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Huatulco, San Miguel de Allende

Editor’s Letter

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By Jane Bauer—

“I’m going to Graceland, Graceland, Memphis, Tennessee
I’m going to Graceland
Poor boys and pilgrims with families
And we are going to Graceland
My traveling companion is nine years old
He is the child of my first marriage
But I’ve reason to believe we both will be received in Graceland”
Paul Simon, singer and songwriter

If you are reading this, you have probably already undertaken a lot of journeys to get here. A pilgrimage is often associated with religion, but there are many other roads than the one to God that lead to salvation. Maybe salvation is too powerful a word for some journeys- communion, perhaps.

It would make sense for this topic to tell of my own journey to my Mexican life almost 30 years ago, but when I think of pilgrimage, I think of a road trip I took with my daughter.

Even though I had already been living in Mexico for close to 15 years, I had several items in Canada that I didn’t want to part with: art my father left me when he died, a few pieces of furniture. We all have things we don’t want to part with just yet. I purchased an old Canada Post truck, filled it up, and my nine-year-old daughter and I took a road trip from Montreal to Huatulco.

It was hot, like driving in a sardine can. The radio didn’t work, but we had an iPod that played music through a speaker. In college, I was briefly obsessed with a book called Reflections on the Birth of the Elvis Faith, which likened the Elvis following to a religious phenomenon. So when my daughter and I found ourselves rumbling along the highway near Memphis, Tennessee, the words to Paul Simon’s Graceland came back to me: “My traveling companion is nine years old.” Without hesitation, we veered towards Graceland.

What back in the 1970s what was considered a mansion now just looked like a large suburban house. I asked people on the shuttle if it was their first time, and for most, it wasn’t. For many, it was an annual pilgrimage; for some, like us, a curiosity. Were we part of the pilgrimage or observers?

We toured the house, and when we reached the Jungle Room, my daughter said, “Like the song.” She meant Walking in Memphis – we had listened to it on some stretch of highway through Ohio.

Saw the ghost of Elvis
On Union Avenue
Followed him up to the gates of Graceland
Then I watched him walk right through
Now security they did not see him
They just hovered ’round his tomb
But there’s a pretty little thing
Waiting for the King
Down in the Jungle Room

As people, journeying, searching, and having faith in something other than our own immediate existence is perhaps the most unifying human experience. Does it really matter if we call this feeling and belief by different names?

See you next month,

Jane

Huatulco, San Miguel de Allende

Editor’s Letter- January 2026

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By Jane Bauer—

“We did not weave the web of life; we are merely a strand in it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves.”— Chief Seattle

It’s the New Year… again.

Suddenly it is 2026, and at times I feel as though I’m living in a science-fiction film. The kind where a woman goes to sleep and wakes up to find that ten or twenty years have passed. Everyone looks a little older, the world is a little less shiny, yet the headlines remain stubbornly familiar. Immigration crises. War. Corporate takeovers. The looming threat of environmental collapse. Will we ever learn?

As humans, we try to make sense of the world by dividing it into fragments. We divide the vastness of space into time — years, months, days, minutes, seconds. We divide land into countries and cities, drawing imaginary lines that we then defend and fight over. We separate ourselves by identity, ideology, belief. And in all this dividing, we search for meaning: Who are we? What is our purpose? Why does harmony feel so elusive?

There is no shortage of resources on this planet for all of us to live well. And yet, as a species, we continue to make decisions from a frequency of lack. We are taught, explicitly and implicitly, that things are limited, that if someone else has more, there will be inevitably less for us. I believe scarcity is something we have learned, reinforced by systems that benefit from fear and competition rather than trust and cooperation.

This year, according to Chinese astrology, is the Year of the Fire Horse, a cycle that comes around only once every sixty years. Rare, not quite a Halley’s Comet moment, but close. The Fire Horse (Bing-Wu) is associated with vitality, momentum, and spiritual transformation. It represents a powerful alignment of motion and illumination, a time when people feel called to take bold steps, to embark on pilgrimages, and to pursue both outer and inner journeys. So what does this mean for us?

