Two On Tour

Our first two weeks in what must surely be a contender for Mexico’s most handsome town.

Thursday 14 May

No sign of the Chinese rabble at breakfast this morning. But then, I’m much earlier. We have a bus to catch.

Mexico City’s Norte bus station is vast — more airport terminal than bus station. Astonishingly, we locate our gate without getting hopelessly lost. This is a minor miracle.

Our ride through Mexico City’s endless sprawl takes us under two cable car systems. A bit of digging reveals they were built to connect residents living on hard-to-reach hillsides with their nearest subway station. Speeding past on a bus isn’t the best way to get a good shot, but one of the systems is just visible on the far left of this photo:

Beyond Mexico City, the scenery is mostly unremarkable: gentle hills, farmland, scrubland. I stare out the window listening to Pet Sounds, celebrating its 60^th birthday this week. We pull into San Miguel bus station mid-afternoon. It’s noticeably hotter than Mexico City and Puebla, although we’re still 1,900 metres above sea level. Altitude is clearly no guarantee against sweating like a mule.

Our Airbnb is a proper house, albeit a terraced one. The living room is a little gloomy, but being out of direct sunshine is probably a good thing given the afternoon heat. The roof terrace has a cover, but it’s too high to offer much shade. The narrow cobbled street looks quiet and sleepy, but someone nearby is wielding a surface grinder on what sounds like an obstinate piece of metal. Outside, two burly men are welding a frame to a small pickup truck. I can only hope it’s a small domestic job and not some gang-run workshop operating on an otherwise quiet residential street.

Apart from these initial reservations, we like it.

Friday 15 May

At dawn, San Miguel looks lovely from the roof terrace as I cradle a cup of tea. Long sleeves. It’s hot by day, but until the sun climbs over the hill behind me there’s a cheeky nip in the air.

Exploring will have to wait. Our first day is strictly functional. Before lunch, admin. This is accompanied by the two burly men now cheerfully welding panels to the frame they asembled yesterday. It’s hard to focus on online banking when it sounds like a shipyard out there.

After lunch, shopping. As in Puebla, we opt for an Uber to reach the nearest hypermarket, two miles away on the southern edge of town. We pile our trolley sky high until we’re sure we’ve bought enough to justify the taxi fare. I half expect the cashier to ask if we’re opening a restaurant.

Saturday 16 May

Unable to fit another tin of beans into the flat, it’s time to start making sense of San Miguel. After a few hours of pottering, first impressions are of an undeniably handsome, but — as expected — rather gentrified place. To be fair, we’re part of the problem. I’m initially shocked by the rental prices in the English-only listings plastered in an estate agent’s window. Then I do the math and realise we’re paying roughly the same for our Airbnb. Nothing like a bit of arithmetic to ruin righteous indignation.

By contrast, from the roof terrace, a far‑flung neighbourhood looks charming. On closer inspection via Google Street View, it turns out to be a scruffy half‑built suburb of brick and concrete boxes, unpaved roads, and wasteland. Not an area that lends itself to a casual stroll.

It’s hotter than Puebla, but shade is easy enough to find if we stick to the right side of the street. The central plaza is green and shady. A wedding is about to get underway in the striking neo-Gothic church, and the well-dressed guests put our t-shirts and trainers to shame as they gather to file in.

Restaurant prices around the centre are well beyond the reach of our modest budget. Neil and Sarah of 2GoRoam recommended a place further out called Bananas. With a name like that, we not expecting airs and graces — and that suits us fine. It’s a no-nonsense bar with a pool table, decent pub food, and happy hour. The only drawback is that we’re the only customers, which makes us feel like we’ve accidentally booked the entire venue. It finally begins to fill shortly before we leave as locals drift in to watch the Mexican Cup semi-final.

All in all, a mixed start. We like the size and feel of San Miguel, but compared to Puebla, we’re in a place where tourism leads the economy. Some parts of the historical centre feel more like a theme park than a regular city. Still, we’ll let it reveal itself day by day.

