Tierra de Tortugas

GUADALAJARA

We wait in the bus station in San Miguel de Allende with an entire bevy (is that the right word?) of nuns in beige who are being relocated elsewhere. They have all their earthly goods packed tidily in identical black bags. They fill one entire bay under the bus as we smile and hope there's room for ours. The guy loading the bus looks like he loads up large groups of nuns every day.

   

Soon the bus pulls away, we pass the old railroad station, and we're on the high road over the rocky hills, now painted with green from the summer rains. It's the same road to Guanajuato that I remember traveling on an old school bus long ago. But this time, the bus has far more horsepower and we learn new words in 'bus-driver-Spanish.' I had never realized before that "Curva Peligrosa" means "Speed Up" to a bus driver. But it's a swift and comfortable bus (when not leaning at a precarious angle) and we're generally quite happy to be on the next, and final, leg of our trip.

We make a brief stop at Guanajuato, then we pass an odd Protestant temple and yet another Italian Coffee Company stand (they're common in Latin America), before venturing through part of Mexico's picturesque Lake District and many more acres of cropland like that we've seen on most of our trip. Considering all the corn we've seen growing in the countryside where corn was first domesticated, the recent announcement in Reuters of Mexico's record corn purchase from the US came as a surprise.

  

  

As we leave the bus in Guadalajara, the lady who was sitting quietly across from us with her young daughter gives Carolyn one of the decorated cookies she makes to sell. That's a sort of kindness that doesn't happen on a plane flight to a tourist hangout. Then we board a 'Death Cab' for a quick trip to our lodgings at an interesting-sounding place that Carolyn found online, called The Orchid House.

It takes a bit of looking to find the place, as it's on a quiet side street, there's no sign, and it's very unassuming from the street-side. But once through the door, it's apparent that Carolyn has booked us into a quiet place that is actually a private home, located in Guadalajara's elegant older 'Zona Rosa' neighborhood, and within walking distance to the Centro Historico. The home is filled with fine art and antiques,is owned by a courtly gentleman named Carlos who provides fascinating stories of his time as a bartender at the Hilton in NYC before retiring to Guadalajara. We stash our gear in our well-appointed room and head out to look for a fine dining opportunity.

 

Guadalajara is a sophisticated city with much to offer travelers who want to visit a place that's a little less 'colonial,' or 'ethnic.' In short order, we manage to find the "Hamburguesería Central," and settle in for burgers and beer. The meal was at least edible, and Carolyn spent time indulging her interest in the passing footwear. Overall the evening was well-spent as we lingered over a second beer to watch the people walking by. 

 

At the Orchid House, we are confronted each morning with a large and delicious breakfast. 

  

In fact, it's really more than we can eat although neither of us wants to leave food lying on the platter. Carlos is a more-than-generous host with a creative flair for breakfast. Soon, we're waddling off through the quiet Zona Rosa to find our adventures for the day. 

 

 

With a population of more than 4 million, Guadalajara is a very large city with much to see. On our previous visit, we spent much time in the Tlaquepaque and Tonalá districts, and several days in Ajijíc on Lake Chapala. This time we decided to stay in the inner city and get to know it better. So each day we try a different route, finding hidden neighborhood jewels on our way to various cultural sites, and we manage to find plenty of beauty and intrigue in our daily walks. Here, as in most large cities, crumbling older buildings around the downtown core provide cheap rental space for a variety of edgy alternative galleries, film venues, and other surprises. It's the endless process of urban regeneration described by Jane Jacobs in her 1961 classic Death and Life of Great American Cities.

 

And there are roaring and dangerous traffic corridors. As in much of Mexico, and frankly, much of the world, this city seems to have a love affair with speeding traffic. Nasty one-way streets are a dominating feature in some areas. Modern city planners know that slowing and impeding traffic can help rejuvenate blighted inner cities by encouraging young families to move in and renovate older homes. But most Mexican cities seem to be still working this out.

Soon we've dodged enough traffic to arrive at the Museo de Las Artes and a very challenging exhibit by Francisco Toledo. There are lots of disturbing lifeforms, including insects, involved in Toledo's work. It's not for the squeamish.

 

 

Fortunately, they've also included a more tranquil exhibit of fabric works by Sara María Terrazas that showcases her remarkable dexterity. I wouldn't know even know where to begin such an intimidating exercise. Building an entire house looks easier to me.