Perhaps it means that speed is no longer the answer. That moving faster, consuming more, and fragmenting the world into ever-smaller pieces has not brought us closer but only further from one another. The Fire Horse does not ask us to escape what feels difficult, but to meet it with courage, clarity, and movement that has direction, not reaction, but intention.

Fire does not simply destroy; it illuminates. Let us step out of patterns rooted in fear and into a different way of being, one where there is enough when we move in alignment rather than competition.

Let us choose presence over paralysis, connection over fragmentation, and curiosity over certainty. To take our own quiet pilgrimages, inward or outward, and to participate more consciously in the systems we belong to. Not to fix the world all at once, but to move differently within it. Sometimes, that is where real change begins.

See you next month,

Jane

Huatulco

Editor’s Letter

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By Jane Bauer —

“Buy less. Choose well. Make it last” – Vivienne Westwood, English fashion designer and businesswoman.

Fifteen years ago, the first issue of The Eye rolled off the press. It was nothing more than two sheets of oversized newsprint, and the writers and I sat around a table folding each copy by hand. What pushed us to begin this project? By then, I had already lived in Mexico for more than a decade. I had married a Mexican, my daughter identifies as Mexican, and I’ve always preferred the rhythm of a small, non-touristy village to resort life. I could have continued drifting between two cultures, or I could create something that connected them. I also knew I wasn’t the only one navigating this space.

The Eye became that bridge.

Our mission is simple: to collect and share the stories, history, and layers of Mexico that readers might otherwise miss. We spotlight local businesses and give them a platform to reach new clients. We support organizations doing important work by helping them connect with volunteers and sponsors. At its heart, The Eye is about building community—not a parallel community that sits apart from the Mexican one, but a pathway into it. Learn about this place. Get involved. Participate. That has always been the purpose. And fifteen years later, it still is. We are very excited to announce the launch of The Eye San Miguel de Allende. Be sure to check it out.

This month, our writers explore fashion, a topic that can seem frivolous at first glance but is, in truth, a revealing lens through which to examine human behavior. The choice of what to wear is something each of us makes every day. Our clothes carry meaning, whether cultural, historical, or environmental. What are you wearing right now as you read this? What does your choice of fabric or brand say about you? Like all consumer goods, the items we choose to spend our money on have a rippling effect that, in an increasingly globalized world, can reach as far as the shores of Africa.

As we prepare for the New Year, let each of us take stock of the choices we make and the echoes they create.

Happy New Year, and see you in January.

Jane

Huatulco

Nothing Wasted: The Beauty of Leftovers

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By Jane Bauer

I once met someone who told me their least favorite food was leftovers. When you hear the word leftovers, you might picture day-old pizza or a casserole that has overstayed its welcome. But leftovers can be the start of something delicious—far beyond simply heating them up for another round of the same old, same old.
Here are a few dishes that are enhanced by leftovers:

Leftover: Stale Bread
Solution: French Toast
In French, it’s called Pain Perdu—“Lost Bread.” I’ve always found the name poetic. It conjures an image of a piece of stale bread sitting on the counter of a Parisian apartment. This isn’t bread for the birds or the trash, it’s magic waiting to happen.

Crack an egg into a bowl, pour in a little milk, and add a dash of cinnamon or vanilla. Beat with a fork until blended. Slice your bread, then heat a frying pan and add just enough fat—butter or oil—to keep things from sticking.

Dredge the bread in the milk mixture until the outer layer absorbs some of the liquid—don’t let it get soggy. Fry until the slices turn a beautiful golden brown. Plate and drizzle with syrup.

Super hack: Have a jar of jam that’s been sitting in your fridge forever? Add the jam to a small saucepan with a bit of water. Simmer slowly, stirring until you have a warm jam sauce. Add more water as needed to reach your desired texture.

Leftover: Corn tortillas
Solution: Chilaquiles (a.k.a. Nachos for Breakfast)

One of the best Mexican breakfasts is, in essence, a celebration of leftovers. Tortillas are typically sold by the kilo—a lot for just a couple of people. You can wrap them in a dishtowel and place them in a plastic bag to stretch their life another day, but really, tortillas are best eaten fresh.