Sunday 17 May

Just a solitary late-afternoon stroll around the neighbourhood today. I want to take a closer look at the dozens of murals in the surrounding streets and locate the nearby arts centre that previous guests have flagged in their Airbnb reviews.

We’re in a lovely home in a lovely neighbourhood. We really need to make the most of our time here. After booking a two-week stay in Larnaca next January, I browse our upcoming accommodation in Bangkok, Hoi An, Saigon and Hua Hin. Each one looks strictly functional after the cut-above accommodation we’ve stretched our budget for in Costa Rica, Guatemala and Mexico.

Monday 18 May

An afternoon visit today to the nearby Artisan’s Market. Were we not travelling full-time and had we a home to return to, we’d no doubt buy a brightly painted souvenir to take back. Instead, we browse politely before retiring to a café. It’s lavender themed, and while I can take or leave a modest sprig of lavender in my espresso tonic, their lavender chocolate cake is delicious.

After dinner, a long-overdue catchup video chat with Jon Mackay in Hong Kong. Marie’s bras were drying on a rack behind him, so no screenshot on this occasion. 😂

Tuesday 19 May

Monday night is testing. I wake up hot in the early hours. The fan, which should be whirring loyally all night, has stopped. I turn it back on. A few minutes later, it stops again. I’m no electrician, but even I realise something’s up. This is confirmed when the night light outside the bedroom flickers, dies, then springs back to life. Either a poltergeist is having a lark tonight, or the electrics are in a parlous state.

The night light may return to life, but the floor fan doesn’t. It’s too hot to sleep without it, so I shuffle downstairs and make up a bed on the sofa. The electricity continues to flicker on and off, but at least the ceiling fan in the living room starts up again each time the power returns. Unfortunately, the doorbell also rings every time the electrics reset. For the rest of the night, I’m woken every few minutes by the doorbell cheerfully summoning me as if I were a Victorian butler on permanent call. At dawn, I drag myself from my makeshift bed, exhausted.

Our Airbnb hosts are straight onto it. An electrician arrives mid-morning. No matter how pleased I was with myself a few days ago chatting to Ray Charles’ doppelgänger, my Spanish doesn’t extend to explaining electrical faults. What’s the Spanish for, “I’ve checked the mains circuit board. Everything appears to be tickety-boo there”? I guess I could mime a short circuit by waving my arms and falling over, but instead we stumble by using a combination of my faltering Spanish and Google Translate.

It takes some time but Señor Sparky eventually discovers the contacts in the electric meter have burned out and show signs of shorting. He replaces them with the calm efficiency of a man who’s seen far worse. The fans whirr obediently, and the doorbell settles into a welcome stupor. We’re all good.

All this time, I busy myself with research for our trip to North Macedonia next year. Tidying my desktop yesterday, I unearthed a shortcut to a travel blog that I must have once thought promising. I’d forgotten it was there, but it turns out to be a gold mine of information on travelling in both North Macedonia and Albania. While Señor Sparky wrestles with the electric meter contacts, I calmly plot a route feeling faintly guilty that his day involves scorched wiring and mine involves deciding whether to spend three nights in Ohrid or four.

It’s already approaching four, so we limit our ambitions to stocking up on perishables. Our fridge isn’t going to stay fully stocked by itself. Photo snapped on the way home:

After dinner, a YouTube video by an American couple going by the name Grounded Life Travel gets me thinking perhaps it’s time to explore ways to link up with other couples living a similar lifestyle. When we started travelling, I assumed this would just magically happen. It hasn’t, of course, because behind every ‘magic’ trick there’s conscious thought and effort. In our first two-plus years, we had family, friends or contacts in Greece, Thailand, Malaysia, Turkey, New Zealand, Poland and Spain. We’ve been fortunate to know people all over the world, but it’s just us now. Apparently, meeting like‑minded couples requires more than simply waiting in cafés looking approachable. If we want to spend an evening chatting amicably with others leading a similar lifestyle to us, we need to get more proactive. It’s not a pressing issue, but something to keep in mind.

