Miguel was driving us to San Miguel de Allende. Little did we know that we had been an hour late in meeting him, not knowing that in Mexico, on this year, Palm Sunday was also daylight savings. He never mentioned it, perhaps he was reluctant to embarrass us. In fact, we didn’t realized the time difference until late that evening in San Miguel de Allende, where every belltower clock was one hour ahead of our watches.
Between the two cities the land was sullen, bare and looked burned. Desert in all directions, skeletal trees, lop-sided cactus and at the crossroads between Celaya and San Miguel de Allende, a dusty burro at the intersection, motionless (maybe for hours, maybe for days), his nose pointing the way to the painted city.
Suddenly Miguel steered across the incoming lane, into a dusty shoulder and off road. “I’m going to take the new highway to San Miguel,” he stated. “It’s not open yet, but its OK. It’s more scenic.” Sure enough, a paved strip lay in the near distance, practically parallel to the old road, and he found it with his tires and accelerated. Soon, we were zipping past men with pick axes who were still working on the unfinished highway. The pavement petered out into dust just short of a riverbed, and the rest of the drive made little sense. A right here, back onto more pavement, a left, a sudden green field (which in this land seemed obscene), and then railroad tracks and a dusty, dirt lot. “Welcome to San Miguel de Allende,” Miguel said, and then he pointed out the old train depot, which looked more like a ghost town relic than a source of civic pride.
It couldn’t have been a more unimpressive entrance.
In instances such as this, there is always a “but.” Shortly thereafter, La Parroquia appeared, a pink crystal of Christiandom pointing into the sharp blue sky. A maroon-and-creme rotunda like a Faberge egg, a bell tower behind it, another, and color. Bright, garish color on every building and storefront. What was this place?
And it would take a good 24 hours to figure out just how remarkable San Miguel de Allende was. Despite the churches and the radioactive paint jobs, it seemed unassuming, limited in its depth and sleepy at first blush. Taxis and buses chugged down the narrow roads, stores were shuttered for the 4pm siesta and the street where our rented house stood smelled of an open sewer. Could I stand this city for 8 days and 7 nights? Phew. I didn’t know.
Turns out San Miguel was simply a slow-brewing tea, its flavor and character seeping into me in due time. On Tuesday morning, as we strolled the quiet city after breakfast, we came upon a woman in a courtyard selling roses, her neatly trimmed blossoms set in a trickling fountain to make them all the more appealing. She would appear four more times during the trip, twice at Cafe Parroquia, where she simply walked in, set her roses in their fountain and then sat off to the side waiting for a customer.
As I slowed down to San Miguel time, the details began to look remarkable. Papel picado strung across a radiant corridor, flapping in a light, hot breeze. A vermillion flycatcher perched outside our window. And then there were the Bugs; VW Bugs everywhere, playfully whizzing down the road, their engines repaired countless times in the last 40 years, their circular headlights like optimistic eyes hoping to make it a few decades more.
And so the routine was this: early morning walk to photograph the beautiful crisp desert light followed by breakfast; shop or find a cafe; lunch; return to house for 3 hours of sudoku by the fountain and maybe a nap; walk in the late afternoon heat and photograph till sundown; dinner. We were unhurried, satiated and, for once, completely relaxed, and that’s when San Miguel de Allende — which had once seemed unassuming, limited and unremarkable — became magical.