 

Outside, giant metal creatures are approaching the museum. We bolt away and leave the guards to deal with it.  

 

 

The ancient Santuario de Nuestra Señora del Carmen is a cool and welcome respite from the warming day. At the entry there are old brass plaques directing "Señoras" to the right-hand door, and "Señores" to the other side, to maintain a sense of propriety. It's a charming glimpse into 'old Mexico,' although it's ignored today. A horse and carriage trot by on the adjacent street.

We make our way onward past a huge night club called "Larva," where all manner of coming events are advertised on the outside walls. We manage to resist the temptation to buy tickets.

 

 

But we notice there's a soccer game on TV in every shop and store along the way, and we realize it's the Mexican national team playing in the quarter finals at the London Olympics. This is an event we are incapable of resisting so we find a sleazy bar up one flight of steps and settle in with all the requirements: cerveza, chicharones, and hot sauce. Soon Mexico wins, the entire city celebrates, and Mexico advances to face the dreaded Brazilians in a few days in the final battle for the Gold. Few Mexicans dare to believe their team can prevail against such a formidable foe. But who knows? It could happen….

 

 

Soon we're in the maze of large plazas that makes up the Centro Historico, and we're hungry. There's a fine little café under the huge classical portal at the gorgeous old Teatro Degollado, and there's an open table. Soon there's food on the table and we're again enjoying the daily street theater of life in a great city. There's even a Yellow Guy with a green face mask (ala "The Mask," with Jim Carrey) who will pose with you for a few pesos. BTW, Carolyn handed over some pesos not to get our picture taken with him.

 

 

Hunger abated, we go down wide pedestrian streets, past stores and fountains, and clackety Purépecha dancers. Mexican families are on summer vacation, visiting famous parts of their country, taking pictures. As far as we can tell, we may well be the only Gringos in the entire city. Carolyn stops to buy ten small muñecas (dolls) from a street vendor, but there are only three. The lady pulls out seven bald dolls and asks what color hair Carolyn wants.

 

At the end of the promenade stands the huge Instituto Cultural de Cabañas, originally an orphanage but now a school, cultural institute and museum. There are sculptures and displays, but the big event is the colossal and powerful series of murals painted here in 1938-39 by José Clemente Orozco, one of Mexico's famous 'big three' revolutionary muralists (along with Diego Rivera and David Siqueiros). It's an astounding achievement, and certainly worthy of a visit.

But afterwards, you may well find yourself to be thirsty and in serious need of a stop at the nearby Plaza de los Mariachis. Guadalajara is the home of mariachi music and the place to leave a few pesos behind as your contribution to the arts – both the musical arts and the beverage arts. There's a wonderfully sleazy saloon that opens onto the plaza if you need to research the topic in greater depth. (Check out Mariachi Vargas.)

 

   

We take our time heading away from Guadalajara's historic center, and decide to enjoy another of the city's broad byways, the Avenida Chapultepec. Along the way there's more sculpture, murals, protest signs, an Elvis fan's homage (stenciled vertically) to his hero. The broad avenue itself is an open air art museum lined by a number of up-scale shops – especially of the "Bridal" variety. Afterward, there's more sculpture, interesting houses, photographers documenting the city's older classic homes, gallerias – and the Yellow Guy again! (You know, I hope, that you can "click" on any one of the little thumbnail pictures and a larger version will pop up. There's just so much to see!)

   

   

 

 

 

 

As the sun recedes, it's time to make our way back toward the Zona Rosa to find another fine sidewalk café and watch the world go by. After dinner, we buy some not-great ice cream (oh well), then stroll past an intriguingly odd mansion that almost seems surrounded by mystery. It's immaculately kept, although it appears to belong somewhere in New England. It's certainly worthy of a double-take. (There are many legends about this house. It is called Clover Lawn, and if you do a Google search you will find many stories and comments, mostly in Spanish, telling of its complicated history. It appears to be unoccupied, though it is impeccably maintained. As you can imagine, it's often referred to as "haunted," and its ownership is a bit difficult to discover.)

The next morning begins with public necking. Not us. Just another young Mexican couple making out in public. It's commonplace everywhere we've been on this trip. Whatever. We're heading to the Ex-Convento del Carmen which is now an art museum with a small stone-walled grotto of a theater that shows art flicks and foreign language movies. After cruising through some excellent art (way more insects, and other critters), we relax with an afternoon flick.