So what to do with the extras? Make totopos—corn chips. Cut the tortillas into quarters. Heat about an inch of vegetable oil in a saucepan. When it’s hot, drop in a few pieces and fry until firm, but not brown. They’ll continue cooking after you remove them, so if they’re already brown in the pan, they’ll end up overdone. Place on paper towels to drain.

Now you’re ready for chilaquiles. Heat about half a cup of your house salsa (because of course, you always have one). When it’s hot, toss in a handful or two of totopos, stirring gently until they’re coated in the sauce. Plate immediately—don’t let them linger or they’ll get soggy. Top with cheese, sliced onions, avocado, and a dollop of cream.

Salsa Roja
8 Roma Tomatoes
1 jalapeño
3 garlic cloves
½ teaspoon of salt
Roast or boil ingredients. Blend. Season to taste. For extra heat add a couple of chile de arbol (small dried chiles).

Leftover: Boiled or roasted potatoes
Solution: Bauernfrühstück (Farmer’s Breakfast)

My last name is Bauer and as a girl my father would often make this dish on Sunday mornings. This German dish is all about turning yesterday’s potatoes into today’s comfort food. —it’s a rustic skillet of fried potatoes, eggs, and whatever else is on hand.

Slice up your leftover boiled or roasted potatoes. Heat a generous spoonful of butter or oil in a frying pan, and toss in the potatoes until they start to crisp and brown at the edges. Add chopped onions, peppers, or bits of ham if you have them.When everything smells irresistible, pour in a few beaten eggs and let them set slightly before stirring. You want a balance between soft and crisp, not scrambled.

Season with salt and a generous amount of pepper, maybe a sprinkle of fresh herbs if you have some around.

Each of these dishes celebrates the beauty of using what’s left—transforming the forgotten and the stale into something comforting and new. A reminder that good food doesn’t begin with perfection. It begins with creativity, care, and respect for what we already have. In the kitchen, as in life, nothing needs to go to waste.

Jane Bauer is the owner/operator of Café Juanita and the Chiles & Chocolate Cooking School.

Huatulco

Editor’s Letter

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By Jane Bauer

“Human exceptionalism is at the root of the ecological crisis”
Christine Webb, author of The Arrogant Ape

November is my favorite month of the year. It’s when the landscape bursts with color. Morning glories line the roads, their vines growing over everything, creating a blanket of purple flowers. Marigolds appear—electric orange spots that fill the air with a scent that will always transport you back to Day of the Dead if you’ve been fortunate enough to celebrate it, even once. The ocotillo trees become laden with small white flowers that almost instantly begin to dry, making the treetops look as though they’re draped in French lace from the 1930s. The brilliant green of the rainy season softens into a muted shade that cloaks the hillsides, while bursts of pink blossoms poke through. It is easy to be in awe of nature when it’s right outside your door.

As I watched a hummingbird dig into a hearty breakfast from an elegant orange heliconia, I thought about how every animal, plant, mushroom, and mineral serves a purpose in the ecosystem. This is a community of living organisms interacting together, benefiting one another. Bees feeding on nectar help flowers with pollination. Butterflies drift between hibiscus and bougainvillea, carrying pollen as they drink. Beneath the soil, fungi form unseen partnerships with roots, trading nutrients for sugars. And through the decomposition of fallen leaves and creatures, the earth renews itself again and again.

As a species, we have long prided ourselves on human exceptionalism. Most of our myths tell us we are at the top of the chain: the most intelligent, the ones who tamed fire, we with our opposable thumbs and insatiable egos. As the world gathers for variations on “No Kings” marches, I wonder if this sentiment will ever stretch beyond our politics—if we might learn to organize ourselves with the same grace found in nature’s systems.

Compared to the rest of nature, we lack elegance; we are like a rowdy classroom of kindergartners diving at a piñata. We are the destroyer species. Through pollution, habitat destruction, overexploitation, and the introduction of invasive species, we have scoured the planet—each of us wearing our little crowns, believing the Earth to be our right or inheritance.

The Earth does not ask for much—only that we remember we are guests here, not rulers.
Welcome to the Green Issue.

