay longer."

I stayed a week. Then two. Then I lost count.

"Your job," my best friend reminded me.

"I'll find another one."

"In Veracruz?"

"Why not?"

I found work teaching English. Citlali kept selling coconuts. We built a life between the beach and the zócalo, simple and full.

"Any regrets?" she asks sometimes.

"I got lost on the way to a wedding. Found everything instead."

"You didn't find me. I found you."

"Same thing."

Jarocha journey—where getting lost is just another word for finding home.