I am looking, have been looking, for a warrior angel—San Miguel. It seems appropriate because we are in San Miguel and because I am married to a Miguel.  And because ever since I was a teenager and saw the Oppenheimer collection of antique religious carvings in the McNay Art Museum in San Antonio, I have wanted to possess, to own, to touch the wood of those carvings.  I think I want my own museum. But I’ll settle for a San Miguel—someday, it too will be old and worn. Maybe there is a way to rush the process.

The Hunt for a Warrior Angel

We stand in front of the locked door on Calle Jesús.  La Burger is closed again—but will open at 1 pm. We look for something to do for the next half hour.  The logically illogical choice is shopping. My suitcase is full. My house is full.  That never stopped me before.

An upscale art gallery is across the way; I am taken with a lovely portrait of a young Mexican girl. Michael asks the price and then tells me 5,000 pesos. I begin to think about my walls at home and think that for $319, I could find the room—somewhere. The painting is wonderful. The gallery owner overhears our conversation and corrects the misinformation. The painting is 15,000 pesos—still a bargain. We walk on, poking our nose in one door, then another, walking in, walking out.  This is a quick turnaround, Michael’s kind of shopping.

I am looking, have been looking, for a warrior angel—San Miguel. It just seems appropriate because we are in San Miguel and because I am married to a Miguel and because ever since I was a teenager and saw the Oppenheimer collection of antique religious carvings in the McNay Art Museum in San Antonio, I have wanted to possess, to own, to touch the wood of those carvings.  I think I want my own museum. But I’ll settle for a San Miguel. Someday, it too will be old and worn. Maybe there is a way to rush the process.

I want a warrior angel painted by the deft hands of the talented Mexican artisans, but I don’t want just any angel. It must be the right size, and it can’t be pretty—I want a fierce angel.  I know the pose I want—thundering wrath.  None of this willy-nilly standing still just thinking about things.

The Find

We wander down the streets, and I point out all of the angels that are wrong: plaster—won’t do; beautifully painted but the size of a small child with wings the span of the statue’s height;  too angelic; too gaudy.  Finally, we walk into a shop where I expect to find nothing and discover three natural wooden carvings of San Miguel—each one different—tucked away in a side room.  These angels aren’t painted, but they are fierce. They are warriors; they are the right size. The one I am taken with is vanquishing the devil beneath his heel—I’m not really excited about the devil, but equate the scene to the one where St. George slays the dragon. I can work with that.

Pleased with my decision, I pull out my credit card, quickly learning it is cash only.

“We’ll be back,” I say, walking out the door, headed to the bank only to realize my ATM card is at the casa in my drawer. Flexible souls that we are, we head to La Burger for a meal of the same name served with papas fritas and cervesa.

Lunch at La Burger

In many Mexican restaurants, they give you cucumber spears, jicama spears, and carrot sticks with chili and lime rather than salsa and chips. A good thing. The burger is giant and juicy, the papas fritas crisp and salty. The Negra Modelo, OK.  Michael orders a special brew from San Miguel. It seems everyone has microbreweries these days; I even remember one on Monhegan.

There is no way to finish this giant sandwich—Michael succeeds—too good not to eat.

A Detour to the Jardin

This being the last Sunday of our trip, before heading home to retrieve my ATM card, we make a short detour to the Jardin so Michael can purchase ice cream from the horse-drawn cart, which is only here on Sundays. He thinks this ice cream is wonderful—the best. I think it is not creamy enough, but the cajeta flavor is good.

“I’ll have a bite of yours,” I say.

“No, you won’t.  Why don’t I finish what you don’t eat?”

It is Sunday, a family day in Mexico, and the residents of San Miguel are out in droves. It is as busy here today as it is on any given Saturday night. Alive alive alive.  I love it.

We search for a bench in the shade.  So does everyone else; we stand, leaning against a pole eating homemade Mexican ice cream from a cup with a small wooden spoon.  We finally accept a sunny bench. Sated, too much, too heavy—we head for our casa and a nap before heading back to town, searching for an ATM.

Walking back to Centro sometime in the late afternoon to find a bank, I keep losing Michael.  He constantly stops to take photos.  The first bank does not like my card—it does not have a chip. The second bank likes me just fine.

I continue to lose Michael.

The Purchase

The shop owner thanks me for returning and loosely wraps my purchase, urging me to think about ordering a custom-made wrought iron fixture. The candelabra and chandeliers are beautiful.  How do you say, “I already have too much stuff”—in Spanish?  Walking through the shop door onto the cobbled street, dodging traffic as I go, holding tightly to my warrior angel, I can’t help but think — What am I going to do with you, San Miguel?

…I keep thinking.

If you love something—if there is a will—there is a way.