Twice as I drifted off to sleep I was pulled back by the sound of thunder rolling across the Mexican countryside. Those kinds of false starts prime me for dreams rich in chaos and symbolism. It's all a jumble now, but I have after images of porcupines and a lot of running. Don't judge me. I awoke this morning to the sound of church bells. For some reason I think such dramatic sounds are a nice way to wrap my sleepy time.
My room is rather sprawling and I enjoyed getting ready this morning. Between the bedroom and bath, there's a narrow hallway lined on both sides by floor-to-ceiling linen curtains (windows behind one side, closets the other). Walking down the corridor, the curtains billow, letting in the morning sun and adding momentum to my actions. After an ample shower, and an ample breakfast, Grandma and I were off to the town square to catch a house and garden tour. Don't judge me.
San Miguel is littered with expatriates. The Instituto was founded to attract international artists to the city, and when it got accredited, veterans since Korea used the GI Bill to study here. Many stayed. The result is that the tourists and the locals are all about the same age and difficult to separate. At this stage in my life, I'm curious about their motivation to drop out, and what repercussions they've suffered. I tried various tricks to get honest answers, but they're tough to crack. Or they're genuinely happy.
The houses on the tour are pretty spectacular. Lining the narrow cobblestone streets, offset by only a foot or two of sidewalk, sheer stone walls hide the rich and verdant courtyards around which the homes are built. Heavy wooden doors serve as portals into another world. At first the impression is that the streets are uniform and ordinary, diversity added only by the bright pastels separating one property from the next. But after seeing a few of the treasures hidden behind a few of the walls, I'm left fantasizing about what's beyond the walls I did not cross. The ubiquity of their obscurity lets the imagination run wild.
With the cheap labor, these ancient haciendas have been renovated in complex and modern ways. Houses jump from room to room, and floor to floor: Escher-like. Grand trees dominate courtyards, passing through carefully placed holes in the walls, continuing on out the roof so as not to interrupt their destiny. It's difficult to imagine what inspired such grand design. The tourist trade is fierce and many houses are for rent or sale. It's possible I was on a real-estate junket specializing in the soft sell. Or maybe with little else to do, the locals spend their time crafting San Miguel into this paradise of stucco and iron?
After a tasty afternoon buffet where the margaritas flowed and the flan quivered, Grandma and I retired back to Casa Luna. The power of the siesta is strong. Who was I to resist? When I woke, I took up my new book out in the sun. Born Standing Up, Steve Martin's memoir centered on his stand up comedy career has been on my list for a while. I picked it up at the airport, forgetting I like to read novels centered in the regions I travel. But I'm glad I did. The book covers Martin's inner conflict at obtaining such success that it dominated his life and cast him to a world of routine. His escape was moving on to write, and star in multi-million dollar films. I think that's sound advice for us all.
Tomorrow I will move on to Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
My room is rather sprawling and I enjoyed getting ready this morning. Between the bedroom and bath, there's a narrow hallway lined on both sides by floor-to-ceiling linen curtains (windows behind one side, closets the other). Walking down the corridor, the curtains billow, letting in the morning sun and adding momentum to my actions. After an ample shower, and an ample breakfast, Grandma and I were off to the town square to catch a house and garden tour. Don't judge me.
San Miguel is littered with expatriates. The Instituto was founded to attract international artists to the city, and when it got accredited, veterans since Korea used the GI Bill to study here. Many stayed. The result is that the tourists and the locals are all about the same age and difficult to separate. At this stage in my life, I'm curious about their motivation to drop out, and what repercussions they've suffered. I tried various tricks to get honest answers, but they're tough to crack. Or they're genuinely happy.
The houses on the tour are pretty spectacular. Lining the narrow cobblestone streets, offset by only a foot or two of sidewalk, sheer stone walls hide the rich and verdant courtyards around which the homes are built. Heavy wooden doors serve as portals into another world. At first the impression is that the streets are uniform and ordinary, diversity added only by the bright pastels separating one property from the next. But after seeing a few of the treasures hidden behind a few of the walls, I'm left fantasizing about what's beyond the walls I did not cross. The ubiquity of their obscurity lets the imagination run wild.
With the cheap labor, these ancient haciendas have been renovated in complex and modern ways. Houses jump from room to room, and floor to floor: Escher-like. Grand trees dominate courtyards, passing through carefully placed holes in the walls, continuing on out the roof so as not to interrupt their destiny. It's difficult to imagine what inspired such grand design. The tourist trade is fierce and many houses are for rent or sale. It's possible I was on a real-estate junket specializing in the soft sell. Or maybe with little else to do, the locals spend their time crafting San Miguel into this paradise of stucco and iron?
After a tasty afternoon buffet where the margaritas flowed and the flan quivered, Grandma and I retired back to Casa Luna. The power of the siesta is strong. Who was I to resist? When I woke, I took up my new book out in the sun. Born Standing Up, Steve Martin's memoir centered on his stand up comedy career has been on my list for a while. I picked it up at the airport, forgetting I like to read novels centered in the regions I travel. But I'm glad I did. The book covers Martin's inner conflict at obtaining such success that it dominated his life and cast him to a world of routine. His escape was moving on to write, and star in multi-million dollar films. I think that's sound advice for us all.
Tomorrow I will move on to Gabriel Garcia Marquez.