 

Who can resist Antonio Banderas and Salma Hayek, back together again in "Bandido?" And who cares if it's a fairly ridiculous pot-boiler, like "Once Upon a Time in Mexico?" It's also got Steve Buscemi doing his usual great scumball, and Cheech Marin as another fine scumball supported by a cast of nasties. What more can you ask? 

 

 

(BTW, Mexico has lots of crumbling and picturesque 'ex-conventos,' generally a result of church land confiscations during the Reforma and further restrictions after the Revolution. The haunting ruins of the ex-convento in Tlaxcala are a prominent feature overlooking the city.)

 

Then it's time for dinner. On the way, we pass a car with lots of familiar looking stickers; some are even in English. Yes, again, we're in the Zona Rosa, with people walking by. Who could imagine? 

 

Our final day arrives and we have tickets to attend a classical concert in the magnificent Teatro Degollado. We don't know anything about the groups but we really wanted to experience the beautiful theater. We don't start off the day with a limo ride (although that limo-airplane in the back looked pretty intriguing!), and we don't go cruising in a kit 'Lamborghini,' or a classic bright yellow Pontiac either.

   

Instead, we hang out at the cool little "Plaza de Nueve Esquinas" (Nine Corners Plaza) for a quick bite, and spend the rest of the afternoon wandering our way to the theater. Carolyn sees more shoes (Cheap! Red!).

 

 

 

We stop at a Do-it-Yourself yogurt place where they charge by weight (!). I buy a 'Compay Segundo'- type hat so I can pass as a Cuban Musician. And soon we're back enjoying the nightly carnival at the plazas of Guadalajara. Small girls are strutting their most colorful dresses. Small boys are chasing bubbles. And a pair of young Aztecas are readying for a 'purification ceremony.'

 

Inside, the Teatro Degollado is everything we expected behind such a majestic classical entry. We're told it's been compared to La Scala in Milan, but we'll have to take their word for it.

 

Soon the event begins and we're introduced to the excellent "Ensamble Lirico de Tijuana" in concert with the local "Coro del Estado de Jalisco." The acoustics are outstanding and the musicians are impressive. We had no idea that Tijuana had such a fine classical music scene. We may have to stop at the Centro Cultural Tijuana (with one of the world's largest 3D movie screens!) on our next trip through there.

 

But alas, our trip must end. In the morning we bid a fond farewell to Carlos and the Orchid House, and soon we're waiting at the airport for our flight. All TVs are broadcasting as the Mexican soccer team confronts the formidable Brazilians in one of the final events of the 2012
London Olympics. When they finally take the gold the crowd erupts into 'high fives' and smiles, a mix of intense pride and disbelief. Mexico's only big star player, Giovanni Dos Santos ("El Chicharito"), was sidelined with an injury, leaving the task to the remaining talented journeyman players. Working as a team (what a concept) they defeated the Brazilian 'prima donnas' and claimed the golden spotlight. It was a fine way to begin another day in Mexico.

 

Our small Brazilian-built (!) Embrayer 145 lifted from the runway giving us a nice view of nearby Lake Chapala, as we headed north to the dramatic knife-edge mountains around Monterrey, then a quick stop at the tiny airport in Ciudad Juarez, and a landing at our own modest airport in Hermosillo. It was time for 'temperature re-adaptation,' as we re-entered the hot Sonoran desert. We rolled our bags out the front door past waving taxistas and waited on the curb in the heat for over an hour until a crowded Costa bus arrived to deliver us home to Kino. It felt good to be back. — PRW

 

Want a bit more of Mexico?

Try the gorgeous exuberance of Luis Miguel on "¿Sabes una Cosa?"

 Or the funky grove of Maria Muldaur's "Gringo en Mexico."

 

SAN MIGUEL 2

We take another tour. 

 

This time, it's the famous, every-Sunday House Tour where the proceeds go to benefit local charity. We meet at the Biblioteca, a center of gringo life in San Miguel, to board buses that will take us to a glimpse of life behind those courtyard doors. Thankfully, there's a nice balance of gringos and Mexican tourists aboard. We make friends with a nice lady named Elsa, who's visiting from a town near Monterrey, in the state of Coahuila. As we wait, a madrigal band plays traditional music in the courtyard.

