The magical town of Chipilo

Paul and I decided last weekend to take advantage of the sunny Sunday and set off on one last Mexican adventure before I head off for six weeks - four in Honduras, and two in the exotic state of Ohio. He'd heard about this strange little town just south of Puebla city where the residents are descendants of Venetian farmers who were invited by then-dictator Porfirio Díaz to get up out of their Italian poverty and come make some cheese in Mexico.

A slice of Italy in the heart of Mexico? Pues, vamos!

One 2-hour bus ride to Puebla later, we took an unexpectedly long ride into the town of Chipilo on a rickety, bouncy "pesero," the gray boxy buses from what is likely the 1970's and that chug puffs of sour-smelling toxins as they speed down streets and break suddenly for the ubiquitous speed bump. The pesero driver dropped us off at an Oxxo convenience store along the highway, and a nice young couple pointed us down a wide muddy alley, up around a corner and onto a road, then past a couple houses before we stopped upon a yellow-and-red cathedral. In many Mexican plazas and Italian piazzas, the largest church signifies the city center, a core from which life disperses infinitely outward. I really had to pee, so there was no time for questions such as "Where is the rest of the town?" or "Uh...is this it?"

We crossed the two-lane street in front of the church and zipped into the Italian Coffee Company café, a natural franchise selection for an Italian sister city, right? After nature ran its course, we zipped back across the street and headed right of the church and into an Italian restaurant recommended by the ICC barista. As I twirled my packaged pasta and tuna combo, and as Paul happily peeled rabbit meat from its little twig legs, we struck up conversation with the waitress. I'd read about "el centro" on my brief Google investigation earlier that morning, where all the young kids get together on Sunday afternoons, so I inquired - where is it? "It's here...this is the 'centro,'" she replied, bemused. A church, thoroughfare and a strip mall of six restaurants.

Would we have the time to explore it all in just one afternoon?

The waitress recommended us a great cheese shop within walking distance, so we took off down a very nondescript road. There were one-story houses, some painted in bright colors like any decent Mexican pueblo. There was a mystery pile of dirt and trash. When we came across signs for "Quesos de Luis," we followed the arrows around the corner and into a barn, where big mama cows and little lady cows munched happily at a trough. Our presence inspired no concern among the farmers there, so eventually we had to ask where the store was. We pushed past a plain white door and met Luis, who offered us manchego, quesillo (like string cheese) and natilla (creamy dessert goodness) from behind his refrigerated counter. Luis had fair skin, blue eyes and sandy blond hair. He responded with "chi" instead of "sí" and gave us a look like "Why in the Pope's name are you in Chipilo?" We polished off a cup of natilla back out in the barn amongst the poop-covered cows, then went off in search of our next discovery as the rain clouds rolled in.

Next up was "La Nave Italia," another cheese shop that also sold cured meats, homemade pastas, gelato and olive oil. [Ignore that four-year-old time stamp].

The lady who runs La Nave was another Venetian-looking blondie who was kind enough to humor my request to speak in her Venetian dialect. She rambled off a few things in her Italian-Spanish tongue, and explained that most of the town's 4,000 residents only speak Spanish to outsiders (i.e. us). Paul and I only ever saw menus, signs and church programs written in Spanish, but I never got to ask if the dialect had a written form as well.

Next on the guide book-worthy agenda was a glass of wine at the town's second Italian restaurant as we waited out the rain storm. Young Eurotrashy waiters took our order and swept up the fly carcasses on the floor. The town had a lot of flies, which is probably natural for a farming town, but when this restaurant tried to fumigate its interiors, it just made the flies a little, well, retarded. Either that or the flies genuinely enjoy spinning on their backs in endless circles like someone about to whop a piñata in half. The waiters said that they'd be cheering for Italy - not Mexico - in the World Cup, and when Paul told them that I'm Italian, one flour-covered man started speaking to me in Italian. Then I hung my head in shame and clarified, "sólo de ascendencia" ("only by descent"). This happens a lot.

We wandered around for about 10 more minutes trying to find some other gem when the pesero back into Puebla stopped in front of the church. Assuming that we'd seen all there was to see, we hopped on and headed back home.