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Shopping in San Miguel

A celebration of Independence Day

On a warm day in July in San Migeuel de Allende, as we come out of a shoppe on Insurgentes between the cross streets Reloj and Loreto, my mind wanders to an earlier time.

We’re on the sultry beach in Nîce, and come upon two couples whom seem familiar to us. It’s like running in to someone in Beverly Hills you just know is famous, but can’t come up with a name. Anyway, as we near the first couple, the first man mutters something about his existance and we can’t help but wonder why he would ask such a question on such a day...

He’s large, dark tan and sports a white trimmed beard. He lays on a towel beside a beautiful woman with jet black hair. She begins to rub lotion across his shoulders. He winces from the cold liquid on his skin in the hot sun. “That’s quite uncomfortable, Bret.”

She recaps the lotion and gives his back a slap. “You never could handle anything good, Papa.” She's the pale siren beneath the thatched roof of his copacetic cabana with whom he’s unable to cope. With a sudden leap he’s on his feet and dives into a shoreline of frozen daicquiris, surfing like Prufrock on steroids.

We move on to the second couple; a suave man is sitting up. He writes:

To Cecilia

When Vanity kissed Vanity

A hundred happy Junes ago,

He pondered over her breathlessly,

And that all time might ever know

He rhymed her over life and death,

For once, for all, for love, he said.

Her beauty scattered with his breathe

And with her lovers she was dead.

Ever his wit and not her eyes,

Ever his art and not her hair.

Who’d learn a trick in rhyme be wise

And pause before his sonnet there.

So all my words however true

Might sing you to a thousandth June

And no one ever know that you

Were beauty for an afternoon.--FSF

The man put down his pen and inspects what he has written and nods with approval. He puts down the paper. He too has a bottle of lotion and begins to dab its contents onto the woman’s back. She’s small and athletic. She leans into his touch and gives him a look as if to say, I love you madly, Scott.

He catches her glance. “I shall never think of you as reverie, Celee, but as the feminine part of myself—a fresh character for my new book.”

I come back to the present and realize we’ve walked for another block. In San Miguel, we walk everywhere, except when it rains hard, and then it’s the taxi. Twenty five pesos. Two dollars and fifty cents, and falling; the dollar went to nine pesos eighty in the month we were there. Some “expats” were frightened. “Why now?” we would ask, “it’s been coming for a long time, you know. They knew. They had either forgotten or had buried their heads in the sand.

Can’t tell you how many beggers we passed by and forgot that they lived, if you can call it that, and died there. San Miguel a city of opposites. Junkshops next to chic boutiqes. Crowds of Indians waiting for busses to Dolores on the Calzada de la Luz. And higher up on the hill, five million dollar homes. Opposites.

There’s a Corrida in San Miguel and in earlier days, they too, ran bulls down the streets, passed the Jardín, down Umaran, clomping their hooves on the stone pavers pastsed Mama Mia’s Restaurant-Bar, where for the benefit of licentious libation they would spike drinks for under aged girls, who came to the place for a taste of notoriety. Once there, they drank until their inhibitions dropped to the floor, at the feet of waiting men, who hoped to take their virtues. During one afternoon during a running, as the girls drank their way to the bar, a bull dropped dead in front of Mama Mia’s. For fear of bad omen, they dragged off the beast. Nevertheless, the running of the bulls was curtailed, despite the continuance of dubious drinks at Mama Mia’s to this day. There’s a clap of thunder and it begins to rain. We hail a cab.

--R. Hargis, July 4, 2008

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Shopping in San Miguel

A Celebration of Independence Day

On a warm July day in San Miguel de Allende, as we come out of a shop on Insurgentes between Reloj and Loreto, my mind wanders to an earlier time.

We were on the sultry beach in Nice and came upon two couples who seemed familiar to us; it was like running into someone in Beverly Hills that you just knew was famous but not coming up with the person’s name. As we neared the first couple, the man muttered something about his existence, and we wondered why he would ask such a question on such a day.

He was large and tan with a white, trimmed beard and lay on a towel beside a beautiful woman with jet-black hair. When she began to rub lotion across his shoulders, he winced from the cold liquid on his skin in the hot sun and said, “That’s quite uncomfortable, Bret.”

She re-capped the lotion and gave his back a slap. “You never could handle anything good, Papa.” She was the pale siren beneath the thatched roof of his copacetic cabana and he could not cope with her. With a sudden leap, he was on his feet and dove into a shoreline of frozen daiquiris that surfed like Prufrock on steroids.

We moved on to the second couple. The suave man was sitting up. He wrote:

To Cecilia

When Vanity kissed Vanity

A hundred happy Junes ago,

He pondered over her breathlessly,

And that all time might ever know

He rhymed her over life and death,

For once, for all, for love, he said.

Her beauty scattered with his breath

And with her lovers she was dead.

Ever his wit and not her eyes,

Ever his art and not her hair.

Who’d learn a trick in rhyme be wise

And pause before his sonnet there.

So all my words however true

Might sing you to a thousandth June

And no one ever know that you

Were beauty for an afternoon.

—FSF

The man put down his pen and inspected what he wrote. Nodding with approval, he put down the paper. He too had a bottle of lotion and began to dab its contents onto the small, athletic woman’s back. She leaned into his touch and gave him a look as if to say, I love you madly, Scott. He caught her glance and said, “I shall never think of you as reverie, Celee, but as the feminine part of myself—a fresh character for my new book.”

Coming back to the present, I realize we’ve walked another block. In San Miguel we walked everywhere, except when it rained hard, and then we traveled by taxi. Twenty-five pesos, or two dollars and fifty cents, and falling—the dollar went to nine pesos eighty in the month we were there and some expats were frightened. “Why now?” we asked them. “It’s been coming for a long time, you know.” They knew. They had either forgotten or had buried their heads in the sand.

I can’t tell you how many beggars we passed and forgot that they lived—if you can call it that—and died there. San Miguel is a city of opposites: junkshops next to chic boutiques, crowds of Indians waiting for busses to Dolores on the Calzada de la Luz, and five million dollar homes up the hill.

There’s a corrida in San Miguel and in earlier days they, too, ran bulls down the streets past the Jardin and down Umaran, the bull’s hooves clomping on the stone pavers past Mama Mia’s Restaurant-Bar where—for the benefit of licentious libation—men would spike drinks for the underage girls that came to the place for a taste of notoriety. Once there, the girls drank until their inhibitions dropped to the floor at the feet of waiting men who hoped to take their virtues.

One afternoon during a running, a bull dropped dead in front of Mama Mia’s. For fear of bad omen, the men dragged off the beast. Despite the continuance of dubious drinks at Mama Mia’ to this day, the running of the bulls was curtailed.

There’s a clap of thunder and it begins to rain. We hail a cab.

—R. Hargis, July 4, 2008