Elsewhere, Arsenal win the Premier League by default when Man City are held at Bournemouth, and Southampton are kicked out of the Championship playoffs after an unedifying spying scandal.

Wednesday 20 May

Just before we head out for the afternoon, we toss our umbrellas into our backpacks. This will turn out to be a wise move.

We spend a leisurely hour exploring nearby Fabrica la Aurora, a renovated textile mill that until the early 1990s was San Miguel’s biggest employer. Now it houses commercial galleries and design boutiques alongside a couple of cafés. There’s lots of very handsome, and very expensive, art on display — much by local artists. Thankfully, the staff aren’t pushy in the slightest, clearly used to scruffs like us wandering in without the faintest intention of buying. Old steam presses (made in Accrington) and other industrial equipment lie scattered around the space, along with old photos of the factory in its heyday.

No photos of the wares on offer — we don’t want to end up in some Spygate scandal of our own making — but here’s K at the old factory gate:

It’s clouded over and there’s a distant rumble of thunder. We’ve barely been out of the house for an hour, so we ignore the clear warning and opt to push on to a small park a few minutes further out of town. Even if we have to turn round and come straight back, at least we’ll know if the park is worth returning to. It’s pleasant enough, with views south across San Miguel — a forest of spires vaguely reminiscent of Oxford. Above the spires, the last scraps of blue sky still hang on. Around a small lake, teenagers idle in school uniforms similar to my old Harriet Costello kit.

The first spots of rain fall. We make a beeline for the park gate and start back towards town at a brisk clip. Alas, it’s not a pace that can save us. Halfway back, a thunderstorm of biblical enthusiasm engulfs the town. Umbrellas keep our heads dry, but the splash of rain on the cobbled streets soon soaks us up the waist. By the time we reach the house, we look like contestants in a wet‑trouser competition. Our street, meanwhile, is getting a makeover as a river.

The storm passes, the sun returns. Shortly before dusk, we head out to eat. The town looks lovely in the evening light, so we continue past the restaurant we’ve bookmarked to amble around the Jardin Allende and soak up the atmosphere.

Evening constitutional in the bag, we make our way back to our bookmarked restaurant for tonight, a handsome if rather quiet place called Gombos. There’s a wide choice of Mexican dishes for K, and an equally wide range of non-Mexican dishes for me. I settle on Hungarian-style paprika chicken. It’s decent enough, but most importantly, it’s not tortilla based. We’ll go back.

Thursday 21 May

Despite handing in my notice at PolyU over three years ago, I’m still occasionally asked to write a reference. Today, much of the morning is spent crafting one for a Visiting Lecturer who plans to study for a doctorate in Higher Education Management. Given his very little management experience, it takes some time to craft something that hits the right note.

After yesterday’s splashy adventure, we’re content today to wander into town to sip coffee and read. In the courtyard of the church on the Jardin Allende, a noisy procession is underway involving a lead group blasting on vuvuzelas — an instrument that manages to sound like a foghorn being strangled — and several dozen followers waving pink, white and blue balloons. Don’t ask me. We opt for a café on the square as far from the vuvuzela party as possible.

Leaving the Jardin Allende on our way home, the two Day of the Dead figures  — La Catrina and El Catrín, apparently — are ambling around once again. They appear to be a permanent presence, drifting about like municipal mascots. Again, don’t ask me.

It’s a week since we were in Mexico City to see Belle & Sebastian. A documentary about the making of If You’re Feeling Sinister appears on my YouTube feed — perfect after-dinner fare, and proof yet again that YouTube knows me better than I know myself.

Friday 22 May

More drilling from the nearby part-time metal workshop as we manage admin tasks. It’s only an occasional disturbance — most days are blissfully quiet — but when it starts up, it’s grating. A shame.

