Michael turns and locks the old wooden door.  He tugs on the handle making sure the lock is secure. He looks at me and says, we are going THIS way, pointing to his right.

“Well…aren’t we trying to find La Frontera?”  I say this knowing that logically we should indeed be going THAT way. Opposite of where he is pointing. But he has a plan.

Walking east is a slow, uneven climb until we reach Parque Juarez—full of squealing Ninos, indulgent parents, and hopeful vendors.

In Search of Guadiana

We continue south on Aldama. De ja vu tells me we are heading to the Guadiana neighborhood and the first house we rented ten years ago.  We follow half-remembered steps, past huge Gringo homes on streets paved with half-buried, slippery smooth round stones.  Walking is difficult.  We turn left, and I see a high brick barrier and exclaim, “This is the right way. I remember that wall.”

We walk to the walled fence and turn right.  Too late, I recall doing this same thing—turning at the wall rather than the street before the wall— on one of my many commutes from Sam’s.  Back then, I backtracked.  Michael doesn’t back-track.  Ever.

Today we meander at will, passing a block-long schoolyard, following noses that lead us astray, down streets filled with shops and the busy business of a Saturday morning.  After many turns, we arrive at our long remembered destination.  The house has been painted—looks almost new.  We rented the top floor; a narrow—seemingly unstable— winding metal staircase led to the rooftop where we would sit and sip margaritas, eating cold boiled shrimp with spicy cocktail sauce, and listening to the discordant tunes of the school band (the school was our backyard neighbor)  as it practiced for what we were not sure.  Our rent 10 years ago was $900 a month—at one time, I guess I knew the art of frugality.

We return down the street leading to Guadiana and stop awhile at the neighborhood park to rest our ankles—and lungs.  Six thousand feet and walking uphill on uneven cobblestones would even challenge a 20-year-old. We feel justified.

Lunch and Shopping

Way past noon, we reach La Frontera only to find that they are closed due to a July 4^th celebration they planned for that evening—and there is no room at the inn—they are overbooked.

We head to Ten Ten Pie.  I order a single quesadilla. Michael a hamburger.  Because the hamburger is huge, we agree on cheese quesadillas and guacamole for dinner.

We need an onion—a tomato—or two.  We stop at an OXXO to buy salsa.  Stumbling on an organic market on Ancha San Antonio, we purchase our produce—paying for and then leaving the tomatoes on the table.  Our produce seller smiles and then laughs.  We laugh.

We return home for an afternoon nap.  I read.  I cook.

At seven, the food is eaten, the dishes are cleared, and we head to the Jardin.  We are greeted with an explosion of color and sound. Humanity swirls around us. You might think it is a July 4th celebration—but Gringos are few and far between.  They are having a closed celebration on the other side of town.  We search for an almost impossible to find empty bench, stopping to enjoy the show, the ebb and flow, the joy and strife—the ordinariness of life in San Miguel.  It is just a Saturday, after all.

Sitting here, I remember why I love this place—so alive—so joyful, and just a ten-minute walk from our casa, life awaits.

Addendum

The first day we were here, as I sat talking to the owner of our rented casa, she told me, “San Miguel has gotten very fancy!  There are at least four huge weddings every weekend.”

The second night in San Miguel, as we sat drinking our Margarita’s at Hecho in Mexico, a young couple sat next to us.  At their table were two more women, one younger and one older.  A computer was on the table, and everyone was deep in discussion.  Mike says, “They are planning a wedding.  You can tell, the pretty one with the big ring keeps saying, ‘I want this, and I want that.’ (all in Spanish).  Poor guy, he thinks he has a say so.  Little does he know.”

While watching the Saturday night spectacle, we were surprised to see the same young couple in wedding attire. We thought  Thursday was just the beginning of their plans; apparently, we were wrong—one of those very elegant, very fancy weddings was about to commence—the guests were dressed beyond the nines.

 May they live happily ever after!