Posted in Travel, Travel Writing

Behind the Gates of San Miguel (part #4)

We rallied the next morning (Wednesday, our third and last day there) over breakfast and agreed to set off to the gallery recommended by Muriel. We trekked the short distance, taking ourfoot prints20150218_120138 time and stopping at intriguing little shops as we slowly made our way to the Fabrica la Aurora Gallery. An old manufacturing plant housed the galleries of contemporary furniture, glass, metal art, and mixed media art; along with the traditional arts of Mexico, like painting, weaving, and doll making.

Just as Muriel had suggested that we see all we could, we wandered around, got separated, ran into each other and headed off in different directions again. Tilly and I sauntered into one gallery together, rounded a corner and came face to face with a stampeding white stallion forging toward us.

We stopped stone-still, held our breaths, stared straight into the eyes of the charging stallion, and then looked at each other. Tilly exhaled, “Wow! If I took home a piece of art that would be it.”

I said, “Me, too. I can almost feel its breath on us.”

Horse Painting Edited IMG_0368

We stood our ground against that stallion. Each muscle, tendon, and ligament felt like it was bearing down on us. This beauty was located in one of the galleries, but I am unsure of the actual artist.*

Later as we left the gallery, Tilly and I sadly reminisced about our favorite piece of art that we could not take home with us. Cost and especially transportation would keep us from competing for the stallion. Neither of us could carry a life-size painting back to Cancun, the island, and then back to our respective homes in Canada or Texas.

When we all gather at the café in the back corner, as Muriel had explained, we visited with a man sitting next to us. He introduced himself as the dad of the woman who writes the content for the tourist information office about San Miguel.

Intrigued with Mexican nature, design, color, and graphics in general, I took more photos here than anywhere. See my collection of “Mexican Graphics,” taken from the galleries and other places around the city.

PlantsAtGallery.20150218_115451    TileDesign.20150216_102546    AntiqueStoreIronwear.20150218_102017       BirdHousesOnWall.20150218_111554 ColoredGlass.20150218_111650       Doll'sHungOnWall.20150218_111528

Muriel, Leslie and other women mentioned San Miguel shoes, as if they were a certain brand of shoe designed for walking the cobblestoned streets.

“What’s with these San Miguel shoes you mention? Is that just heavy soled shoes or is it a distinct shoe?”

“No, no, it is a real brand, a certain style that is designed to walk in this city.”

“No joke, where would we find them? We have to see them?”

“There is one shoe store that carries them close to your place. The shoes are really different; everyone who lives here wears them.”

“We will have to check them out.”

SMA.Shoes20150216_102618 (2) Styles of SMA Shoes2015-02-18 14.54.16

As we wandered the city without thinking about shoes, we came across a tiny sign that indicated a shoe store. We thought it worth asking. Oh yes, they carried San Miguel shoes. Last year’s design was on sale: this year’s new design, more expensive. They were different alright. I had to try them on. I almost bought them; but thought, Better not. Cash is low.

ManWorkingOnSteps.imageThe first evening we arrived at the Hotel Quinta Loreta, we carefully climbed the irregular and crumbling stone and mortar steps that had over time been patched. They were dangerous by day, more so at night; but repairs took place over the days we were there.

One to two workers each day took time to knock down the crumbling material and haul it away, select just the right stones for each next installment and rebuild with new stone and mortar, all the while keeping a path open to the reception office. When we would leave in the morning or return in the afternoon, they smiled, stopped their work, stepped aside, and motioned us to use the available portion. We were amazed by their fine craft, but more so, by how long it took them to get the steps completed. So as not to interrupt their work, we found another route.

Another gentleman sat across from the masonry men and worked on two ancient, Queen Ann ManWorkingOnChair.imageupholstered chairs. He sanded, buffed, polished, and brought the wood back to life the week we were there. We shared few words with these artisans during our short stay, but felt a sense of knowing them by the end of our visit.

Around town we noticed posters, announcements, and advertisements of different sorts about events at the It seemed to be the happening place. The public library sat one block from our hotel, so we checked it out. Surprised, we found the open gate to the library with an uncovered courtyard, surrounded by rooms that housed their bookshelves.

In the open patio tables supplied places for people to read or more often, it appeared that people were tutoring or practicing their English or Spanish with each other. The place bustled with teens filling a computer room, and children with parents in the children’s reading room. A small book store featured local writers’ work. We never expected to find a closed thrift shop at the back of the library with stacks of used clothing piled chest-high.