See you in December,

Jane

Huatulco

Editor’s Letter

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By Jane Bauer

“We must strive to become good ancestors.”
Ralph Nader

What is your life’s purpose? Day of the Dead is a time to contemplate life and the lives of those who came before us. This is the first year that my mother’s photo will join my father’s on the altar and I can feel the tears welling up even as I write this. As I was caring for her in the last months of her life it became clear to me that the trivialities we obsess over are mere distractions.

I am baffled by the news and stories of those in power, the anger and frustration that ripples around the world. This hunger for power that seems to ignore the inner world of individuals. The way these topics dominate conversations, the way we use our political beliefs to define us rather than the other way around. When I was asked recently what my core beliefs are, I realized they can be summed up in four simple principles:

1. Bodily autonomy
2. Equitable distribution of wealth- there is enough for everyone; enough food, enough healthcare, enough water
3. Freedom of movement for all
4. A life without violence

When world leaders discuss strategies and economic reforms that encourage more violence, less freedom of movement, and scarcity for some while others have more than they could ever need, I can’t help but wonder: what is our life’s purpose?

At the end of life, what will we take with us? We can view history as a series of wars and power shifts and try to devise a winning formula. But winning—there’s another concept that makes little sense. Is the winner the one with the most money, or the one who is most content?

For myself, I try and move through the world feeling energy rather than corralling wealth or power. I want to feel the energy of a tree rather than calculate it’s monetary value. I want to approach each person I meet with compassion, I want to live in a paradigm of abundance- I know there is enough for everybody if we distribute it properly.

Thinking on that time with my mother I’m reminded that our real legacy is not wealth or power, but how deeply we’ve loved and how much kindness we’ve shared. Death invites us to ask ‘what is your life’s purpose? What do you want your legacy to be?’.

This month we mourn the loss of our colleague and friend Deborah Van Hoewyk. She is greatly missed and leaves behind a legacy of kindness and curiosity.

See you next month,

Jane

Huatulco

Editor’s Letter

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By Jane Bauer

“True happiness comes from the joy of deeds well done, the zest of creating things new.”
– Antoine de Saint-Exupery

How much food do you have at your immediate disposal? How long could you avoid going to the store for? One of the things I loved about Mexican village life when I first moved here was the self-sufficiency of those around me. Having been raised in a city, I was quite clueless about how to forage beyond a trip to the supermarket.

While in the summer my father collected mushrooms and we caught the occasional fish from the lake, I wasn’t instilled with any real survival skills. Even my summer camp canoe trip provisioned us with cans of tuna and Spam.

So, last month I gave myself a challenge: to take a break from the stock-up trips that overflowed my fridge and countertops with an endless possibility of meals. I would still pick up a couple of tomatoes or bananas from my corner store, but before I bought anything, I would ask myself, “Could I make a meal with what I have at home without buying anything?” The answer was almost always a resounding yes.

I made it through the dried goods. I even made homemade English muffins when I was craving bread, and almond milk when I ran out of cow’s milk—I’m still not sure why I had so many almonds. I paid more attention to the sad herbs in my garden and was even more appreciative when my neighbour gifted me a watermelon.

Rather than inwardly cringe knowing how much space it would take up in my fridge, I made a clear plan for its use.
Day one: a perfect afternoon snack—sprinkled with some of my homemade chile salt.
Day two: chop it into a salad of tomato, onion, and chile.
Day three: add it to a gazpacho. And of course, a constant flow of agua de sandía that—with a handful of ice, a lime from my tree, and a shot of tequila that’s been living in my cupboard for years—is suddenly a margarita.

When I ran out of cookies, I had jam on crackers, and it was delicious. My fridge suddenly had space. My cupboards were easy to navigate. Cooking had become fun again—a challenge. I was excited to make a meal. I had created my own version of Chopped, which led me to make my own pasta, add a tin of artichoke hearts to a casserole of leftovers, and use olive brine in salad dressing.

This experiment made me realize something deeper.

People thrive when challenged. Convenience is the death of creativity. The human spirit is easily crushed when everything is handed to us—and we’re living in a time when our days are filled with more convenience than any other era in history. Is it any wonder we seek out conflict and challenges elsewhere?