Once again, it’s late afternoon by the time we’re ready to leave the house. It’s cooler today, a good opportunity to climb to one of the several viewpoints that overlook San Miguel. We head for the obvious one first: El Mirador. The road leading to it may be charmingly cobbled, but the uphill traffic labours noisily. Result: the climb is less appealing than it looks in the photos we take looking down side streets towards the city centre.

El Mirador offers the requisite panoramic views. Like all good city viewpoints, it’s good for identifying where things lie in relation to each other. But for prettiness, it doesn’t match the views from the side streets on the way up. Still, below us the city is basking in those theatrical shafts of sunlight K likes to call ‘Jesus light’.

Higher still, a second viewpoint is partly obscured by trees and houses but adds to our step count. We’ve done enough for today and wander home.

Saturday 23 May

San Miguel de Allende’s History Museum keeps us out of trouble for an hour. It occupies a grand house facing the main plaza, the birthplace of Ignacio Allende. We bumble around until we’re better informed about who Señor Allende actually was  — a martyr of the War of Independence. Until now, I hadn’t realised the town had been sitting here patiently for two and a half centuries waiting for Señor Allende to finally pop up and complete its name.

We pause in the plaza for lavender ice-cream (K) and red wine sorbet (me), head home for a couple of hours, then venture out to another eating spot recommended by Neil and Sarah of 2GoRoam. El Manantial is small, dark, and busy. More than any place we’ve eaten in Mexico so far, it reminds us of Spanish tapas bars. We bag the last remaining seats and order tacos. Having spent weeks treating all tortilla-based food with deep suspicion, it’s a revelation to discover that tacos actually suit me perfectly fine. The trick, it turns out, is simply to choose a filling overpowering enough to obliterate the taste of the corn underneath. I go for smoked fish.

We pass back through the main plaza. It’s our third night out in San Miguel, but our first seeing the plaza after dark. Groups of mariachi buskers drift about and everyone dutifully snaps photos of each other in front of the prettily-lit church.

Sunday 24 May

I spend the afternoon updating our Trusted Housesitters profile and applying for a sit in Newark over New Year. Just having one sit under our belts really helps our profile: we now have a five-star review and photos of us looking after Percy in Macclesfield last year. I also dig out more pictures of us sitting Ashley’s cats in Bodrum two years ago, padding out the gallery until the platform refuses to accept any more evidence of our domestic reliability. It took a dozen applications to get our first sit. I’m confident we’ll pick one up with more ease this time. This one with a bit of luck.

It’s gone five by the time I’ve finished. A quick walk with no particular aim or destination in mind. It’s Sunday. It’s quiet. It’s peaceful.

Tonight, a catch-up with Mike in Taipei. Apparently, we were still in Morocco the last time we spoke — a long time ago. Mike’s full of enthusiasm for his YouTube series on the history of animation — I’ve been watching his videos; they’re good — but admits he’s going to need a baseline of guaranteed income now he’s no longer teaching at the university there. As yet, it’s unclear where this is going to come from, so the Robinsons are currently a two-kid, single-income family.

Having both left Hong Kong around the same time, we’ve developed a curious new sense of camaraderie. Our lives are on very different trajectories: Mike putting down roots in Taiwan while raising two kids, me constantly on the move and more financially independent. But dealing with the transition from full-time work is a shared oddity that puts us on a very different path from the rest of the old, and increasingly fragmented, Lamma gang.

Monday 25 May

We’re accepted for the first housesit we’ve applied for over New Year, in Newark-on-Trent. Well, that was easy. It was worth updating our profile. There’s presumably a deficit of supply over the holiday period; Wilma, whose house and cats we’ll be keeping an eye on, was probably relieved to simply accept the first application that landed in her inbox.

