Jan 25

Jan 25 I Think It's Time to Leave

I think it’s definitely time to get out of here. I mean it this time, I swear on all my winter boots. I’m looking out the window, and it’s a terrifying tableau of swirling snow, wind, and the dreaded "code orange" snowfall alert. According to today's reports, a staggering 65% of flights out of Toronto Airport have been cancelled. It's not just a snowstorm; it's another full-blown Snow Armageddon. Sigh… My life it seems is being held hostage by Mother Nature, who seems to have a wicked sense of humour and an overabundance of snowflakes.

Okay, deep breaths. Despite the wintry apocalypse outside, I'm actually leaving on a jet plane. Wasn’t that a hit song a number of decades ago? I’ve been accused of being a bit of a dreamer—a diagnosis I won't entirely dispute. I admit it, I’m the kind of person who sees a blizzard outside and starts composing an email to a real estate agent in the tropics. Okay - not really because already been there and done that years ago. I’m sure we all have certain triggers that make us think about ways to go somewhere different, somewhere warm. The real challenge, of course, is figuring out how to actually act upon that fleeting, sun-drenched fantasy without accidentally bankrupting us or worse - is there worse?

The last few winters, I’ve done extensive "research" (read: wistful gazing at travel blogs) on a number of places where I could escape for a month or so. And, to absolutely no one's surprise, I'm still here, meticulously scraping ice off my windshield. My arsenal of good rationalizations has always been robust: "Too expensive," "What the heck would I actually do for a month?" "Can I afford it?" etc. etc. I really shouldn’t complain, though, as we have managed to secure our minimum two-holiday quota per year, and we even already have one planned for the end of March.

My previous, failed attempts at escape involved looking at a couple of spots in Mexico. On the west coast, I became an armchair expert on a small, charming beach town called Bucerias by following several Facebook groups. On the east side, I was tracking Playa del Carmen. Both places seemed incredibly interesting, each with a neat list of pros and cons, but as I’ve already confessed, these plans dissolved faster than a free sample in a busy mall.

Then, about 6 months ago, I decided to give this whole "going south" thing another serious go. I reached out to a friend, Bob, whom I knew from casual pickleball (a sport that provides excellent cardio and even better networking). I knew he was going to a town in Mexico called San Miguel de Allende. We had a few conversations about the who, the what, and the where, and after watching countless YouTube videos—I’m pretty sure I could now give a guided tour of the local cobblestone streets—I felt that I had a good understanding of what I might be getting myself into. The final verdict was: I was going.

First of all, I knew this wasn't going to be the "typical" experience I was used to when visiting Mexico. This was not going to be an all-inclusive resort where the most demanding decision of the day is "Which poolside lounge chair has the best sun-to-shade ratio?" I had decided that I was going for a minimum of a month, and the month that made the most sense, both financially and spiritually, was February. February is often seen as the most depressing month of the year—it’s cold, it’s dark outside, and each day seems to drag on forever, much like a poorly written novel. I typically look at the winter rolling out in stages: October to December is a mixture of decent weather leading up to the Christmas holidays. January to the end of March is the tough one, the endurance phase. If you make it through that period, you know the worst is usually behind you. Plus, pricing tends to rise dramatically as you exit February because of the families looking to get away during the glorious chaos of March Break. So, February it is: the sweet spot of low costs and high emotional desperation.

The weather in San Miguel is wonderfully mild; it will be cool in the mornings, which is perfect for a strong cup of coffee and a moment of quiet reflection before the inevitable heat, with warmer temperatures coming by mid-day. It's a renowned cultural and artistic hub, famous for its stunning 16th-century colonial architecture and its vibrant, highly-walkable (and highly ankle-twisting, I suspect) cobblestone streets. The population is around 175,000 people, and it’s situated about 4 hours north of Mexico City. It’s sort of in the mountains, nestled at a rather respectable elevation of 6,200 feet. I'm hoping the altitude will make me look effortlessly trim, but I'm bracing for the reality of being perpetually slightly out of breath.

One of my most obvious challenges will be the language and my clear, almost spectacular inability towards speaking and understanding the native tongue. My Spanish is currently limited to "Dos cervezas, por favor" and pointing frantically. But, I’ve been reliably told that the large ex-pat population means that English is spoken, and failing that, the old standby of pointing, wildly gesturing, and using the universal language of "I don't know what I'm doing" will have to suffice. I have rented an Airbnb—a first for me—and from the pictures, it looks pretty good, though I've already prepared myself for the possibility that the wide-angle lens was doing some serious heavy lifting. According to Bob, the location is excellent. I'm still somewhat apprehensive about the trip for a number of reasons. It’s a month on my own—yeah, I’m a big baby, I guess. I do feel a slight, dramatic guilt about leaving the family at home to pick up the pieces in my absence, and I suspect the poor dog will have to put up with sub-par, pity-fueled doggy care from the remaining residents.

The other major concern is how the foot will hold up. The original, highly ambitious idea was to play pickleball (a lot), and according to Bob, there is an active, almost evangelical community for that. In fact, we’ve already entered a tournament together that begins just a few days after I get there. But there is a problem - a severe case of Plantar Fasciitis which of course I didn’t have prior to making all of these plans. Realistically, I think if I can manage 2-3 times a week, that will be the limit, and no doubt I will need to take a day off after playing to dedicate myself to some intense re-hab. My foot and I have a delicate relationship; it needs to promise to behave, and I need to promise not to push it past its reasonable limit of two competitive volleys.

I have done my reconnaissance, and I’ve researched the closest grocery stores, the best 10 restaurants nearby (because it's a priority), and, most critically, how I’m going to get the clothes cleaned—there are no laundry facilities at the rental, which I suspect is a conspiracy to force me to buy a new wardrobe. And yes, for the truly inevitable and dramatic scenarios, there is some health care available if needed. I’ve changed my Canadian coins into pesos, which makes me feel incredibly legitimate, and I’ve put a few club memberships on hold for the month.

The travel day itself will be a long one. The flight to Mexico City is just over 5 hours, which is just enough time to watch two movies and regret all my life choices. Then you have to arrange transportation to San Miguel de Allende (SMA)—a 4-hour journey which I’ve already diligently looked after. It’s going to be a full day of planes, automobiles, and hoping my luggage arrives.

The next time you hear from me, I will hopefully be raising a ridiculously large, salt-rimmed cocktail (a Margarita, naturally), basking in some desperately needed Vitamin D, and having successfully navigated a simple transaction in Spanish.

Till the next time, wish me luck (and strong ankles).