Two On Tour

Weeks 3 and 4: Quieter. And wetter.

Thursday 28 May

We haven’t been to the cinema for years. We know Cine Bacco is small, so we arrive a good half hour early. We needn’t have worried: we’re the only punters. It reminds me of my brief career as an usher at The Aaben in Manchester back in my student days.

Like The Aaben, Cine Bacco really doesn’t need an usher. We buy our tickets from the young gentleman who combines the roles of ticket seller, refreshment provider, and projectionist — a role that here consists of simply clicking on a file he’s pirated from the internet.

We imagined ourselves chatting amicably with expat cine buff until the film began. Instead we pass the time scanning a projected desktop screen crammed with pirated film titles, searching for films we’ve seen, or at least heard of. It’s like rummaging through someone’s hard drive. In fact, that’s exactly what it is.

The film, My Father’s Shadow, follows two young brothers and their estranged father as they explore Lagos during the 1993 Nigerian election crisis. It’s a new production I’ve somehow added to my IMDB watchlist without the faintest idea when or why. It’s well worth seeing, but inevitably the bigger takeaway is the surreal experience of finding ourselves there at all, paying to watch a bootleg in a room designed for twelve people — and rather enjoying it.

Friday 29 May

A very low-key day. Our only plan is an afternoon coffee. Quite why the day feels so crammed, I have no idea. Admin always seems to expand to fill the time available.

In Portsmouth, our new tenants have moved in. The flat looks in good shape — which it certainly should, given the cost to renovate it.

And we finish a new BBC adaptation of Lord of the Flies. It’s flawed (too long, too psychedelic, irritating musical score), but it runs a magnificent final lap and my previous grumbles are forgiven. Piggy’s death and the final dénouement on the beach are genuinely moving, destined to stay with me a long time. The Beeb have even tagged on an hour-long documentary on the making of the series, which was filmed on Langkawi. The young actors are impressively articulate, clearly aware of why now might be an appropriate time to explore the fragile veneer of civilisation.

Saturday 30 May

A photographer I’ve been following on the San Miguel Facebook group —  improbably named Ian Gough — mentions a festival taking place in the neighbourhood of Valle del Maíz this weekend. We decide to check it out.

Getting there, we pass through San Miguel’s central plaza the Jardin Allende, where the town’s third annual book fair is taking place. Books aside, anyone hunting for a Virginia Woolf t-shirt is in for a nice surprise. Band t-shirts have been around forever, but who knew literary t-shirts were even a thing?

It’s a heck of a climb up to Valle del Maíz. We pause a while in a small park, then the real climb begins: multiple staircases leading relentlessly uphill. We’re in direct sunlight and K is clearly struggling, but the stairs eventually link up with a road for the gentle final stretch towards festival sounds in the distance.

We arrive on a patch of scrubland where the locals have formed a large circle. Inside, a mock battle between ‘Apaches’ and soldiers is underway, complete with fake bombs loud enough to convince us the Mexican army has joined in. A few theatrical grim reapers wander listlessly amid the melee. It all looks tremendous fun — even if much of the time few combatants seem to know what they’re supposed to be doing.

I sidle up to a pale-skinned gent in his sixties who I’ve seen taking photos. He’s the only obviously non-Mexican present. I ask if he knows exactly what battle is being re-enacted, but he admits that despite being told many times, he doesn’t. I ask if he happens to be Ian Gough. He is. I tell him how much I enjoyed his photos of this week’s storm on the Facebook group, and we fall into conversation as the mock battle continues to rage around us. He’s British and has been in San Miguel for five years after spending most of his adult life in the US. He does long-term housesits for absent expats and hasn’t needed to pay rent for the past four years. A nice gig.

“You must come back tomorrow morning for the main parade”, Ian insists. We make sure we know where this will take place, but I’m sceptical we’ll trudge all the way up here two days in a row. We’ve been travelling long enough to know we can’t do everything.

We take our leave from Ian, wander around the last stretch of the circle, and head back down to town. Back in the Parque El Chorro, a chattering colony of storks is settling for the evening in the treetops, merrily shitting on everything below.

It’s Saturday evening, yet our first two choices of restaurant are inexplicably closed. We eventually settle on an Italian place with a roof terrace. It isn’t cheap, but we’ve walked far enough today and we’re hungry. We’ve no sooner settled down than another parade passes in the street below. ‘New Frame’ reads their banner. I have no idea what that means, but they’re a lively lot.

