Memories of San Miguel

A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.

Yesterday afternoon I swiveled my head so abruptly that I startled the people on the bench near me. Their eyes followed mine turning to look in the same direction.

I was seated on the tree-shaded zocalo in the center of San Miguel de Allende when I thought I caught a glimpse of you. The woman had your hair, your height, your attentive demeanor, your gentle posture. She was poking in and out of shops the way you used to do.

I wanted her to be you. I wanted you here to share San Miguel with me—talking, laughing. Getting lost with me. Finally, our feet flattened, too tired to talk, finding our way back to our hotel.

I wanted to tell you about the book I am reading. San Miguel has a couple of fun English-language bookstores. Good prices too. I loved hanging out in bookstores with you.

If I am truthful—and we never had secrets—I have trouble concentrating these days. I read a few paragraphs, maybe a page or two, and then my mind stops. I can let myself be quiet, but even the quiet is noisy without you.

I ached for you at the Museo La Esquina. The long climb from the zocalo hasn’t gotten any easier. Even now I remember us laughing because a museum exhibiting children’s toys as folk-art calls itself “the corner museum”—just because it is on a corner. The displays still brim with dolls, dollhouse furniture, embroidery, clay animals, masks, piggy banks, musical instruments, carousels, carved wooden toys, Ferris wheels, mechanical games, paper cutouts. The name has not changed, but it’s not the same without you. I doubt I will go back.

I wish I could think of the name of the place where I ordered lengua every night. You’d remember it, I know you would. As many times as I assured you about the mild, melt-in-your-mouth, beefy meat taste and texture, you refused even a small bite. So much for trusting your spouse.

Remember the rooftop view from our hotel? It’s not as pretty without you. The hotel’s simple stone and brick archways? The painted tileworks? The ceramic plates hanging on the patio wall? It’s all still here, but the colors are faded and dull without you.

Walking is when I want you the most. I miss the measured intimacy of strolling with you up and down hilly streets. Under the bleaching, blazing Mexican sun, we blistered our brains. Even when we were at different ends of a street, I knew you were there. And now you aren’t.

Remember how you fretted about spraining an ankle on the uneven sidewalks? Nothing has changed. The cobbled streets still look as if a child spilled their blocks everywhere.

Standing deep inside San Miguel, we imagined we could smell the surrounding countryside, the farms and farmhouses, grazing livestock, crops, fruit trees, irrigation ditches. Now I’m having trouble remembering your scent.

I know death is not a betrayal. I know you did not abandon me. I know that. I do.

I just wish you were around. You were the only traveler I ever wanted. The only one who ever cared enough to learn my truths.

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