We learned the next day was their weekly half-price day. We returned the following day to rummage their goods. One could not pass another person without touching them, body to body. We shopped until we tasted grit in our teeth and sneezed from the dust that had accumulated. Cathy, again, came away the winner with the most “stuff.” I bought three pairs of shorts, each for ten pesos or about eighty cents. In addition, the library held their weekly book sale. I, of course, found two I could not live without. They were far more expensive than the clothes.

These purchases drew down my stash of pesos. Tomorrow, I must find someplace to take my dollars or accept a credit card—both hard to do in Mexico. I avoided going to the bank by paying for the return transport for all of us with my credit card and had mi amigas paid me in pesos. I felt like the American TV ad where one friend insinuates to another that her date may always be willing to pay with his credit card, not because he is a gentleman, but because he gets the cash rewards.

We bought a bottle of wine to take to Bill and Howard’s. Leslie met us at the door; Harley and Muriel had not yet returned from their day-long cooking class. When they did, we hurriedly caught a taxi. The taxi climbed and climbed, shifted, revved the motor, and made a turn or two and climbed higher yet up the hill. The streets narrowed and we recognized parts of the city we had seen on the trolley tour.

The taxi pulled up to a plain white wall, a sage green gate and cacti on either side. Howard emerged from their gate to greet us.

Bill & Howard's House.IMG_0369

His welcome filled up the street as he met us spilling out of two cabs. Howard’s attention turned immediately to showing us their place. The front garden area was grassy green and lush with tropical plants and a sculpture of naked men hanging off the wall—he pointed it out in case we were to miss it for all the foliage.

Naked art on wall.IMG_0376
Leslie and Muriel had jewelry business with Bill at his shop, Pietras, attached to his house. Our disappointment that we would not see his studio and his work dissipated quickly when we entered his sanctuary. The four of us visually gobbled up as much as we could lay eyes on in a matter of minutes. From the simple to the sublime, the designs were one-of-a-kind; the price, reasonable for a statement piece one could own. Tilly honed in on a pair of lovely baroque fresh water pearl earrings for her daughter. When we were sufficiently overwhelmed, Howard scooted us out of the shop, outside again and into the house from the front door, so we could see it proper like. Tilly hung back and bought the pearl earrings from Bill.

Howard and Bill, permanent residents in San Miguel eighteen years, owned the house for about four years in a noticeably up-scale neighborhood with both Mexicans and expats. They conducted a major renovation in three months when they moved in—a story of its own. Bill and Howard entertained and hosted galas and fundraisers at their place. Art is prominent in every room, especially the entryway, throughout the lovely, more modern house, including the garage.

TArtWall@Bill & Howard's.IMG_0378he entryway is full of Indian art and artifacts that Howard collected when he served as board president of the Wheelwright Museum of Santa Fe years ago. When we moved into the living room, he pointed to one wall of art that was representative of his hometown Kansas City artists from 1900 to 1950.

 

He proudly walked us through each bedroom and in his room was an award plaque, Howard'sPlacque.20150218_171616honoring his years of philanthropy. I paraphrase Howard’s motto, “invest where you live; give back to your community.” He recently received a surprise honorary doctorate. Learn more about his history of philanthropy—example, he and Bill started the first hospice in Mexico in San Miguel—and his mantra of life.

I love all things copper. My house in Texas is filled with copper items, especially the kitchen, so a unique application of copper in their kitchen renovation captivated me.

CopperKitchenCabinets.20150218_173044They painted one side of glass a shimmering copper color, placed two panes of glass together and inserted them back-to-back into distressed frames for each cabinet door. This stunning application ensured that the color would never fade or need to be repainted. Brilliant!

The bedrooms appeared that Ralph Lauren had dressed each uniquely with panache. Each bedroom told a guest more about the men who lived there—for Howard, horses and riding; for Bill, gems and design; for both, art and artists. Bathrooms displayed art work featuring the eloquence of the human nude.

Howard led the four of us female guests around the house like the pied piper, while the rest of the entourage relaxed on the patio with drinks in conversation. Howard joked that the key to the French Doors in his room worked only after midnight.

Jenn said, “So what’s the key?”