Back in the house, we watch the three episodes to date of the new viral sensation, the entirely AI-generated Chloe vs History, plus a short documentary about how it’s all done by an unassuming bald, bespectacled bloke in Gloucestershire. In recent days, I’ve seen people I respect swearing they hate, hate, hate AI history videos — but then they saw Chloe vs History. It really is remarkable. And it’s only going to get more realistic and convincing from here.

Sunday 31 May

We don’t return to Valle del Maíz for the parade. Instead, a quiet recharge. There’s a rare video call with Ian and Rose to discuss Christmas arrangements — Ian apologising for the racket from Arsenal’s nearby victory parade.

I slip out late afternoon for another random Sunday walk — a broad loop north of our neighbourhood, returning past a grid of dusty football pitches.

We haven’t watched many films recently, and even fewer Mexican ones. After dinner, I dig out 2000’s sprawling Amores Perros from my hard drive and we settle in. I’ve seen it at least twice before, but not since I’ve known K — which is to say not for some time. In these days of ubiquitous high-quality video, the old VCD print is occasionally exasperating, but the film remains mesmerising. Quite why I forget it every time, I have no idea.

Monday 1 June

It’s June, and while I’m content here in Mexico, there’s a creeping sense of limbo, as if I’m waiting to return to more familiar parts of the world. That day now arrives next month. A mental corner turned.

That sense of treading water is forefront today, the day before we depart on an overnight trip to Mexico City for the Pulp gig. When we arrive back on Wednesday, I expect to feel us moving into the final stage of our Mexico travels. I’m neither bored nor burned out. I just feel far from everything familiar. It’s beginning to itch.

Our Airbnb is due a thorough clean, so after lunch we make ourselves scarce. We kill three hours wandering the town, grabbing groceries, and lingering over an iced coffee with our books while Mr Blue Sky plays on the cafe speakers. All perfectly enjoyable.

I put in my once-a-week shift on culinary duties and we settle down to watch Mackenzie Crook’s latest creation, Small Prophets. I’ve read it’s a sort of supernatural Detectorists. It’s good to see an English summer on TV.

Tuesday 2 June

The bus to Mexico City is almost empty. I sling my backpack onto the opposite seat, open up the leg rest, and alternate between watching the countryside glide by and good old-fashioned dozing. The Housemartins’ London 0 Hull 4 turns forty this month. I listen for the first time in decades. Fond memories, and some nifty tunes.

In Mexico City, we pause for lunch in the bus station — Comida China is a welcome ‘dis-dis-rice’ chain — then grab a taxi ticket and head out to battle the capital’s traffic. Our hotel is a distant 18km away, almost entirely on Mexico City’s version of the North Circular. Glamorous it’s not.

Our hotel room is funky and spacious. K remarks the lighting looks like a love hotel. It sort of does. I head straight back out to locate tonight’s venue, a two-minute walk. It’s only four but the t-shirt sellers are already laying out their wares.

Before the gig, we eat in the small hotel restaurant. The moment we sit down, the video for Common People kicks in on the restaurant TV and a wave of approval ripples through the room. Our fellow diners are clearly here to see Pulp too. The hotel, almost opposite the venue if you ignore the vast intersection that feels like a moat, clearly knows its customers: by the time we leave we’re also reaquainted with the videos for Babies and Disco 2000.

The Palacio de los Deportes, affectionately known as La Piña, is Mexico City’s O2 — if the O2 faintly resembled a pineapple. It’s already filling fast as we take our seats near the top of the auditorium. When Pulp take the stage at 8.15, it’s near-as-darn-it full.

They lead off with Sorted for E’s and Whizz and Disco 2000. Disco 2000 is a magnificent celebration as thousands of voices cry out, “What are you doing Sunday, baby?/ Would you like to come and meet me maybe? / You can even bring your baby”, followed by some impressive yelping as if our lives depend on it.

Act 1 focuses heavily on the imperial years: Razzmatazz. Feeling Called Love. Pink Glove. Underwear brings the house down. But even Jarvis is unable to maintain such a crackle of intensity. Sure enough, the spell breaks as the first half winds down with non-essentials Farmers Market and This is Hardcore, before the energy partly revives for a stirring Sunrise.

