We forgo breakfast with Preciliano’s aunt and uncle, instead heading immediately to San Cristóbal’s zócalo, or town square.  What a marvelous place to walk, this city, with its gentle hills, comfortable weather, compact heart and graph paper-like layout.

The pleasure of moving about on foot stems not only from the ease of navigation, but also from breathtaking vistas hidden behind each corner.  Dense jungle and mountainous landscapes rest in plain sight waiting to be appreciated.  Each block passed meant one more stop, one more glance down the street to see what majestic view lay framed by the historic architecture.

We reach the central square, Plaza 31 de Marzo, and I’m taken aback. Wood-smoke fumes drift across the historic center, carrying with it wisps of delectable meals still cooking.  The zócalo’s bordering cafés feel lively, affluent tourists leaving the elegant hotels dotting the area and finding their collective way to the day’s first meal.  Yet it is the pedestrian market set atop the warming cobblestone that most draws our attention.

The plaza rests anchored by a two-story gazebo.  The exuberant green of its ironwork contains a café that bustles with activity.  The same leafy color, Crayola in nature, spreads outward to cast-iron benches and street lamps, tall tridents the hue of playful grass.

The graceful feel of the colonial square contrasts with the unending parade of Mayans.  Women dress in intricately woven shawls of azure and crimson; men wear sombreros festooned with ribbons and tunics of bright floral patterns.  A group of young girls sweeps by in a wave of satin blouses, festive yarn tying back long plaits of raven hair that seems too beautifully dark to be black.

Preciliano mentions the significance of the colors and patterns, each signifying the person’s village.  We have no time to venture into the countryside during this visit, though each of us speaks longingly of the magic we could experience in the Tzotzil and Zinacantán worlds hidden in the surrounding jungle.  Their worlds survive in those places, hidden and protected, native lives lived in native ways, centuries-old peoples and places that prefer only to sip from 21^st-century life.

We stroll aimless and directionless through the informal market, visually sampling the wares of indigenous artisans: rich embroidered peasant blouses beautifully patterned with designs drawn from Maya cosmology; stunning handwoven blankets and tablecloths that seem more appropriate for museum display than piled high in makeshift sales pitches; masterful leather belts that feel of a loving quality not found in any mass-produced line; and jewelry that ranges from cheap to exquisite, but which all beckons to times and peoples not found in modern society.

Yet the smell of morning delicacies becomes too much to ignore, our quest to the city center having been for food, not folly, so we leisurely stroll the fringes of the zócalo looking for breakfast.  There is time enough to explore, we know.