“It’s a knock, a secret knock. If you tap softly,” he rapped out the cadence on a door pane (knock,knock,knock,…knock), “then I will let you in.”

Cathy said, “Oh, I can do that.” She replicated the secret knock.

Jenn said, “Unless I get here before you do.”

Howard relished the jealous competition between Cathy and Jenn for his attention.

Howard w 3 of us. IMG_0390Finally, we arrived to the backyard, but the stories did not end at the exterior of the house. The extra acreage they didn’t know was theirs when they bought the property turned out to be where they built a home for Bill’s business partner, who is a jewelry designer, Luis.

Howard did not want us to overlook the garage for family lore.

Their five rescue dogs slept on two huge pallets made for the mutts that live like kings.

The wall of fame with photographs of the rich and famous overlooked the car in the garage and served as reminders of another time, when glamor reigned in Hollywood. His favorite, Ethyl Merman. Howard’s riding trophies and snapshots of those achievements must have outgrown the house, so they lined the garage walls. For me the most fascinating item that reigned in the garage stood in the front corner, guarding the dogs and memories—a larger than life, elaborated decorated papier-mâché knight.

This caballero was the last one standing of sixteen, made by a local artist and auctioned off in a fundraiser at their home last year. This one didn’t sell.

“Just as well,” Howard said, “I rather like the gentleman myself. I’m sure I will find many ways and places for him to have other lives.”

As we followed the pied piper throughout the property we came across topics of conversation that ranged from visiting and living abroad to which generations are more likely to give back to their communities to microcredit lending. And of course, the secret knock on Howard’s door at midnight that would serve as a key to his heart.
Howard&Bill'sPatio.20150218_173540Harley and Muriel; Chip and Leslie; Bill, Jim and Damon; and two other new-to-us women leisurely relaxed with a drink on the patio.

One of the women happened to be Tammy, who wrote the tourist information brochure on what to do and see in San Miguel.

“We met your dad this morning having coffee at the café at the Galleries.”

“Yes, he gets around. And he is so proud of me.”

We sat on the patio with the rest for a while. Cathy (who Backyard@H&B's.imageis married) leaned toward Bill, Howard’s partner for 44 years, and said “Can I marry Howard?”

“Well, I would consider it, but we’ve gotten along so well together for so long.” He thought about it for seconds and said, “It would be hard to give him up.”

“Oh, please, let me marry him.”

Jenn chimed in, “No, I want to marry him.”

Bill conceded. “I’ll think about it,” while Howard looked on smirking over his good fortune.

All in good fun, we teased, bemoaned the next day being our last, and thanked them all for inviting us into their lives, if only for a few moments.

All 4 of us 20150219_100633

 

We left Isla Mujeres four days ago without an itinerary, as adventurers.The four of us were a keenly knitted, resourceful band of explorers.Though my friend back home in Texas experienced the city as inaccessible, on the other hand, we did not. We searched out and snooped behind the gates of San Miguel, but gates were also opened to us. People invited us into their homes and the intimacy of their lives. We found the magic of the city in the people we met behind the gates of San Miguel.

 

 

 

* I would like to give credit to the artist of the white stallion. If you know the artist, please let me know.

Posted in Travel, Travel Writing

Behind the Gates of San Miguel (part 3)

The tourist information officer yesterday encouraged us to take a cab to the weekly market, so after breakfast we taxied to the remote location. We found acres and acres of open-air market. We spilt up, went our separate ways and agreed to meet back in about an hour.

I strolled, wandered and realized soon that their market was like a county fair in some ways back home. People brought their homemade goods, food vendors cooked on site, vegetable growers brought in the morning harvest. One vendor had built a ninety-degree wall of red strawberries on two sides of his table about eighteen inches high—perfection in every berry. When I later decided I wanted a photo of the red cornered-wall of berries, I could not find it. It pays to be impetuous at times.

No livestock, but I did run into a stately rooster strutting in a wire dog-kennel for sale.

Weekly Market
Weekly Market

The market was part bazaar or flea market. Some stalls held new and top labeled clothes, while others housed stacks of outgrown or unneeded clothes and personal items from fancy panties and bras to purses. There were the usual Mexican “knick-knacky” items (woven blankets, pottery, and leather goods) that I have outgrown the need for, since traveling to Mexico for twenty-five years now.