The bus caravan whisks us uphill, out of the historic center, to a very paintable (if I painted) view of the city. Our first stop is a spectacular "architect-designed" home with views into the surrounding barrancas and the city below. 

 

The home embraces the landscape to create numerous private areas and lush plantings. The "For Sale," sign bothered a few people, but I was glad for a look-through. I even got Carolyn to do her Bess Meyerson impression to show off the appliances.

Back on the bus (with its pink dashboard!) we're soon at another site featuring luxury Rental Suites. One glance tells us these are at least a step or two (and a Price Point or two) above where we're staying. Again, the whole thing is nicely arrayed around the landscape so as to encourage (or maybe require!) personal fitness.

 

 

The very innovative 'stove-in-the-round, in the main kitchen, causes a minor traffic jam as we swarm our way out to the rambling courtyard and the surrounding suites. 

Soon, the buses drop us back in the winding streets of the Centro, and we're walking past the old public lavandería on our way to an art gallery with rooftop rental suites featuring sweeping views over the city. To one side, there's a little Moorish-inspired dollhouse that the now-grown daughter used to play in.

 

After that, there's time for a slow meander past ancient walls and shop windows, back to our hideout in the Frida Room for a quick lunch, a bit of writing, and a nap.

 

Our next adventure entitled, "In Quest of Dinner," will find us walking maybe two blocks, and settling in for a fine repast beneath a craft piece paying homage to such important Mexican figures as Frida Kahlo, Emiliano Zapata, Diego Rivera, and Elvis(!?!). The lettering across the top reads, "The deceased that one loves never die."

 

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Every city, town, or village is a collection of indelible impressions. Each place has its distinctive character. The hilly streets of San Miguel lend themselves to vigorous hiking, charming courtyards, and spectacular views. As I write this, in the Frida Room, an old bus is grinding its way up nearby Calle San Francisco. The sound of old buses grinding uphill on rocky streets, their passengers jostling side to side, is one essential aspect of local life here. 

 

With so much stimuli at hand, it's easy to see why artists, poets, and writers have made pilgrimages to San Miguel since the 1930s. Here, it's easy to forget the political protests and other problems assailing the world. But could you actually live here? Or would always being "the other" and never really accepted into the local culture be a deal killer? Even though we've been residents of the northern Mexican state of Sonora for eight years now, the answer remains elusive.

 

 

Another uphill trek (aren't they all?) sends us in search of a home owned by Albuquerque friends Dick Hopkins and Lucy Noyes. Their friend, Yoko, has the key and will meet us, but we're sure there's so much to see along the way that we allow an extra hour to explore our way there.

 

We finally arrive, and it's a gorgeous place, of course. They offered to let us stay there, but we're only in town for a week and didn't want to be a hassle. Afterward, Yoko offers us a ride but that would take out much of the fun of exploring the challenging and circuitous alleys leading back (downhill, at last!) to the Centro.

We look up Bill Pearlman, an old New Mexico contact and poet, to meet over drinks and pizza at La Azotea, a rooftop bar just off the plaza. And yes, there's another gorgeous view over the city.

I remember Pearlman from poetry readings at the University of New Mexico campus in the 1960s, when he used to be the local wild man of letters. But this time we mostly talked about people we all knew "back then," and not too much about life in San Miguel. He seems to have found his groove in San Miguel, where he's been living and writing prolifically for the past 11 years. You can find his current writings and a touching memoriam for his former wife, Meredith Rice, at: http://roughroadreview.com/blogs/blog1.php

 

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Generally speaking, the Gringo presence in San Miguel seems understated. But we're here in the Low Season, and that's why there are so many good rentals available – even though the weather is pretty much wonderful. We don't know what it's like when bitter northern winters send snowbirds south, but during the summer season, there's still so much to do here that the oft-used term Gringo Disneyland does not seem unjustified.

 

VIGNETTES:

 

Along Calle Jesus we find the three essential food groups – containing Vitamins A, B, & C. (Art, Books and Chocolate). There's also raucous laughter spilling from a corner saloon, complete with scruffy swinging doors. The sign reads, "Work Hours. We open when we get here. We close when we leave. If you arrive when we're not here, it's that we didn't coincide."

