Tourist attraction

We live in the middle of a tourist attraction.

Casa de los Soles is the name of the hotel in Mexico where my husband, Peter, and I spend about two months in the fall and another two months in the winter. We have been renting the same 450-square-foot apartment for five years. It is on the third floor, one of just six units in the hotel. And when we first started coming, it was just that – six apartment-style rooms and more than 3,000 suns adorning every flat surface.

But that was five years ago. In the intervening years, a lot has changed. One fall we showed up and discovered that our landlord, Jorge, had converted a storage room into a small restaurant with a counter for people to sit.

The next time we returned, the counter was gone. The kitchen was larger, and there were tables in the courtyard where people could eat. A year or so later, the leather store in front of the hotel vanished, along with the small room where Jorge had his office, and all that space had become an indoor restaurant area.

By now, the restaurant is flourishing, and it is primarily because of the suns.

Jorge collects ceramic suns. He keeps a rough tally of the suns on the walls, and it has gone up by several hundred since we started coming. “The House of the Suns,” as it would be called in English, is famous, in its small way. It has an Instagram page, and people from all over Mexico and occasionally beyond come to see the suns. And now, they often stay and have lunch.

“Wow!” one person after another says, as they step into the courtyard and see thousands of suns climbing the walls, painted on the stairwells, filling the new restaurant area. Then, one after another, they get out their cameras and take a picture.

Some take selfies. Many are photographed climbing the stairs. Some sit on a painted bench, covered in suns, and have a family photo taken. Everyone is smiling. They smile for the photos. They smile at the suns. Then they smile at the food coming from the kitchen.

And Peter and I live right in the middle of it all.

This would not be for everyone; Peter and I understand that. But I think it’s fair to say that Peter and I have loved it a bit more with every passing year.

This week, we learned our neighbors, who live in the only larger apartment in Casa de los Soles, will be moving out. They are both in their late 80s, and the stairs are starting to pose a hazard.

“Would you like the apartment?” Jorge asked us.

The apartment has three windows facing one of the oldest cobblestone streets in this very old town. A man sells corn from a cart every night, singing like an opera star as he sells his wares. An artisan market spills out onto the streets. Three neighboring churches ring loud bells at odd hours, and dogs bark between times, and fireworks go off early in the morning.

Renting this would mean we would no longer be hauling our stuff back and forth. No one will rent our apartment while we are away. It would be a more permanent home, right in the center of 3,000 suns.

Of course, we said “yes.”

We will soon be living right over the kitchen and restaurant. The tourists will pass beneath us as they enter. And all day long, we’ll hear the sound of one person after another say, “Wow!”

Till next time,

Carrie