The Old Yorke Fish & Chips shop in Leaside seemed like an unlikely choice for our encounter. At some point in the conversation, our major decision was what type of fish do you want with your fish & chips? (A question that felt suspiciously like a Tie-Break scenario). I had been invited to join this somewhat “regular” group and it was a chance to hash out all of the old stories. But at our exalted age, the conversation often pivots sharply from grand slams to replaced hips and the brutal reality of which pension plan offers the best dental coverage.  That is if you could hear what anyone said with our bad hearing.

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.

As the third week unfolds, I find myself, much like at home, trying to understand,“What day is it?” It’s a normal occurrence for someone my age, but here, the beautiful weather is the real culprit. Since every day seems to follow the same script—cool, crisp mornings followed by bright, warm, postcard-perfect sunshine in the afternoon—time has truly lost all meaning. I suspect I might be living in some kind of highly enjoyable, sun-drenched "Groundhog Day."

 "Saludos desde San Miguel de Allende" – Greetings from San Miguel de Allende. I am currently on the fourth day of a month-long sojourn in Mexico.

Should you have read my previous blog post, you would be aware that I was preparing to depart for this retreat from the cold weather. I left the frigid conditions of Toronto several days ago, following a period of record-setting snowfall, making the timing quite opportune. The journey was extensive, comprising a flight of over five hours, followed by a car transfer of approximately three to four hours to my accommodation. I arrived while it was still daylight, and the driver facilitated a curbside drop-off.

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.

If 2025 taught me anything, it’s that a memorable meal doesn't always require white tablecloths (though sometimes they help). This year, my culinary map of Toronto was all over the place—literally and figuratively. I bounced from the 38th floor of The Well to hidden corners of Kensington Market, and from first-in-Canada burger drops to reliable neighborhood standbys.

I had fun playing with a rotation of partners, including: MD (pickleball princess, who since removed me off her speed dial), CM (taco belle, because she's a bit spicy), JC (younger version of Brad Pitt...LOL, he knows it, too), LE (can’t play on Fridays, which is inconveniently when all the good tournaments are), ED (we won the Provincials, but I should apologize to), PB (lefty, which is both a blessing and a curse), SJ (hit hard and harder, dink?  What's that?), CC (every ball is coming back, like a terrifying boomerang and JH (it’s not badminton out there.).  I would be remiss if I didn’t mention SA or SM (the same person - the Queen B of organizing) - tries to include the old man when she can.