Act 2 has many highlights, but occasionally drifts as Jarvis tries perhaps too hard to cover every corner of Pulp’s career. During the interval, we ‘vote’ by hollering at the top of our lungs on a choice between obscurity Seconds and late classic Bad Cover Version. Bad Cover Version wins easily. There’s a magnificent Do You Remember the First Time? Babies and Common People turn the entire venue into one vast plasma ball of energy, and then we’re gently let down with A Sunset — a nice touch of symmetry.

We spill out shortly after eleven. I was concerned the walk back to our hotel late at night in an anonymous suburb of Mexico City would be unsettling. I needn’t have been. While most head in the opposite direction towards the subway, hundreds walk in our direction. We’re entirely safe. We grab Nutella gorditas from a street vendor and stand eating them, backs against the hotel wall, watching knots of fellow punters arriving back from the gig.

The lady sharing the lift with us is wearing a Pulp t-shirt. “Did you enjoy it?” I ask. “I loved it. Every moment”, she beams. I nod approvingly and wish her goodnight as we step out and head to our rooms.

Dear old Blighty might be loitering near the relegation zone of the Premier League of nations, but it still punches above its weight in soft power. Tonight’s audience knew more songs, and more words to those songs, than I did. I love them for that.

Wednesday 3 June

We’re back in San Miguel de Allende. It feels a little strange returning. Naxos aside, where we returned to a different property in a different neighbourhood, we haven’t yet returned to anywhere we’ve previously left. It takes a few hours to adjust to the rhythm.

We finish the first — and so far only — season of Mackenzie Crook’s Small Prophets. Delightful in so many ways.

Thursday 4 June

In Hong Kong: the usual arrests for the slighest attempts to dignify the victims of 6/4.

In San Miguel: a full day of work. There’s going to be more of these directly ahead. I slip out solely to stretch my legs: a brisk walk to the small park on the edge of town. Brisk both because I’m walking alone, and because rain is threatening. This time I get back before the downpour, which lasts all evening. The rainy season has arrived quite suddenly, with wet days and cooler tempetaures forecast for the next week.

Friday 5 June

Another work day.

After clocking off, there’s another long walk to San Miguel’s far-flung hypermarket. We come out laden with groceries, but the 4G signal has dropped out. An approaching storm may explain why — the afternoon has gone dark as a dungeon. We’re left with 3G — too weak to call an Uber. It’s not just us: another English-speaking shopper is having the same problem. We start walking. The sky looks ominous and the 4G signal fails to return as we trudge back across town. It looks touch-and-go, but we make it home dry. We must have raked up 10,000 steps on that marathon grocery run, mostly in pursuit of cheap wine and salmon nuggets.

I head up to the roof to enjoy the late afternoon cool before the rain starts, but it never does. Eventually, it’s not a downpour but an unusually chill evening wind that chases me back inside.

More compulsive viewing tonight: Mr Nobody Against Putin, in which a Russian teacher secretly documents his small-town school’s transformation into a war recruitment centre during the invasion of Ukraine. The blatant propaganda and sense of being monitored have echoes of post-2020 Hong Kong. But this documentary shows just how far things can go. Depressing but essential viewing.  

Saturday 6 June

Another work day. That’s OK because outside the weather starts gloomy and steadily deteriorates as the day wears on.

I wake to find over a dozen cicadas in their death throes outside the bedroom door. At least I assume they’re cicadas. They’re nothing like the jumbo jet cicadas we get in Hong Kong. These are more like small charter-flight versions. But their behaviour — crash landing and dying — and the time of year suggests they must be. 

By the time we want to go out to eat, it’s hammering down. Umbrellas keep the worst off, but a swift-flowing river stands between us and the restaurant as rainwater cascades down the narrow, cobbled street. I resign myself to soggy feet and wade across while K walks further up the street looking for the optimal fording spot. She comes off better than me.

Inside, we have one of worst pizzas we’ve ever been served: oily, soggy, and loaded with so many ingredients that it’s a wonder the base doesn’t simply collapse. Still, the side serving of garlic mushrooms is delicious. We talk about past World Cups, me struggling to recall much after 1998: with difficulty, I can just about recall who won each tournament, but I can’t name who they beat. And yet I can easily recall both teams in the three finals that I missed all or part of between 1982 and 1990. Go figure.