*****

The Biblioteca has an intensive program schedule of films (we attended two, including "Gringolandia"), various classes, a chess group, a lending library (said to be the largest English library in Latin America), and a fine café in a quiet courtyard garden. A musical event featuring Tierra Mexíca costs only 25 pesos each for an evening of music from every part of Latin America. They did a fine version of "Moliendo Café," from Venezuela, and they sang the most beautiful version of "La Llorona" I think I've ever heard. When they played Mexican music with five or six thundering guitars and a violin, it gave the evening a very special feeling. We couldn't find a recording of theirs, but here's a good one by Lila Downs: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dh427_hGDRs

And here's a good link for "Moliendo Cafe: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6qE6Bu7waZI

*** 

 

There are plenty of fine small coffee shops (other than Starbucks!) to enjoy some of the best flavor that Mexico can offer. Try La Ventana, or the Casa de Café for a bit of quiet with a sandwich or pastry, your newspaper, and your thoughts. 

***

Carolyn has time to pamper herself with a pedicure, her now-beautiful feet adding to the local artistry.

***

We walk the streets on an architectural tour with Jay Moskowitz as he dispenses his personal quirky take on the already-quirky architectural history of the place, and the money goes to charity. We pause beneath a bell tower, and the air is rent with the rolling crash of heavy bells. There are three other history tours per week to satisfy the demand. 

***

 

 

A day trip to Dolores Hidalgo by bus takes us to a fine museum of Mexican history showcasing the lavish Centennial events hosted by Porfirio Diaz, shortly before the Revolution that would oust him from the country. And don't forget the famous talavera tile and those ice cream stands around the plaza.

***

Back in San Miguel, the Chamber Music Festival begins while we happen to be in town. It's the second oldest such festival in the country (after Guanajuato's famous Cervantino). We enjoy an evening of very fine music from the internationally-acclaimed Pacifica String Quartet. It all seems so civilized here. And that's not all bad, especially when you live in a small village at the end of a long road where the cultural offerings are much simpler.

***

 

The nearby quiet gardens of El Charco de Engenio are only a brisk hike uphill to the old dam and nature preserve. The grounds are filled with representative plants of Mexico, and wild birds add their songs to the day. It's a fine getaway.

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Several friends gave us contact information for people they knew in San Miguel. Alas, most of them were gone during our brief visit, but with the help of our friend Julie Steinbach we made contact with Joe and Diane Stevens who invited us to visit them on a Sunday afternoon. We walked the now-familiar streets toward the Instituto Allende area, and a visit to their gracious garden-filled home. We're not normally afternoon drinkers, but we made an exception for a few excellent margaritas as we enjoyed the afternoon while birds visited their fountains and flowers. It was one of those 'fine living in Mexico' moments worthy of a better photographer than your humble scribe.

This particular home (designed by previous owners) had no grand views over the city, but used its cloistered location to ultimate advantage as the interior design seems to flow directly into the extensive gardens with their sound of trickling water and singing birds. It's the sort of place almost any designer would be proud to have as part of their portfolio. 

The cloistered quiet of this space is well-suited to a novelist like Diane and an avid student of the world (and juggler!) like Joe. We look forward to seeing them again some day, on some other convenient continent.

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So after a fine visit and wide-ranging conversation, we retire to a bistro near the Plaza for The Last Supper, of good wine and victuals beneath thick walls filled with Mexican handicrafts. The one above my head reads, "(Expletive Deleted), What a Car!"

 

We walk through the plaza (they actually call it the "Jardín") in the growing darkness to savor that one last moment in San Miguel, and the mariachis are playing a very good version of  "Son de la Negra," probably one of the most famous of all mariachi songs. It's a nice way to end the evening.  

And in the end, we have definitely come to clarity on the one essential question that's dominated our visit: Could we live in San Miguel? After our brief but intense stay we have firmly decided that the answer requires more rigorous research, and we'll plan to return at a later date. 

But for now we're off to our final destination on this particular peregrination – a return visit to the very large and cosmopolitan city of Guadalajara.

— PRW

SAN MIGUEL de ALLENDE

We took the second class bus from Querétaro to San Miguel and that's how we met Maggie. She's a US citizen (with an unpronounceable Polish last name. "Just call me Maggie!") who left the field of architecture during the building slump and now runs several dance studios in Queretaro where she trains dancers for TV and film. She was on her way to San Miguel for one of her weekly 'milongas' (an evening of tango practice). She invited us to join her after we found our apartment and got settled in. So far, it appeared that San Miguel de Allende was going to be a much different experience than the rest of our trip. And probably a lot different that I had remembered it.