While for me it was cooking meals without shopping, there are other playful limitations you could try. For example, give up your car for a week. This would force you to walk, ride a bike, take public transport (read a book on the bus instead of scrolling), or even connect with a co-worker to carpool. Try it for a week—approach it with curiosity rather than frustration.

Or try turning off your home internet for a week. This may sound impossible, but it’s not. You would find yourself doing tasks with more intention, lose less time, and your nervous system would be grateful. What if there’s an emergency? Let people know to call you.

What if limitations aren’t obstacles but invitations? Invitations to experiment, to reconnect, to use the things (and skills) we forgot we had. You don’t need to go off-grid—just try turning the dial down. You might be surprised by how much you already have.

See you in October!

 

 

Huatulco

Editor’s Letter- July 2025

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By Jane Bauer

“Oaxaca lo tiene todo: historia, geografía, arte, cultura y, sobre todo, alma.”
“Oaxaca has everything: history, geography, art, culture, and above all, soul.”

Andrés Henestrosa (1906–2008) was a Mexican writer, poet, and politician from Oaxaca, known for his work in preserving and promoting Zapotec culture and language. In addition to his contributions to indigenous linguistics, he was widely respected for his humanitarian work and lifelong commitment to education and cultural inclusion.

I love when two unrelated events cross paths and open a new window of thought. As I sat hunkered down in Huatulco, watching heavy rains fill normally dry canals, and reading the usual online buzz of neighbors checking in and sharing photos of Hurricane Erick, I came across a headline: the U.S. had bombed Iran.

And it struck me – this strange parallel between the violence of nature and the violence of humanity.

The storm had a rhythm. The wind shook the trees, the water rose, the power blinked. But nature’s violence, even in its ferocity, seemed to have a purpose. I came across an article listing the benefits of hurricanes—how they redistribute heat from the tropics, bring rainfall to dry areas, churn the oceans and shake up stagnation. Nature’s destruction has intention. It clears paths. It forces growth. It renews.

But what is the purpose of our violence?
Bombs don’t bring rain. They don’t shift tectonic plates in a way that nourishes. They don’t rebalance ecosystems. They just kill. They divide. They reinforce walls that were never there in the natural world—Democrat, conservative, Palestinian, Israeli, Muslim, Jew, Christian. So many labels. So many reasons to separate. So many flags we wave while our homes flood and our forests burn.

Nature’s violence may be terrifying, but it’s not senseless.
Ours usually is. What would it look like to just be? To step away from the performance of identity and instead be guided by one simple principle to do the least amount of harm. To each other. To ourselves. To the planet.

That kind of thinking doesn’t fit easily into a political agenda, especially when war is more profitable than peace and we have had it drummed into us that amassing money, points, clothes made by little hands in developing countries far away, is the point of all this. But that is a lie.

This month our readers explore the regions of Oaxaca reflecting on their beauty and diversity. I am so grateful to the people here who don’t need a crisis to be reminded of what matters. History has never been peaceful, maybe it’s time to try something different.

Huatulco

Editor’s Letter

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By Jane Bauer

“Mexico is not a country of the past but of the infinite future.” – Octavio Paz

So many people love Mexico these days. Mexico City was just named one of National Geographic’s top eight food destinations for 2025. Travel shows are all over it and every other person you meet is planning a trip—or a move—south. Suddenly it feels like the whole world is cluing in to what many of us have known for a long time.

But when I moved here almost 30 years ago, that wasn’t the general vibe. People thought I was a little nuts. I got a lot of questions: Is it safe? Are you really going to have your baby there? As if babies weren’t born in Mexico every single day.

What I found then—and what I’ve continued to find, over and over again—is a rhythm of life that just made more sense to me. A different pace. A stronger sense of community. A culture where family matters, time isn’t always money, and you can live well without rushing through your days.

While people back home were watching the headlines, I was living something very different. More grounded. More connected. Choosing to live in Mexico and exploring different parts of it has honestly felt like stepping through a portal into another way of being. A way that I’m profoundly grateful to have found.

