The Postscript
Sometimes I think we should stay someplace fancier. All our friends do.
When my husband, Peter, and I are in Mexico, we stay at Casa de los Soles, a small group of apartment-style rooms owned by our gracious landlord, Jorge. We came here three years ago, when our lodging plans in another town fell through. It was high season, and we were very worried there would be nothing available.
But Jorge answered my frantic plea on a San Miguel de Allende Facebook page, and we were delighted with the small, clean apartment in the center of town, just outside the bustling artisan market.
And so we stayed. And every time we come, we meet more people from the US and Canada, and all of them stay in places that are, frankly, quite a bit nicer than our little apartment.
Sometimes I fantasize about having more space to write or a spiffier kitchen. My desk (where I am writing this) faces the window. The back of my chair is against the end of the couch. There is not more than an inch to spare.
Peter sits about 10 feet away (which is almost as far as a person can be from another person in this apartment). I have learned to write while he works on projects. (He is replacing the tips of his hiking poles right now. 'Bang! Bang! Bang!') He has grown accustomed to me sometimes talking to myself and sometimes talking to him and not being sure when -- or if -- he should pay attention.
The countertop is stained. The sink is not new. The backsplash is classic 1980s. There is nothing luxurious about our cozy apartment, and occasionally, when we visit our friends, I feel a little envious of their cute corner fireplace, or the shiny new countertop, or the extra bedroom they use as an office.
But we cannot bear the thought of moving to another place.
Because we have come to love this place. Jorge greets us at the door every day and, if he is not there, one of the other friendly employees does. The restaurant, which was opened after we started coming, is thriving, and the sound of laughing Mexican families and the smell of delicious food wafts up from the courtyard.
This week, there was yet another development. I heard violin music in the courtyard. And I knew -- before I even came downstairs -- this was no ordinary music.
Peter and I have been to a number of concerts by the local musician, David Mendoza. His blend of classical and contemporary music is played with such deep emotion and virtuosity that I feel transported every time I go to a concert, and this week, he was in our hotel on a Saturday morning -- playing.
Of course, I ran downstairs. Peter was gone on his hike. I brought my coffee cup and found a spot to sit and listen. The restaurant was packed with people. Some had come to hear David; most were just Mexican tourists who had shown up for a meal and had this lovely surprise.
'Oh! How wonderful!' I told Pepe, who works every day at the front desk.
'He is playing every weekend,' Pepe said.
'Every Saturday?' 'Every Saturday and Sunday!'
And it's true. He is playing on Saturday mornings and Sunday afternoons. He plays in front of a large open archway that faces the street, and crowds gather outside while the restaurant patrons listen inside.
'You know we can never leave this place,' I told Peter that night. 'It just keeps getting better!'
Peter sighed. 'I know.' Till next time, Carrie