 

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I had not been to San Miguel de Allende in 40 years. It was in the early 1970s – not long after they found Neal Cassady's body along a railroad track outside of town. A friend of Kerouac, Ginsberg, Kesey, and Burroughs, he had a large impact on the life of his times, and his death put San Miguel on the map as an essential pilgrimage shrine for devotees of the Beat Generation. I came to see what it was all about.

I arrived on an old school bus (with a squealing pig tied to the roof) over the desert mountains from Guanajuato – but that's another story (The Bus to San Miguel). I had a few bucks in my jeans and a little time on my hands, trying to escape the New Mexico winter cold. I only spent a couple of days in San Miguel, wandering the streets with hordes of other gringo tourists. I remember having a dinner of beef medallions and a beer one night at a thick-walled place with a roaring blaze in the corner fireplace to ward off the modest chill of a Mexican winter. There were mariachis playing in the distance. I was the only one in the room, so I lit up a small cigar and enjoyed a glass of cognac to savor the moment.

The next day, I sat on a bench in the plaza studying the odd (for Mexico) gothic towers of the church when a pair of gringos passed behind me speaking very loudly in a heavy New York accent. A few minutes later, I walked to the bus station and bought a ticket for, I don't remember where, but somewhere back into the heart of Mexico where I would likely be the only gringo in town. I somehow missed communing with the spirit of Cassady and the Beats, or whatever I was supposed to find there, and it's taken me a long time to return.

With a bit of age comes tolerance. I now understand the difficulty most people find adapting to a completely foreign culture without keeping a foot well planted in their own. And the extensive cultural and artistic offerings of San Miguel today are an understandable draw. This town has much to offer a curious mind, especially since the gringo presence seems much reduced by recent economic events in the US, and Mexican tourists are more in evidence.

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After settling in to the Frida Room, with her large portrait watching our every move,  there's time to wander before meeting up with Maggie. It's a Friday night, and of course there's plenty going on. Just wandering the streets around any Mexican plaza in the evening usually offers much to appreciate: the cacophony of color and sound, the presence of deep history, the aroma of food and spice.

 

We wander down winding stone streets toward the milonga and encounter a procession led by a mariachi band and two towering 'títeres.'

There's a very long line of cars waiting to get by, but nobody is honking. At a doorway, one of the títeres bends over quickly to frighten a small girl who squeals and giggles, and hides behind her mother. Heavy clouds overhead, and the growing sound of thunder remind us it's the rainy season and we'd better keep moving.

We get to the milonga just before the clouds release their heavy load amid the crashes of nearby lightning. Soon it's dark, as we sit among the soft glow of candles and enjoy the music.

Picture-taking becomes very difficult (without the washed-out look of flash), but we settle in for a quiet evening punctuated by the roar of the cloudburst just outside the doors. Later, after it passes, we'll wander back through dripping streets.

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We generally try to live like the locals. So how do we start our first full day, a Saturday, in San Miguel? With a hot cup of Starbucks, of course. Then it's off for an extended wander as we make our way (slowly, with many diversions) toward the Saturday Organic Market, to buy delectables for the apartment.

Zumba!

 

 

 

After a while, we hear a couple behind us huffing their way along and speaking English. As they fast-walk past us, swinging their arm weights, I said, "You two look pretty organic. Where's the Organic Market?" 

They said, "Just follow us." So Dr. Art and Ellen led the way.

Soon we're in the middle of a familiar scene from other Saturdays at open air markets. There are all kinds of delicious cheeses, breads, spices, fruits, vegetables, aloe potions, and people with dogs and shopping bags, along with a rasta drumming and flute group. It's easy to see why gringos are attracted here. 

We left with bags of goodies, and plenty of time to lose ourselves in the narrow alleyways leading to Parque Juarez, as we headed slowly back to the apartment for a quiet lunch and a nap.

 

No, we did NOT paint that happy face on the picture! 

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The late afternoon finds us watching a clown in the plaza on our way to dinner at a nearby Lebanese (!) restaurant named Fenicia. 