It’s a taking-care-of-business day. First up, a haircut for me, notable for the hairdresser turning the chair at ninety degrees to the mirror the moment I sit down. I assume this is a deliberate act of mercy to save me from twenty minutes of staring at my steadily ageing mug.

There’s a protracted fifty-minute walk to the hypermarket on the far edge of town. We’re darned if we’re going to shell out for a taxi in both directions this time. Besides which, we have a daily step target to hit.

After I’ve served up palatable baked salmon for dinner, we settle down to watch the final Match of the Day of the season. In Manchester, there are tearful goodbyes to Pep Guardiola, Bernardo Silva and John Stones. In Liverpool, a final farewell to Mo Salah and Andy Robertson. Andoni Iraola leaves Bournemouth and Oliver Glasner leaves Palace — two immensely likeable managers who have done wonders. I’ll miss them. Pep too.

Tuesday 26 May

Despite its setting in yet another handsome colonial courtyard that this part of Mexico seems to excel in, San Miguel’s cultural centre turns out to be underwhelming. There’s a mildly diverting collection of early twentieth-century political cartoons created by a local artist, who was inevitably arrested and subsequently died of tuberculosis in prison. And a very mildly diverting room with some sort of highbrow water installation that I’m naturally unable to fathom. The rest of the building is roped off. Ho hum. We stop nearby for an iced coffee and come home. A small day, but not without its charms.

A recent YouTube video about San Miguel leads me to a comprehensive listings website. A small cinema is showing some interesting low-key films later this week. Before bed, I post a question on the San Miguel Facebook group, in English, asking whether non-Spanish language films are subtitled or dubbed. Within five minutes I receive an abusive reply in Spanish telling me I should sodding well take Spanish classes since I’m living here. To be fair, it might have been more appropriate to post my question in Spanish. I assure ‘braveasparagus911’, in Spanish, that I am indeed learning the language.

I wake up to find there’s been a mini pile-on overnight — all in Spanish, of course. Someone has jumped to my defence pointing out that my question about subtitles/dubbing was perfectly reasonable and there was really no need to be so rude. This sparks a torrent of fury from braveasparagus, who accuses my Good Samaritan of pandering to foreigners and probably believing that Mexico would have no culture at all if the conquistadors hadn’t brought it from Spain. It makes no sense, but this is social media, after all. “F***king racist piece of s**t”, someone else chips in, targeting the brave stick of asparagus.

Further down the thread, away from the digital bloodshed, two kind ladies have quietly answered my question, in English. Films are subtitled, apparently. We’ll go.

Wednesday 27 May

We’ve reached that point during a month-long stay where we start repeating ourselves. Today we return to textile-factory-turned-cultural-centre La Aurora to continue ogling the countless galleries. A couple of owners strike up conversations with us in English, clearly used to extraneros wandering in to gawk at things they can’t afford. We’re strictly here to look, a fact that becomes hilariously clear when I spot a price tag that could comfortably fund our travels for the next six months. When we’ve exhausted the galleries, we park ourselves at the peaceful café and read a while.

Later we also return to bar/restaurant El Manantial. It’s midweek, but inside it’s as busy as it was on Saturday. Once again, we bag the last seats next to the door. The same friendly waiter appears to attend to us, clearly recognising us — one of the small, quiet pleasures of sticking around long enough to return to places.

Elsewhere, we’ve been navigating a logistical tangle between plans for a family Christmas involving both mum and Rose’s parents, and the housesit we’ve accepted from December 27. British trains don’t run on Boxing Day. Who knew? Mum generously comes to the rescue, offering to drive us up to Newark provided we congregate for Christmas somewhere roughly halfway between Newark and Fareham. She suggests Stratford-upon-Avon. It’s ideal. I start investigating accommodation options for seven adults.

Oh, and there was a heavy hailstorm at lunchtime. I didn’t take a photo, but I bagged the one below from the San Miguel Facebook group:

We still have two more weeks in San Miguel. But that’s another post.