Now, decades later, I feel like the rest of the world is finally catching up. And I get it. There’s something magnetic about Mexico. It’s not just the beaches (though they’re great). It’s the food, the traditions, the music, the layers of history. It’s how different one region is from another—and how each one offers you something unique if you’re paying attention.

Mexico just elected a female president—before Canada or the U.S., which is kind of wild when you think about it. For a country that so many associate with machismo, this is no small thing. For those who’ve only seen Mexico through the lens of headlines or resorts, this place continues to defy expectations.

In this issue of The Eye, we’re highlighting some of the places in Mexico that might not be on everyone’s radar. Our writers take you beyond the usual vacation spots and into towns and regions that offer something different—something real.

Mexico is not a one-size-fits-all destination. It’s a living, breathing patchwork of languages, landscapes, and local flavors. It invites curiosity. It challenges assumptions. And even after all this time, it still surprises me. I hope this issue inspires you to get out there and explore.

See you in July!

Huatulco

Batopilas: A Silver Town in the Heart of the Sierra Madre

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By Jane Bauer

Tucked deep within the rugged canyons of the Sierra Madre Occidental in Chihuahua, the town of Batopilas boasts a rich mining history that once made it one of the wealthiest silver-producing centers in Mexico. Though now a quiet and picturesque village, Batopilas was once a thriving boomtown that attracted miners, adventurers, and fortune-seekers from around the world.

The indigenous Tarahumara people were aware of the region’s mineral wealth long before the arrival of the Spanish, but it was in 1632 that Spanish explorers officially discovered silver in Batopilas. By the 18th and 19th centuries, the town’s mines were producing vast quantities of high-grade silver, some of it so pure that it could be molded by hand.

The most famous chapter in Batopilas’ mining history began in 1880 when Alexander Shepherd, a former governor of Washington, D.C., acquired mining rights in the area. Shepherd, seeing the immense potential of Batopilas’ silver deposits, invested heavily in modernizing the industry. He built an extensive network of tunnels, processing facilities, and even a hydroelectric plant—the first in Mexico—allowing for increased production and efficiency. This innovation made Batopilas one of the first places in Mexico to have electricity, long before many larger cities, further cementing its status as an important industrial center. Under Shepherd’s management, the Batopilas Mining Company became one of the world’s top silver producers, extracting millions of ounces of silver and employing thousands of workers.

Despite its prosperity, Batopilas’ fortunes were not destined to last. The challenges of operating in such a remote and rugged region, combined with the volatility of silver prices and the turmoil of the Mexican Revolution, led to a decline in mining operations. By the mid-20th century, large-scale mining had ceased, and Batopilas slowly faded into obscurity.

I’ve only been to Batopilas once, almost 20 years ago, but it left a lasting impression on me. It felt like a ghost town, silent and almost surreal, yet I could sense that something extraordinary had happened there. Getting there was an adventure in itself—I took a public van from Creel, winding down these steep canyon roads, gripping my seat as we navigated hairpin turns with sheer drops on either side. It was hard to believe that this remote, sleepy village had once been a booming center of wealth and industry. Learning about its history later only deepened my fascination. I haven’t been back, but Batopilas has stayed with me, lingering in my mind like an unfinished story, calling me to return one day.

How to Get There
Batopilas is deep in the Copper Canyon region of Chihuahua, and getting there is no small feat. The most common route is from Creel, a town that serves as a hub for exploring the region. From Creel, travelers can take a shared van or a public bus for the approximately 5-6 hour journey down the dramatic mountain roads into the canyon. The road is steep, narrow, and thrilling—equal parts breathtaking and nerve-wracking. For those looking for a more scenic approach, the Chepe train runs to Creel, where you can arrange transport onward to Batopilas. The journey isn’t for the faint of heart, but if you love travel that feels like stepping into a different time, Batopilas is worth every twist and turn.

While large-scale mining is a thing of the past, Batopilas remains a testament to the power and impermanence of resource-driven economies. Its story is one of ambition, ingenuity, and resilience—a silver town that shone brightly and then faded, leaving behind a legacy etched in the canyons of the Sierra Madre.