We weren't a bit concerned that Fenicia is right next to a mortuary. Judging from the posted signs, I'd guess we'd found the headquarters of the Lebanese Pride Movement. We ordered two delicious kebabs with red wine, and topped it off with a shared tall glass of arak, a kind of Lebanese 'white lightning' that left us groping for the door.

 

As we stumbled away in a white haze, we thought we even saw a guy carrying a huge bass fiddle over his shoulder.

After huffing uphill for several blocks, we regained enough composure to join a 'Tuna' for a nightly musical wander through the streets. Tunas are traditional musical groups dressed in medieval madrigal wear, and they specialize in 'callejoneando' (alleying) through narrow streets and byways with crowds of happy people in tow. Again, there are lines of patient (or just resigned) drivers waiting for us to pass as we stop frequently for songs and general merriment.

We end up back where we started, near the plaza, and wander off toward the apartment. It's been another full day.

— PRW

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Carolyn takes you to dinner at the Instituto Allende

Someone had mentioned that if we wanted a really stunning view of the San Miguel Arcángel we should visit the Instituto Allende; so when we read about an art opening there on Sunday afternoon, we decided to go, and follow it with dinner in the Instituto's restaurant.

The opening was in a tiny gallery off an inner courtyard, the walls of which were covered with large, startling paintings by one of Mexico's most noted muralists, David Siqueiros. The exhibit was an eclectic assortment of very good pieces by well known artists (including a large Calder), all belonging to a 97-year-old woman who has lived comfortably (even opulently, it is said) in San Miguel for many years but now is having to sell part of her substantial art collection to make ends meet. Another victim of the global economic crisis, most likely. We had a nice chat with the exhibit curator, a local, and a woman from New York who has been coming to San Miguel for forty years and knows the owner of the collection. They talked about the shifting patterns of tourism and it's impact on things. They seem delighted with the fact that Mexican tourism is up, even as fewer visitors come from the U.S. And Canada. The down side, they say, is that the Mexican tourists don't buy anything! Oops! Neither did we!

From the gallery, we wandered on through the large, old building with its courtyards, portals, and murals, to find the restaurant. And there it was — a spectacular view of the cathedral San Miguel Arcángel silhouetted against a deepening cerulean sky.

Tables lined one side of the large patio facing the framed view of the city, but the cool breeze sent us inside the dining room. We picked a table with a window view. It was a good choice!

We ordered a couple of margaritas (the best we've had so far on this trip) and watched the sky darken as the lights of the city came on. 

The salsa that came with the freshly made corn chips was dark and smokey smooth; and the pico de gallo had just the right touch of cilantro, and enough jalapeño to give it a little bite.

While waiting for our meal, we took in the atmosphere: a lovely, long, narrow room with what we judged to be about a 20-foot high brick ceiling with dark wooden beams. The furniture was a collection of colonial antiques, rugs on the tile floor under every table softened the sound, and a high wooden bar filled with bottles stood at one end. Everything was hand-painted in lovely muted colors, with a decorative band to separate the deep olive green below from the dusty gold above.

Old and very good paintings lined the walls, and everything was beautifully lit to create an intimacy belying the size of the room. It felt as if it could have been there forever, and I contrasted it in my mind with the feeling of the huge and über-contemporary house we had visited earlier in the day when we took the Sunday home tour. 

Dinner was a delicious salad of mixed greens with grapes and goat cheese and an entree of chicken fajitas with rice, beans, and guacamole. Sounds like standard fare, but far from average!  

 

We were alone in the room, except for the bartender and a couple of barefoot little girls in tiered cotton flower-children dresses who floated in and out to the patio where their mother was sitting. It gave the entire experience a soft and magical feeling. 

Perry asked our waiter, a handsome, gracious man, about the incessant fireworks: why, for how long, and who is responsible? "The church," he tells us (covering the first and last), and "all the time" wraps it up. That sets him to talking about ritual in Mexico, which leads to culture, pride, and that "el araizado" nature of the Mexican people — a deep rootedness that prevails in spite of outside influence, politics, economics, and, for instance, the flood of gringos that has been part of life in San Miguel for several decades!  

It explained so much, and you could feel what he meant in that gracious room; you could see it in his person — a permanence; an unshakable, timeless sense of self and place.  

It was good we sat inside, and fortunate we are to cross paths with such teachers! 

—CJK