Upon the moment this blog reaches your attention, I shall, no doubt, be comfortably ensconced within the frigid embrace of Toronto. As you may recall from my previous dispatch, a somewhat abrupt conclusion was rendered to my sojourn—approximately one week shy of the intended duration—owing to the unwelcome appearance of another physical affliction. While one endeavours to maintain a stoic disposition, one cannot help but petition the fates: might a modest respite from anatomical mishaps not be in order?

Nonetheless, the narrative is not one of unmitigated gloom. I did, after all, manage to effect an escape for a commendable twenty-two days. This period yielded numerous new acquaintances, an abundance of exquisite regional cuisine, and, for a fleeting time, the opportunity to partake in the venerable sport of pickleball. My final week, however, was largely dedicated to perambulating the town, dining in various local establishments, and observing my newfound colleagues engaging in spirited pickleball matches. By the third week, a subtle meteorological shift had occurred; the mornings, mercifully, shed the chill of the initial days, rendering the electric heater and supplemental blankets wholly redundant.

Each morning having completed my preparations, I would board the #6 bus and proceed to the public outdoor pickleball facility, there to witness the various tiers of play. The spectacle was, I must confess, a veritable torment—a constant reminder of my enforced spectator status—but a necessary means of occupying the vacant hours of the day.

A particular highlight was a spur-of-the-moment day excursion to the state of Michoacán, specifically to the Sanurario el Rosario. This three-and-a-half-hour drive transported us to the wintering grounds of the Monarch butterflies, those delicate emigrants from Eastern North America who congregate in the oyamel fir forests nestled within the central Mexican mountains, predominantly in Michoacán and the adjacent State of Mexico. They cluster by the millions within the Monarch Butterfly Biosphere Reserve, situated roughly 100 km northwest of Mexico City, to overwinter between November and March.

The drive itself afforded a magnificent vista of the countryside surrounding SMA. I received a prior caution that a certain amount of climbing would be required upon arrival—a trivial matter, I assumed. I was, in a word, mistaken. Upon disembarking from our vehicle, a walk/climb of approximately one hour commenced. Our day had begun at an altitude of 6,000 feet (San Miguel), and we ultimately ascended to a rarefied atmosphere of around 11,000 feet. Every one hundred metres of upward progress constituted a profound test of endurance. One would begin the ascent only to find oneself rapidly gasping for breath, necessitating a brief halt for recovery before recommencing the arduous climb. As we reached the summit, the sun shone with dazzling intensity, and millions upon millions of butterflies were in constant motion. It was, without reservation, a truly extraordinary spectacle.

The return journey proved equally engaging, with our driver and host regaling us with a plethora of fascinating, if somewhat unsettling, facts concerning Mexico. It would seem the state we had just traversed is, shall we say, a region of considerable Cartel activity.

Now, having returned to my domicile, I have been afforded the necessary time for measured contemplation of the journey, assessing both its undeniable merits and, where they manifested, its minor detractions.

On the Climate: What commentary is truly requisite? I submit that I have seldom encountered a locale so abundantly blessed with an unbroken expanse of blue sky, utterly devoid of cloud cover. Certain well-meaning individuals cautioned that one might need to provision oneself for three seasons—a pronouncement that holds a kernel of truth, depending, of course, upon the timing of one’s visit. In future considerations, I would be inclined to delay the trip by approximately two weeks, in the pursuit of a slightly more temperate climate.

Regarding the Abode: This venture represented my inaugural experience with an Airbnb rental, and on the whole, it proved more than adequate. Prior to my departure, I admit to harbouring a degree of apprehension, perhaps even mild trepidation. Where, precisely, is the flat situated? What is the mechanism for entry? Perish the thought, but what if I am unable to gain admittance? My preliminary correspondence with the host was, to put it mildly, a source of considerable vexation and misunderstanding. Simple inquiries and their corresponding responses seemed to generate more confusion than clarity, necessitating a cascade of follow-up questions. I now appreciate that the difficulty stemmed from a lack of mutual linguistic fluency; my queries were being translated into Spanish, and the ensuing replies, more often than not, possessed a distinct air of the nonsensical.

