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It has been a whirl wind trip.

We have indulged in excursions out of town to Santuario de Atotonilco and La Gruta hot springs. Poolside Piña Coladas and Micheladas and therapeutic waterfall sessions aplenty. We were only mildly put off by the razor we found tucked into the stone walls of the sweaty grotto.

A lazy effort was put into hitching a ride back into town and our thumbs were answered by a young man in a white pick up truck who was happy to drop us off at spot only a short jaunt from our place. I let Gabe take the front seat while our chauffeur picked out a song for our journey. The sound system was turned up to 11, the windows were rolled down, and Macklemore’s “Penis Song” ejaculated from the speakers.

Our afternoons in San Miguel are spent drinking tequila Caesars in the garden and enjoying the vista.

Meals keep getting better and better. Tapas and mezcal at La Mezcaleria, ceviche and pisco sours at La Parada, and breakfasts in secret gardens at Posada Corazón: our senses have been spoiled.

On another trip to our favourite local drinking establishment, La Sirena Gorda, we befriended the organizers and bands playing the San Miguel Sound Festival. We talk about how jealous my mother will be that we had drinks with Spank Rock. A cocaine-infused Mexican horseback rider delights us with tales of his Canadian ex-Novia. A man named Antoine with beautiful dreads shakes my hand for a very long time and compares my name to Heaven. We will catch glimpses of these characters around town and we will reunite with a few of them at the festival on Friday. We will also get t-shirts to remember our margaritas de tamarindo.

Gabe picks up some treats for friends in the market and then we drink tequila and beer while waiting for mama Sonja to join us for the festival. 

San Miguel Sound takes place in an old bull fighting ring, Plaza de Torres. The sand has been covered over and the hipster youth have emerged from the Mexican brick work. Beers bigger than my face are acquired and the dancing begins as Jenny and the Mexicats take the stage. This is the second country that we have been to to see Spank Rock and just missed his set. My mother finds this very funny.

Gabe didn’t steal the art we wanted so we strolled down to Limerick to find the unofficial after party. The tequila shot was a bad idea, so was the street food burger that not even the stray dog would eat. In fact, he squashed the fries out with his paw. 

I am sad to go, but I feel relaxed and rested and ready to take on the rest of whatever Canadian season this is.

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Sitting here trying to remember what we have done the past few days. Or, one day. When was the last day I wrote? What am I remembering? What am I forgetting?

This is what happens when travelling becomes living.

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Gabriel has arrived.

We’ve been on self-guided walking tours.

We’ve been mistaken for a wealthy Spanish couple who is classy enough to afford to stay at the Rosewood.

We’ve seen some great views

We’ve been inside a lot of churches.

We’ve not had nearly enough tamarind margaritas at our favourite drinking establishment La Sirena Gorda. But, we have seen a lot of fat mermaids. So, more margaritas soon.

We’ve eaten some damn good tacos.

We’ve driven into the desert and rode on the backs of horses along the precarious edges of canyons and the dried out bottoms of rivers.

We’ve helped make cheese.

We’ve eaten prickly pears.

We can have a siesta now, right?

I now know my way around town. This is possibly up there on the list of best feelings that you can ever experience as a human being. 

My mother’s Spanish has improved 10-fold. She has always had confidence speaking foreign languages no matter how little a hold she has on it. I think she is one of the few people who aren’t afraid to make a mistake.

The best part about interacting with the locals here is that if I make a mistake speaking Spanish, they politely correct me and continue speaking Spanish with me. It’s wonderfully encouraging and helpful in building up the tiny, minuscule, infinitesimal amount of Spanish I have to work with.

I went for breakfast in the square this morning, walked my mother to class, and then explored the fresh food market. I bought gorgeous mangoes off an old lady and mini bananas from a rotund gentleman. I explored the pescateria and sampled the multiple quesos. I stopped in at a corner store to pick up house supplies and cervezas. 

I was reminded of how terribly out of shape my cardio is on my walk home from the market. However a car of lovely young men expressed how beautiful I was just as I was about to collapse from exhaustion, toilet paper in hand, and their remarks provided me with the motivation to continue climbing up the last stretch of road to my casita which can easily be compared to climbing up Mount Everest.

I now sit upon the rooftop overlooking the garden. There is a delicate breeze and the sun gently warms my skin which has been starved of light and warmth for many months. I have been reading and writing while the gardener hydrates the plants and prunes back the dead bits. We are patiently awaiting the arrival of our next house guest.