Not on the Map
Our drive from the airport to Ixtapan de la Sal is long and slow. The road threads south from Mexico City through snarls of traffic before giving way to hills and acres of almost ripe corn. By the time I arrive, my shoulders are tight and my patience thin. Then, all memories of the drive melt away as I sink into total pampering.
It would be easy to remain within the spa walls, content to drift between massages, facials, and naps by the pool. Most gringos fear leaving the spa’s security, and Mexicans see no reason to go elsewhere.
I’m wired differently. Exploring my surroundings isn’t a choice; it’s a necessity. No matter where I travel, I feel compelled to look beyond. No matter how familiar the territory, every journey carries the promise of discovery.
On my second day, after an early stretch class in a heated mineral pool (the kind of luxury that can make you forget the real world exists), my friend Sue and I set off with a driver. Two towns were on the itinerary, Toluca and Metepec. Toluca was the one I’d been dreaming about. I had seen photographs of its fabled botanical garden, the Cosmovitral Jardín Botánico, and those images had burned into my imagination. What I discovered was more breathtaking than any photo.
The Cosmovitral is a marriage of art and nature. It started life in 1910 as Toluca’s main market hall. The soaring iron-and-glass Art Nouveau building was more like a railway station in Paris than a market in central Mexico. For decades, it thrummed with the noise and scents of daily commerce. When it closed in 1975, local officials soon saw its potential and transformed the building into something extraordinary.
Today, the Cosmovitral is a vast botanical garden. Surrounding the garden are monumental stained-glass murals by Mexican artist Leopoldo Flores. These are not church windows depicting religious tales. Instead, they blaze with cosmic imagery: fiery reds, radiant blues, and glowing golds illustrate dualities—day and night, creation and destruction, life and death. A colorful glass ceiling bathes everything below in shifting hues. Every step feels like walking inside a painting.
Then there are the gardens themselves. Organized into distinct sections, the exhibits take visitors on a journey through Mexico and beyond. One moment you’re in a desert among sculptural cacti and succulents. Walk a few yards and you’re in the calm of a Japanese garden. A few steps further, orchids and bird-of-paradise burst in tropical color, and groves of native trees remind you that you’re still in Mexico’s highlands. Everywhere there is water—ponds with lilies and calla flowers that gleam under the reflections of stained glass, turning each pool into a glowing mirror.
It reminded me that beauty can emerge from reinvention, that even ordinary structures can be transformed into the extraordinary.
Leaving Toluca behind, we drove a short distance to Metepec. It’s one of Mexico’s 177 Pueblos Mágicos, places honored for preserving history, culture, and tradition.
On the main shopping street, handcrafted ceramic suns, moons, and flowerpots spilled onto the street. Elaborate Trees of Life, crowded shelves alongside bowls, mugs, and planters.
Sue and I found our excitement not in a shop but on the street. We spotted a corn seller with an enormous pot bubbling on a propane burner, ears of corn stacked inside. When we indicated to the proprietress that we wanted some, she fished out an ear with long tongs, shook it off, and in under a minute transformed it. First, she pressed a stick into the cob as a handle. Then came a coat of mayonnaise, followed by a blizzard of crumbled cotija cheese. A shake of red chile powder gave it bite, and then an acidic squeeze of lime.
The corn was messy, tangy, and sweet all at once. Cheese clung to our fingers and dribbled down our shirts. Bits of corn stuck between our teeth, and we didn’t care a bit. It was the kind of simple street food that reminds me why I travel.
Next, we headed towards the main square. By chance, we had arrived on August 15, the eve of the Day of the Assumption of Mary, a Catholic feast celebrating Mary's arrival in heaven. In preparation, the town had transformed into one enormous open-air restaurant. Hand-painted signs shouted out menus of every Mexican food I’d heard of, plus many new to me. The air was thick with competing aromas: rich pork pozole, smoky lamb barbacoa, and grilled steaks sizzling on open flames. Pineapples roasted alongside chickens, their juices dripping down onto the coals, sending up bursts of sweet smoke.
Every so often, sharp cracks split the air. At first, I thought they were gunshots or fireworks, but they were cohetes, skyrockets fired to announce prayers. We’d been hearing them all week at the spa in Ixtapan. Their loud bursts woke me every morning.
We stopped at a vendor selling freshly made popcorn and bought two “small” bags for $1. Their idea of small would qualify as a large bucket in American movie theaters.
Walking back to the car, I spotted a footbridge near the central fountain. Dozens of engraved locks were attached to its railings—testaments to unbreakable love.
Metepec’s treasure isn’t something to display on a shelf, but something to eat, smell and remember long after the taste fades.
Travel has taught me that the most enduring souvenirs are not the ones packed into bags. Toluca gave me light. Metepec gave me flavor. Neither treasure appears on maps nor guidebooks. I found them by stepping outside, looking closely, and saying yes to exploring.
Karen Gershowitz has traveled to over one hundred countries, many of them numerous times. Her first book of travel stories, Travel Mania: Stories of Wanderlust, explores the confluence of travel and life events. Wanderlust: Extraordinary People, Quirky Places, and Curious Cuisine, continued those stories. It won a 2024 IPPY (Independent Publisher Book Awards) Silver Medal for Travel Essay. She is now working on a third travel book.