I saw two policemen at different times in full uniform with AK-47s slung across their chests, hands loosely sitting on the grip with a ski mask on and eyes roaming the crowd. Serious security. One of the uniformed men looked the opposite way and I pointed my tablet’s camera at him for a picture. Before I could focus, he turned back in my direction.

I said, “May I?” He shook his head slowly, waved a finger “no” from the hand siting on the rifle, and I quietly put my tablet back in my purse, feeling naughty for having tried.

Jenn and particularly Cathy had made out like bandits with the tenacity and patience to ply the stacks of used clothes for little to nothing. Dusty and dirty items, but steals nonetheless. Cathy had already bought so many items she had to purchase a larger bag to serve as her “personal item” on the plane back to Cancún to carry all her goods.

On this expedition in San Miguel de Allende we were about to strike gold behind a gate.

Serendipitously, the autumn before our trip in February a couple, Harley and Muriel Mimura, from Dallas visited my Kerrville, Texas, Quaker Meeting. After silent worship we were visiting with them and Harley revealed that they spend February each year in San Miguel. I told them that friends and I had a trip planned in the city during February.

Muriel leaned toward me and insisted, “You’ll have to come see us and have drinks at our place when you come.”

“We would love that.”

Excitedly, I informed my fellow travelers via email later that day, who seemed equally pleased to have a personal invitation in a city we did not know.

I stayed in touch with Muriel at Christmas and again in late January. She insisted again they wanted us to come for drinks at sunset and sent a map via email from our hotel to their place, only six blocks away.

On Tuesday, our second full day in the city, we purchased flowers from the Artisan Market next door to our hotel and I had brought a daily devotional book as gifts for the Harley and Muriel. We arrived at their massive wooden door, unadorned and unremarkable, rang the bell, and waited anxiously. I was the only one who had met Harley and Muriel and I barely recalled what they looked like, now six months later.

Jenn and Tilly to the left.  Leslie to the right.
Jenn and Tilly to the left.
Leslie to the right.

Muriel and Harley guided us to the living and dining room combination. The scent of lilies greeted us from three vases the height of most table lamps; Cava (a white sparkling wine) waited to tickle our taste buds. We met the couple they rented and shared the house with each February, Chip and Leslie. Harley opened the door with Muriel’s head peaking over his shoulder to welcome us in. We walked into the dark entrance, strode up several steps into light, flooding the central patio with a three-tiered fountain filled with fresh flowers. With no ceiling overhead we were exposed to the elements of nature. We stood stunned byprofuse fresh flowers, the openness in the middle of a house, and the elegant garden and patio. A bit in awe of our circumstances, like Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady, we stood gaping at the interior of a house in which the exterior from the street gave no foreshadowing of what was to come.

Harley&Muriel.image

Muriel, the impeccable hostess said, “We like to start here with a drink in hand as Harley provides a tour of the house, which will simply spiral up the house, until you get to the roof top where we will have hor d’oevers as the sun sets. Take your time, we have other friends who will join us and they have company, so we will be meeting them as well.”

Harley said, “This house is not a typical rental, but a home designed for the owners themselves. We met them several years ago and they are gone this time each year, so we with Leslie and Chip worked a deal. It’s full of Mexican antiques and is not what you will find as a long-term rental here in San Miguel.”

H&M'sLivingRoom.image (1)

The ceiling soared about fifteen feet, so we were gazing up and around as Harley talked, staring at the sets of art on the walls, pottery on the shelves, memorizing the fabric patterns on the furniture, running our fingers over the wood table that was bigger than most eat-in kitchens, trying to absorb as much as possible before we left the room. I felt rude, but we were busy—all ears, eyes, nose, and fingers busy.

Harley gave us a quick architectural history lesson, “This house was built in the old Colonial Mexican style with the open-air courtyard in the center and the house built around it. Some houses of this style have coverings that help the residents get from one part of the house to the other. But this is the original concept, open to the elements.”

“What do you do on rainy days?”H&M'sCourtyard.image (1)

“Use an umbrella,” he said deadpan. Then he smiled. “We keep one in every room in the place.” He went on to explain. “Most houses like this come with a staff. That took some getting used to.”

“I could use get used to that.” We each agreed.

“The first time I dropped my drawers for a shower and came out to find them gone, I was startled. They were already in the laundry. I learned to take a robe to the shower.”

“So what kind of staff do you have?”