The location of the apartment was, fortunately, excellent, facilitating easy access to my various destinations. I consistently felt quite secure, even during the hours of darkness. The tribulations concerning the Internet connectivity were, as you know, chronicled in a previous post, and shall not be revisited here, lest I reopen old wounds. The dimensions of the apartment were perfectly ample, boasting two bedrooms, a combined living room/kitchen, and a single bathroom. The shower performed “passably.” The initiation of the hot water required a rather patient interlude, by which time one found oneself standing in a puddle of surprisingly chilly water approximately four inches deep, the drainage being, shall we say, lacklustre. Taken in sum, it served its purpose, yet for a subsequent visit, I would contemplate a slightly different locale featuring a greater array of supplementary amenities.

A Note on the Gastronomy: I could expound ad nauseam on this subject. I dined, I dare say, like royalty—or perhaps more accurately, a Mexican royal. We established a few favoured haunts within the San Antonio neighbourhood. Nothing remotely ostentatious, merely quality fare, typically procured for a princely sum of approximately $20 CDN. I do believe I reached my annual quota for enchiladas and tacos. A particular favourite was a street vendor who offered a variety of tacos for a mere $25 pesos, translating to a delightful $2.00 each. She maintained her post every day, save Sunday, and I ensured a pilgrimage on my penultimate day of residence.

The Demographics of San Miguel de Allende (SMA): It is not a sprawling metropolis, and after a few days of settling in, the navigation and orientation became relatively straightforward. The local populace is reportedly augmented by an estimated 10-15% of expatriates, placing the non-native population in the vicinity of 15,000 souls. One does observe a significant presence of gringos, and it is a known fact that many members of the local pickleball fraternity have established long-term residency in SMA. There is, undeniably, a noticeable contingent of individuals of an advanced age—and yes, I acknowledge my membership in that cohort.

I find myself pondering how many manage to traverse the town with ease, as the topography and infrastructure present certain challenges. The cobblestone thoroughfares and the lamentable scarcity of proper sidewalks render the place a veritable Eden for the orthopaedic surgeon. One must maintain a constant, vigilant watch on one's footing, lest one suffer the indignity of a sprained ankle or, worse, an involuntary, undignified descent onto one's posterior.

My final morning began at 6 am with me wondering if my ride would actually show up to haul me to the Mexico City airport—a four-hour journey. Four hours of being trapped in a metal box, delightful. Just me being my usual, worrywart self, convinced I'd be stranded in paradise. The driver did, thankfully, arrive early, proving my anxieties utterly unfounded (as usual). But, oh no, the adventure wasn't over! We immediately embarked on a scenic, and highly confusing, tour of SMA to pick up another couple. First, a quick detour south to pick up absolutely no one—perhaps they were invisible? Then, a strategic north-west pivot to finally pick up the actual passengers. Clearly, the GPS was running on "maximum confusion" mode. Oh well, it's all part of the local charm, right? The drive itself was fine, except for the last half hour, which stretched out into what felt like a geological epoch thanks to the truly insane Mexico City traffic. Checking in was a breeze, though, and because I'd wisely splurged my points on an upgrade, I sauntered into the Business Class Lounge. Ah, the good old days! Brought back fond (and slightly traumatizing) memories of working life.

It was a marathon from door to door. I finally collapsed through my own door at 10 pm, utterly wrecked. And who was waiting eagerly? The dog, of course, giving me the full "where have you been and why do you smell of foreign adventure?" side-eye. Oh, and yes... so was the boss. Nothing says "Welcome Home" like an immediate return to accountability.

Would I go back to San Miguel De Allende? Absolutely! A resounding yes, for sure—as long as my joints still work and my passport isn't expired. Let's aim for next year. Fingers crossed the boss lets me go!