Now that I’ve been to Mexico, I’m pretty sure it’s where colors were invented. Or if not, then the Mexicans have perfected the invention. It seemed during our trip as though colors were everywhere, so that it becomes almost impossible to describe the ubiquity and chromatic richness that wraps around you in Mexico. Visual aesthetics were so different from what I’m accustomed to, and so much better than the dreary white and pastel emptiness that taints life in American residences. During our bus ride north out of Mexico City, we saw houses painted in bright colors of turquoise, yellow, pink, and purple.
We arrived Saturday afternoon in San Miguel de Allende, a small to medium-sized town in a valley. Buildings in San Miguel seemed to be mostly painted in a kind of rusty red or deep yellow. We arrived without realizing it on a holiday weekend, for Independence Day, which is November 16, so the little town was packed with people eating ice cream and listening to mariachi bands. Even with the small square in front of the church full of people, San Miguel was a relief after the intensity of Mexico City.
It seems appropriate to me that San Miguel de Allende is a city of art, with art schools and filled with art galleries. I cannot speak for other Mexican towns, but San Miguel could surely inspire art, a colored town set in a valley and flowing up the adjacent hillside, with great views of the town below, with saffron and flame-colored houses everywhere, and with a tradition that includes bright-colored clothing (we saw dancers from a children’s parade for Independence Day), with contemporary practices such as the colorful decoration of skulls for the Day of the Dead, and with a long history that includes art (such as Atotonilco church nearby, declared a World Heritage site by UNESCO, and referred to as the Sistine Chapel of Mexico because of the painted ceiling).
San Miguel de Allende is about four and a half hours northwest of Mexico City by bus, set in a semi-arid landscape. Outside of town is El Charco del Ingenio Botanical Garden, centered around a small dammed lake. On the hillsides rising above the lake is a landscape of enormous cacti, a place that seemed as rich and alive as walking through a northern forest, but mostly made of fat succulents. The AirBnB apartment where we stayed had a balcony looking down on a tiny beautiful yard, and covering the patio were pots of succulents of such diversity and beauty that I thought This is simply a world I don’t know about.
Our main goal in San Miguel was to relax, to do nothing we didn’t feel moved to do. With six days in a small town, in spite of sometimes walking for several miles each day (which we don’t mind at all), we did relax, beginning our first evening with a concert from a jazz festival. Later we went to an art school where we were free to wander around, even watch the artists at work. We browsed through a gallery there, went into a weaving studio full of looms, and sat in the huge courtyard where an orange tree full of oranges had dropped fruit on the ground.
Of course we did things you might predict from where you’re sitting: we went to restaurants (and had Thanksgiving dinner there, which I started with another glass of mezcal), we browsed for hours past the stunning abundance of folk art and crafts hidden in small shops and down alleys full of colored cloth and flashing silver, and we sat in the pleasant square near the church eating cups of papaya or mango, watching people and an occasional street dog walk by. One of those people was the hat man, selling hats stacked on his head, with so many that the stack of hats above him was as tall as he was.
To some extent, the first view of San Miguel de Allende could be misleading, as it looks a bit like an old-fashioned little Mexican town, radiating its colors out to the universe, and with every narrow street in the center of town made of cobblestones. If you get a glimpse through the gates in those colored walls, however, you see that life is taking place in open courtyards that may be beautifully decorated, more than you could imagine in the little cobbled street. I came away with the feeling that so much of the wonder of San Miguel probably remained hidden.
Thanksgiving morning, we were woken at 6:00 a.m. by incredibly loud fireworks to celebrate St. Cecilia’s day. Afterward, I sat out on the patio outside our bedroom, drinking coffee and making some notes. Here is what I wrote: “A rooster is crowing somewhere here in the neighborhood, competing with the noise of cars and trucks on the highway up the hillside. A few minutes ago, a truck drove up our narrow cobbled street with loud music, playing so loud that it seemed to be intended as a public service. And now I’m hearing notes from a trumpet down the street. Beside me here on the balcony in a large clay pot is a huge jade plant, the largest I’ve ever seen, blooming with tiny white flowers. Beyond the balcony railing and rising above the high walls around the yard is a bergamot tree, heavy with round green fruit.”
I’m waiting for the time when I go back to Mexico.