It’s still raining when we leave. Our feet are already soaked so we just go with the flow. Literally.

Back home, on Netflix we line up another classic Mexican film, Roma. This was never going to work: I’ve had three bottles of beer and a pizza. Roma is a slow, meditative film with no obvious narrative arc. Sure enough, I soon start nodding off. At least I’ve seen it before.

“This movie is great if you like, nay, love camera panning”, begins one cheeky IMDB review. “Oh, there’s also a story in there somewhere about a middle-class family in 1970s Mexico, marital problems, and an indigenous live-in household help. But I truly don’t think any of that is really relevant to the movie — at least not as much as the panning.” Brilliant.

Sunday 7 June

Still busy with work. Still rather grim outside.

It’s Mum’s birthday, but I forget to take a screenshot while we’re chatting to mark the occasion. A shame.

I make it only as far as the local Oxxo to stock up on zero-alcohol beer.

With thick cloud cover, I’m able to disappear to the roof terrace earlier than usual to study Spanish. It spits with rain on and off, but the roof provides enough shelter. Once again, it’s the chill, not the rain, that sends me back indoors soon after sunset.

And I learn that Sally Hirst sadly passed away on February 26 after suffering with motor neuron disease since 2020. She would have been just 63. Truly awful. Here she is in happier times in 1992, with Ceran:

Monday 8 June

Still busy with work. Outside stays overwhelmingly grim and wet.

Since arriving back from Mexico City last week, we’ve only left the neighbourhood once — in the rain for Saturday night’s meal. So late afternoon we return to the ‘lavender’ café for lavender espresso tonics and lavender chocolate cake. K’s developed an infection on the inside of her lip — she suspects an unclean restaurant napkin. Her lips are swollen and she has a faint air of cosmetic surgery about her, something she enjoys playing up:

We drop into a pharmacy and buy antiseptic mouth gel. At the time of writing, the following morning, she reports she’s on the mend.

Less than 72 hours to the World Cup. In the evening, we settle down to watch Mexican film Mexico 86 — an ostensibly comic retelling of how Mexico took over the 1986 World Cup when Colombia dropped out. ‘Ostensibly’ because the comedy relies on finding corruption, bribery, underhand tactics, and political collusion funny. I don’t want to be prudish, but it’s an odd way to celebrate Mexico’s achievements in staging one of the best World Cups ever.

Tuesday 9 June

And still busy with work. Almost there now.

We’re into our two final days in San Miguel de Allende. Since arriving back from Mexico City last week, our engagement with the town has been minimal — Work. Poor weather. A sense of having seen the sights.

We briefly break out of that lethargy today to visit a covered market in a part of town we haven’t drifted into until now. It’s gradually winding down for the day and there’s a relaxed, friendly vibe. I come away with dried cranberries for my monkey mix.

We’ll be out tomorrow night. Tonight, my last chance to enjoy early evening on the roof terrace is thwarted by a strong wind driving specks of rain under the cover into my face. I retreat downstairs. I still have two more sunrises to enjoy up there.

K’s lip is much the same. She doesn’t complain. She just uses the opportunity to comically pout for photos:

New series this evening: The Boroughs — an adventure–comedy–drama–fantasy–horror–mystery–sci-fi set in a retirement community in the New Mexico desert. Given that we’re already living in what’s effectively an American retirement community here in San Miguel, it could hardly be more apt. It comes recommended by The Economist in a best of the year-to-date list. What could go wrong?

Wednesday 10 June

Work complete. Weather fine. We can enjoy our last day in San Miguel.

It’s pretty simple: first coffee (in my case, a cheeky coffee smoothie) at the La Aurora cafe. K’s lip is still swollen, but the ice helps:

Then, a final trek up to the El Mirador viewpoint for late afternoon views across the town, and finally gently down to El Manantial for drinks and dinner. The friendly waiter is as chirpy and welcoming as our two previous visits; the sourpuss waitress is equally as dour and unwelcoming.

We push open the Wild West swing doors and emerge into the twilight cobbled streets to walk home one last time.

Lovely as San Miguel is, we agree we wouldn’t want to live here. It’s too far from everyone and everything we know, we’d miss having a river or the sea, and the retiree North American expat community, charming as they no doubt are, feel too far removed in life experience from our own.

One more destination in this part of the world. A month from today, we’ll be in Ottawa. It still feels a long way ahead.