In the lands of the coffee, from the book, Searching for treasures
Historical Center, Puebla, Mexico
They were two horses trotting together down the street. There was a rhythmic sound as their hooves struck the asphalt, it was a cheerful melody produced by the beat of their cantering slowly through the town. The rider and probably, owners as well, made them advance at a leisurely pace, with quick short steps, and it would appear that they were dancing on their way. Both men wore rounded wide-brimmed hats. They were very common and typical of certain parts of the country with their black and hit weaved palm materials, the so-called “vueltado sombreros.”
Jean Marie had seen them before and liked them very much. He had even considered buying one before returning to France. He was quite surprised to observe how they could easily be folded, like if they were handkerchiefs, and then with ease be brought to their original form and size.
Of the two steeds, one was a white, grey-spotted mustang, and it trotted with a lively, rolling gait as it elegantly kept his head high. The other one seemed to flaunt his good-looks to the world. It was an impressive exemplar of the species with deep bluish-black color that struck out, even more, for it contrasted with the white spot that stretched out between his eyes and to down to its nose. His long white mane matched the mark on its head perfectly. The horseman of the white horse carried in a poncho that the locals called ruana, intensely-colored and folded over his shoulder.
“The good, the bad… only the ugly is missing,” thought Jean Marie to himself.
“Excuse me, what did you say?” Jon Jairo asked, turning his head to face him.
“Sorry, I was thinking out loud.”
“You were fast asleep,” Jon Jairo added.
“I had a dream,” the sleepy voyager answered, laughing. “I was flying over the Cauca and Magdalena. In my imagination, I felt how they wanted to embrace, but the Central Cordillera didn’t allow it and kept them separated.”
“You are a Poet!” The local replied with a smile.
“No, just a dreamer, and that, only on certain occasions. On this journey, though, I have found something that is quite curious. Every time I fall asleep in a new place, on an unfamiliar bed, I have these very intense dreams. Actually, I find that I overly enjoy them. I do hope that they won’t go away when I go back.”
“Presently, I am so happy to be here. You know? I come from the south of France. I’m from a tiny, small town that is very close to Marseilles. It seems so strange to be traveling here, to see these entirely different landscapes and, at the same time, to find myself in a city bearing the same name as my city. Even the small bus that we rode to get here would appear to be symbolic of this strange coincidence, for its colors turned out to be the typical french colors, the classic combination of blue and white.”