a tumbleweed blows through san miguel de allende
During the early months of the pandemic I started a Google Doc titled “Places We’ll Go If We Can Ever Go Anywhere Again”. We were still in the toilet paper hoarding, Clorox package wipe-down phase of lockdown where the initial stay at home and quarantine guidelines had stretched far longer than anticipated and hopelessness was setting in. Around this time my Instagram algorithm must have surfaced photos of San Miguel De Allende into my feed and I became obsessed. Suddenly, I was combing real estate listings and daydreaming myself into the painterly streets from my condo in Oakland.
I penciled SMA in as my first nomading stop and prepared to be wooed by the city.
Cut to the morning after my first night in my adorable rental: I have 31 mosquito bites. My adorable rental does not have AC and the 10 day forecast is a a copy/paste of 95 degree F days. I am teary eyed, pulling out my laptop preparing to sit and work in the saunalike conditions for the next 8 hours, wielding a flyswatter to slay mosquitos just out of frame of my fellow Zoom particpants.
Determined to make the best of it, as soon as my meetings wrapped for the day, I walked the ten minutes into town and opted for a bar known to attract expats, which seemed like a safe bet to start making friends. I walked into Hank’s, scanned the bar for empty seats, and grabbed a stool next to a man in his 80’s wearing a panama hat. When he hears I have just arrived in town, he invites me to dinner. I pat myself on the back for getting plugged into some sort of social community within 48 hours of arrival and images from The Holiday dance in my head.
The Holiday - Kate Winslet and Eli Wallach as Iris Simpkins and Arthur Abbott
After I accept his invitation, because hey, why not, new life phase, BE OPEN BAILEY, he begins telling me about how his doctors have told him he has the vitals of a 40 year old man and I realize that he does not share my vision of us as two mismatched buddies. I pay my tab and head out, a little concerned that this man plans to pick me up in his Jeep the following night at 6pm but that’s a tomorrow problem. I have his number and can just cancel, right?
Wrong. I try and text the following afternoon to beg off and every message is kicked back to me by ATT. The number must be a landline. Here’s where I know I could call, but I do not want to. I consult my friends and we agree that I don’t owe this guy anything. That’s how I end up ghosting an octogenarian.
Karma is nearly instant. A few hours later I am roving the streets trying to find somewhere to grab a mezcalita and dinner that isn’t a complete and total ghost town. After circling a bar a few times with music blasting and lots of people in the window, I decide to go in. I order a drink and bartender is giving me a funny look. Shrugging it off, I find a seat and wait for my cocktail. From my vantage point, I realize everyone looks young. Really, really young. The hostess materializes at my side and leans in. “This is actually a private party for a graduation. The bartender thought you were one of the moms.” She laughs, not realizing that she has just absolutely roasted my ego as a newly minted 40 year old. “You can take your drink to this other room, ok?” I watch as they rope off the entrance, which SHOULD HAVE BEEN DONE ALL ALONG. Or perhaps a sign?
It was definitely more of a slow burn than love at first sight in San Miguel.
