Lightning rips the sky, and the immediate crash of thunder blasts me out of my reverie—out of the bathroom, toothbrush tossed aside.  Under the covers.  I am like a child.  I want to hide.  Shrill alarms scream into the night.  I’m not sure I am prepared for storms at 6,000 feet.  Everything is too close.  Too-o-o-o-o close. Too immediate.  The rain goes on and on and on. I worry the courtyard will flood. I fear the pyramids —Cañada de la Virgen—might have to wait.

Breakfast at Petite Four Bakery

Sleeping fitfully, I wake at 7:00 a.m., stumbling out of the bedroom and cross the portico to the living room where Mike sits drinking coffee.  I join him for a quick thirty minutes before I begin to prepare for today’s adventure.  We are out of the house by 8:30, heading to the iron bull in front of Bella Artes, where we are scheduled to meet our guide, who will take us to Cañada de la Virgen.  Arriving twenty minutes early, we walk down the street to Petite Four Bakery, grabbing breakfast pastries and deep rich coffee to go. The waitress warms the milk before pouring it into my coffee.  She follows Michael out the door and hands him napkins. Who does this back home?

Cañada de la Virgen 

Back at the iron bull, we sit and sip and munch.  The almond croissant is divine. The coffee—rich. I am only half finished with my pastry when Albert Coffee arrives in his deep blue SUV.  Michael eases into the front passenger seat while two other female adventurers and I pile into the back; two additional cars follow us down the road. 

We are on our way to Cañada de la Virgen (cañada meaning small canyon—the Virgen part was a shape in a rock found in the canyon—now residing in a church in a small town somewhere in Mexico).  The site is approximately thirty minutes outside of San Miguel, located on an old hacienda of 18,000 acres, now owned by a German heiress of the Krupp family.  She owns the hacienda, not the ruins.  However, for two years, she owned the ruins, then there was a negotiation between her and the Mexican government.

I have a hat—I was told to wear a hat—purchased on the Jardin yesterday for 150 pesos, $9.50 US.  The instructions also said to wear comfortable shoes—we will be walking 3km (1.86 miles). After taking a break at the welcome center, we board a van run by the government that will take us to the beginning of the trail.

Uphill from Here

We begin our downhill descent.  This lasts all of four minutes. None of us knew that the 3km would be all uphill. The country is beautiful.  I envy the heiress. The path is rough.

Albert Coffee, one of the archaeologists who assisted in the excavations of the site Cañada de la Virgen, is a knowledgeable and entertaining guide.  He has given this tour to 7,000 people, but he does not sound like a recording. His recitation is fresh and informative.  The House of the Thirteen Heavens, the House of the Longest Night and the House of the Wind are three of the main structures. The site was occupied between 540 and 1050 A.D.

The Pyramid

We walk along the trails, following the arrows and listening to Albert.  Then we reach the largest structure and begin to climb.  Going up is not a huge problem.  We reach the top, and I am dismayed to find that we have only scaled the outside wall. I must descend very steep (it looks like it is straight down), very narrow steps to reach the interior court leading to another larger pyramid—the pyramid. Going down, I am not so sure about.

Every single woman hesitates. I am glad. I want company in my reluctance to descend. However, all the others take a deep breath, curse a bit, and start the treacherous descent.  I am the only one left standing and decide that I, too, must chance walking down these ultra-steep steps. Shedding all of the things that I think might hinder me—I begin. Then I look at Michael down below, a decision is made, and the words fall from my mouth, “I can’t do it.” 

I don’t trust my klutzy feet—and I’m scared.  Taking a seat and watching as the others scale the temple steps, I’m comfortable and happy.  I tell myself that I don’t feel abandoned.

I busy myself by taking pictures of my surroundings.

Michael records the descent from the temple.  I think I’m glad I was a coward.  Michael tells me later that I have no confidence in my abilities.  I think that sums it up nicely.

Lunch at the Ranch

All on the tour signed up for lunch at the ranch—a loose interpretation for where it actually is—not on a stereotypical ranch at all. However, the food is good, varied and plentiful, and served on china plates. Our hostesses are sweet, charming, and desire to please. I even eat the nopale and tomato salad—I guess I am getting over my fear of Mexican stomach bugs. Maybe I am just drinking enough tequila to combat any foreign intruder. Nine people were fed for less than $55. Amazing.  I feel we need to pay more.

Rain and Cocktails at Rosewood Hotel

Back home, Michael and I sit on a couch in the outdoor living area as the skies open for their 4 pm downpour.  The temperature plummets. The rain lasts forever. We huddle under a blanket trying to stay warm.  Feeling drips from above, the age-old (I thought solid) roof has sprung a tiny leak. Michael opens the umbrella to protect us.  I laugh, imagining the picture we must make. After the storm, the gardener Manuel comes down from the rooftop where he has taken shelter in a guest bedroom for the last hour-and-a-half. He and Michael have a nice long talk while I check out the San Miguel calendar for the rest of the week.

Not wanting to cook—mainly because I have nothing in the casa to cook—we head to the elegant new (to us) Rosewood Hotel and their rooftop tapas bar. It is absolutely lovely, the tapas good, the margarita perfect, and the views beyond spectacular.

Unable to say goodbye to the day, we head to the Jardin to see what happens on a Tuesday night.

La Llorona

It is just a mini version of Saturday night.

A single mariachi approaches Michael and asks if he would like to pay 150 pesos for a song—the mariachi contingent will consist of ten musicians.  Michael says no and then reconsiders.  He asks, “La Llorona?”

“Si, si, señor.”  He whistles for his fellow musicians to join him.  He whistles again. And again. And again.  Slowly his compadres appear, coming from all corners of the Jardin.  I count eight, but a song by eight people for less than $10—a bargain at twice the price.

We have started something. The couple next to us pays for two songs.  The couple across from us pays for at least ten—maybe 20—the man sings along, grinning from ear to ear.

The balloon vendor has sold all of his lightweight inflated rockets, perhaps giant crayons—they could be either.  They fly across the sky as I try to capture their ascent.  They are too fast.  I am too slow. Finally, it is beyond twilight, and we head down darkened streets toward mi casa.

Tonight the skies are silent.