I arrived in Tonalá, Jalisco, with a backpack and the kind of expectations that come from guidebooks and well-meaning friends who promised a town brimming with treasures. They were right, but not in the way I had imagined.
I’d pictured myself bargaining over ceramics, debating one vase against another, maybe leaving with a fragile object wrapped carefully in newspaper. Instead, my hands stayed empty, and my heart was full in ways I hadn’t anticipated.
‘Wind in your face and a road stretching ahead’
The journey there set the tone. My boyfriend and I rode the motorcycle from Puerto Vallarta, taking the back road because these trips are my kind of therapy. There’s something about wind in your face and a road stretching ahead that slows your thoughts, stretches your attention and sharpens the senses to details you may miss in a car.
We stopped along the way, drawn to fields of wildflowers swaying like dancers, roadside fruit stands where mangoes smelled like summer captured in a peel and tiny villages that appeared out of nowhere. Each pause felt intentional, even if it wasn’t. Riding a motorcycle forces you to engage visually, physically and emotionally. You can’t glide past life unnoticed.
We arrived in Tonalá in no rush and with no agenda, which was perfect as we soon found the town demanded nothing from us either. Tonalá greeted us quietly, with no shouting, no hand-painted signs clamoring for attention, no chorus of vendors urging purchases. It seemed as if the town trusted its own allure, confident that anyone meant to be enchanted would be.
And enchantment is exactly what it offered.
“The rhythm of the town began to reveal itself’
We entered the main street, where the rhythm of the town began to reveal itself. Sculptures lining the pavement like sentinels. Towering clay figures of warriors and animals, iron creatures with curling tails and sun faces, arranged as if in ceremonial pride. Every corner offered a small surprise, whether a mosaic tucked into a wall, a painted utility pole or a tiny wrought-iron bench that looked both modern and centuries old.
Balconies dripped with bougainvillea. Walls shifted from sea green to apricot to a yellow that could only exist at sunset. Every doorway had character. Some were bold, others shy, like neighbors peeking from behind curtains.
We wandered, allowing the town to guide us. At one corner, an artisan heated a strip of metal until it glowed orange, shaping it with calm precision, his movements deliberate, almost meditative. A workshop spilled into the street nearby, tools clinking in a steady rhythm.
A grandmother strung tiny clay bells across her knees, her hands moving like wind through tall grass. Children darted between stalls, distributing supplies and sweets with equal care. The choreography of life itself was mesmerizing, each person absorbed in their work, their motion, their craft.
‘Tonalá exists for those who notice’
I spent 45 minutes watching a man paint a single spindle on a chair. One spindle. Every stroke was deliberate and patient. I wanted to ask why he spent so long on this small detail, but something about the moment suggested it didn’t need explanation.
Tonalá exists for those who notice, who linger and who allow themselves to be absorbed by its textures and rhythms. Sunlight filtered through beaded mobiles and woven lanterns, scattering fractured rainbows across walls and pavement. The air carried the aromas of tortillas sizzling on griddles, roasted peanuts and coffee being ground behind small, unmarked doors. A faint, elusive sweetness hung in the air, something I wanted to chase down but never quite did. Every sense was engaged.
We ate from food carts, stopping because they looked appealing rather than out of hunger. I balanced an icy, collapsing cup in one hand and my helmet in the other, and my boyfriend laughed at my precarious juggling act.
We wandered down alleyways simply because they seemed intriguing, pushed open wrought-iron gates to peek into hidden courtyards and encountered nothing but curious glances and gentle smiles. Curiosity was the currency here, and we spent it freely.
‘The light itself was magical’
By mid-afternoon, I realized we hadn’t entered a single store. The shopping bags I imagined filling had stayed folded in my backpack. We hadn’t bargained, debated or chosen. Yet we had collected far more than any container could hold. We had watched life unfold in its small, magnificent details. We had seen artistry not just in objects but in the hands, eyes and intentions of those creating them. We had witnessed patience, care and joy.
The light itself was magical. Slanting through hanging glass ornaments and woven lanterns, sunlight transformed ordinary spaces into stained-glass dreams. Shadows bent and stretched — part of the art, choreographed by the sun. The town seemed obsessed with texture and colour, which spilled over into every detail.
By late afternoon, we perched on a cracked stone bench, sharing a snack, watching the light soften over the plaza. The town, which had felt like an art gallery, a stage, a secret garden all at once, began to exhale.
Colors deepened and streets glowed, and we felt the quiet satisfaction of wandering somewhere that demanded nothing from us except attention.
‘Tonalá is a marketplace, but it’s also a muse’
We left Tonalá with no purchases. We bought no vases, trinkets or beaded bracelets, but we carried back something far richer: We carried the memory of a town that exists on its own terms, rewarding patience, curiosity and the willingness to observe. We carried the warmth of people creating and living attentively. We carried the freedom that comes from riding a motorcycle along a winding back road, where every turn brings the unexpected and the world feels immediate, alive and intimate.
These rides aren’t just transport for me. They’re a meditation. They’re a reminder that moving slowly with attention and curiosity allows you to feel a place in ways no checklist or itinerary could.
Tonalá is a marketplace, but it’s also a muse. It rewards those who pause, who look closely and who let themselves be absorbed by its rhythms. We’ll return, with luggage next time, ready to choose a fragile treasure. But we’ll also do what we did on this visit.
We’ll ride that back road again, a single motorcycle between the two of us, stopping wherever the day calls us, and we’ll let the town reveal itself slowly, corner by corner, detail by detail.
Tonalá doesn’t insist on your attention, but it’s endlessly generous to those who notice.
Charlotte Smith is a writer and journalist based in Mexico. Her work focuses on travel, politics, and community. You can follow along with her travel stories at www.salsaandserendipity.com.
Source: Mexico News Daily
