My Beloved San Miguel

The first time I saw a photo of San Miguel was for a retreat event on Paul Selig’s website. ‘Oh, that’s cool, I thought, that place looks like a Mexican Disneyland!’  It wasn’t until I was trapped in dark, dreary and soulless Cleveland during COVID that I read On Mexican Time by Tony Cohan. Apart from spending an inordinate amount of time talking about the texture of tablecloths and ripeness of maracuyas (I’ll forgive him for being an earthy Capricorn), the author shares two anecdotes that I still reference anytime I’m asked what I’m doing here. 

After trying and failing to figure out the bell schedule of the pink-stone parroquia, Tony finds himself waking up in the middle of the night, weeping. Is this the pent up grief from living in the tire-fire haze of modern Los Angeles? he wonders, ‘Or is this town doing something to me?’

When he and his wife return to Los Angeles, they do their best to forget all about their bougainvillea drenched escape. But alas, they can’t put the genie back in the bottle and find themselves returning to San Miguel, this time with the no-longer-crazy idea of purchasing a home. They check in to their former hotel, excited to surprise the now familiar receptionist. But the fellow doesn't even bat an eyelash. He’s seen this boomerang story so many times that he’s come to expect it like sunshine. 

So, I won’t bore you with my own version of his story or the countless others I’ve heard here. It doesn’t matter if the former gray town is Vancouver or if the tears I wept were ones of joy, because the only way to understand the enduring appeal of this town is through the heart. I could tell you all about the healing power of the embedded rose quartz that San Miguel shares with Ubud, Bali or the heart-opening power of beauty that graces every corner of this town, but I can’t convince you to open your heart and I won’t bother to try. You'll have to come and see for yourself.

Seda UnlucayComment