Seduced by the Streets of Tonalá

I recently went to Tonalá to shop. I came back with nothing except hundreds of photos of brightly painted doors and random objects, a mild sunburn, and a deep sense that I had completely underestimated the place.

Tonalá is supposed to be a shopper’s paradise. That’s what the guidebooks said. That’s what my friends who’ve been told me. “You have to go!” “It’s where all the artists are!” “So many ceramics, and glass, and paper mâche! You’ll die.”

Well, I lived, and I didn’t enter a single store.

That’s not to say I didn’t try. I had the best of intentions. I did! I even wore my serious shopping shoes. You know the ones I’m talking about; the stylish enough to look like I care ones that are broken-in enough to sustain a day of haggling over handmade mugs.

But somewhere between the first street vendor selling watermelon juice in a bag and the second hand-painted mural that looked like a movie set, I realized I wasn’t here to shop. I was here to gawk.

Tonalá unfolds slowly. It’s not like your average market town that hits you in the face with flashing signs and aggressive deals. No one shoved flyers at us. No one shouted about “best price” or “special for you only.” It was like the town collectively decided that if we were so inclined to want the good stuff, we’d find it.

So we lazily strolled like two people who had accidentally wandered into a painting and weren’t in any rush to get out.

The main street leading into town felt more like the entrance to an outdoor art gallery than a thoroughfare. Sculptures lined the sidewalk like they were waiting to be admired, each one more curious and beautiful than the last. Oversized clay vases, frighteningly realistic warriors and gods who looked as though they were protecting the area’s charm and traditions, and mosaics tucked into walls and wrapped around corners like little visual surprises.

Even the benches were art. An array of modern art meets traditional terracotta gatos inviting you to sit and have a pet and a cuddle.

The streets were lined with shopfronts, of course, but it was what was around them that caught our eyes. Balconies were dripping with bougainvillea, walls were painted in faded aquamarines and sunset pinks, rusted wrought iron railings were curling like the toe curl you get when you read the very best line of your favourite poem.

Every door was a different colour. Some were lime green. Others, chipped cobalt blue. One had an actual heart painted around the knob like a door with its very own love life.

Tonalá feels like it was designed by someone with an obsession for texture. Every block was a sensory buffet. There’s rough brick underfoot, smooth clay vases teetering outside shops, and glass so vibrantly coloured it looked like edible candy.

We passed an open-air workshop where someone was making something with a blowtorch and confidence. We didn’t ask what it was. We just stood there, mesmerized, drinking it in like it was performance art.

The real show was the people.

Because as much as Tonalá is famous for what it makes, I feel it should be equally magical because of who makes it.

There were abuelitas in folding chairs gossiping like school girls while stringing mobiles together. Kids were darting between stalls, holding tamarind candies the size of their heads while distributing supplies. One man was painting a giant ceramic sun face while simultaneously arguing on the phone, playing chess, and sipping a Coke. I’m one hell of a multi-tasker, and even I couldn’t do that!

We saw two artists sitting on a doorstep, passing a sketchbook back and forth like it was a secret diary.

At one point, we sat down on a cracked stone bench just to watch a guy paint a table leg. Just one leg. For thirty minutes. It was hypnotic.

Tonalá doesn’t just have art. It is art. The town breathes creativity. It oozes charm. It’s like someone gave an entire neighbourhood a glue gun, a stack of paint samples, and complete creative freedom.

Art spills into the streets. Giant metal roosters guard storefronts like fabulous poultry sentries. Wrought iron suns smile from rooftops. Utility poles are wrapped in hand-painted advertisements for local artisans.

Even the shadows are beautiful. I know that sounds dramatic, but the way the sunlight slants through hanging wind chimes and woven lampshades? It was just so incredibly dreamy.

And the smells! Warm tortillas, roasted peanuts, just-ground coffee, and the occasional whiff of something sweet and unplaceable. You breathe deeper in Tonalá, because even the air feels handmade.

By the end of the day, we hadn’t bought a thing. Not a vase. Not a trinket. Not a single beaded necklace from the woman who definitely thought I was about to ask for a price.

I came with a shopping agenda and left with something better. I left with wonder about a place I honestly hadn’t cared all that much to see.

That’s so much better than needing to carry something home in a paper bag.

We ate from food carts and drank whatever icy thing someone handed us in a styrofoam cup. We wandered into courtyards we probably weren’t supposed to be in and nobody cared. It felt like curiosity was our currency.

I will absolutely go back. I feel like Tonalá is one of those towns that could shift each time you visit. One day you’re drawn to the ceramics. Another, it’s the ironwork. Maybe next time, I’ll actually go into a store and buy a plate or three.

Or maybe I’ll just sit in the plaza, eat elote, and try to count how many shades of blue there are on one block.

Tonalá doesn’t need to convince you of anything. It just exists. Warm, artistic, and quietly alive. It’s the kind of place that’s content to let you discover it at your own pace.

So, no, I didn’t shop. But I souvenired a memory I’ll be unwrapping for years.