We didn’t stay at El Pueblo, but we sure wish we had. Cecil, the owner, had invited us to breakfast one morning—just us, his general manager Jamart Pérez, and a pair of chefs, Alfonso and Antonio, who clearly know their way around a vegetarian chilaquiles plate. We visited. We lingered long enough for a full tour. We even sat by the pool for a bit, pretending we were guests and not dusty busybodies who’d wandered in off the street.
And honestly, we were blown away.
Yes, El Pueblo is a hotel, but it doesn't act like one. It feels more like the dream home of someone with excellent taste and a soft spot for strangers. Cecil has spent years transforming three old houses near the base of Paseo de Montejo into something gorgeous and grounded. High arches, lush gardens, hidden verandas, and a perfect pool (filtered not with chlorine but with a 40-meter aquatic ecosystem of plants, native fish, and microscopic do-gooders). It's all stunning. But more than that, it's deliberate—in the best way.
Which brings us to the name. El Pueblo. That’s not just a poetic flourish. In Spanish, pueblo doesn’t just mean “village”—it means “the people.” It’s a word used to talk about community, about shared identity. If Puebla is a place, el pueblo is the people who give it meaning. And that nuance is the soul of the whole operation. El Pueblo isn’t trying to impress you. It’s trying to include you.
That sense of inclusion goes deeper than hospitality. Cecil and Jamart have built El Pueblo as a space where all communities feel welcome, especially those too often made to feel like afterthoughts in the "luxury" travel world. It's gay-friendly. It's environmentally sustainable. It's warm and spacious and clever and beautiful. It all works without being smug or self-congratulatory. You get vegetarian breakfasts, sustainable toiletries, filtered water on tap, and a pool you can swim in without wondering what it's doing to your skin microbiome.
With only seven suites, the place feels expansive but never empty. Private but not isolating. You can find a quiet nook to read or swap cenote recommendations over papaya and fresh bread at the communal table. Even the elevator—which seems wildly unnecessary for a two-story building—feels like a small act of inclusion for guests who need it.
Each suite is its own little world—king-size beds, sky showers, high ceilings, and enough space to dance around in your towel turban without fear of being discovered. Each comes with thoughtful details—water carafes, handmade soaps, local art—that are both photo-ready and functional, beautiful without being precious. Rooms are tucked throughout the property, so even at full occupancy, you're likelier to hear birds than other guests.
Jamart runs the place with a calm precision that makes it look effortless—even though you know it isn’t. And Cecil is the consummate host, visiting individual guests every morning to be sure they're feeling welcome and seen. El Pueblo feels low stress because Jamart and Cecil have already solved the problem you didn't know you would have.
You can't help but feel like El Pueblo is doing something different. Not just prettier or quieter or better located (though yes, it's all of those things too), but more thoughtful. More human.
So no, we didn't stay the night. But we saw enough to know that next time we're in Mérida, we'll have to fix that mistake.
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