“Two, a maid and cook. We don’t do anything while here.” He laughed, “We are spoiled by the time we get home and have to do those things for ourselves again. It takes some adjustment.”

Harley, using his cane, to steady himself showed us the first floor with what appeared to me more characteristically a French country kitchen.

H&M's Kitchen.image (1)Blue, yellow and white tiles covered the floors and back splashes, yellow cabinetry brightened the work space. The room was oddly shaped, like a squared-off S if you can imagine that. Though larger than kitchens in Mexico, it was smaller than kitchens in French homes.

The flowers we brought were lying in the sink in a container of water to keep them fresh. No time to arrange them. We felt like we had brought a small bouquet of dandelions to a florist store owner, because of the profusion of flowers throughout the house. We reminded ourselves, it is the thought that counts.

The first of five bedrooms had its own private bath, as would each of the following, and the two on the first floor had a fireplace. Each was differently decorated, but ready for an “Elle Décor,” “Veranda” or “Architectural Digest” photo shoot.

image_9

The four of us gawked, “ooo-ed and aah-ed,” took photos of rich antiques in rare settings and small bathrooms designed for luxury. I tried to act sophisticated about the style, color, or fixtures that combined to put a boutique-style B&B out of any competition for best-dressed rooms.

By the time we got to the second floor to compare a third and fourth bedroom, we were asking questions about artwork, age of furniture, or who gets which rooms when they are there. And of course, we each picked our favorite. I almost flopped on a bed to claim the one I wanted; but I caught myself. The bathrooms were so tiny that two of us could not stand in one together. We certainly could not take a photo and capture the essence of the room.

Bedroom@H&M's.image (1)

The stairs to the third floor narrowed. As we came out of the last room, we had to take turns going out and around the door one-by-one, then snake our way single-file to the next floor, as the hand-carved stone steps narrowed.

We learned that the highest and last bedroom would be Harley and Muriel’s. How does Harley navigate his way up and down using a cane several times a day?

Harley offered an architectural design lesson that he as an engineer found captivating.

“Look at the shapes in the brick ceiling and how they come together in this formation.” Our eyes followed his pointing finger. “That’s known as bóveda, a construction term for any arched brickwork. Not sure how they do it, but I know structurally that any archway when completed is stronger because of the tension it holds. Bold design, isn’t it?”

Boveda brick ceiling
Boveda brick ceiling
Boveda brick ceiling
Boveda brick ceiling

From each corner of the room the brickwork domed and fit together as an undulating ceiling, as if carved instead of bricked. I’d never seen this construction before. It must have required skill and patience, because it was the only bóveda ceiling in the house.

On our way from the last bedroom door, Muriel, Leslie, and other guests were on their way to the rooftops with food and drink. We each offered to lighten the load of the others, who balanced trays, carried pitchers of sloshing liquids, while they navigated uneven steps.

Not only did the steps narrow, the rise in the steps became more shallow, and unevenness resulted from hand-hewn stone. Our reward for the climb was tasty appetizers. My two favorites were the cooked asparagus stalks swirled in bacon and the tiniest, tidiest deviled quail eggs I ever saw to go with our next glass of Cava.

Muriel cooed, “Oh, you ladies have brought the first sunset we have seen in days. Isn’t it lovely up here? Thank you for coming.”

Roof top sunset at Harley and Muriel's place
Roof top sunset at                         Harley and Muriel’s place

We felt special and each of us couldn’t say fast enough some version of, “No, it is us, who should be thanking you.”

Their invited friends, Bill Harris and Howard Haynes, was a couple who actually had lived in San Miguel for eighteen years of the forty-one years they had been together. They loved their city, their life, the fresh mountain air, the artists and the arts, and especially the blended community of both Mexicans and North Americans.

Howard, a philanthropist, told us of ways he had gone about getting money from people who didn’t have a heart for others, as well as those who enjoyed giving to their community. He held a strong ethic for giving back to the place and people wherever he had lived.

His partner, Bill, a quieter man, but just as convivial, pursued his passion as a gemologist and artisan jeweler. Artist and businessman, he owned a studio in their home. Muriel explained that his studio was not a “drop-by” storefront; one must have an invitation to come to see his artistry. We were deflated that we couldn’t stop and shop the next day.

Howard and Bill brought guests visiting them from Kansas City. Bill and guest Jim roomed together in college decades ago. With Jim’s partner, Damon that made twelve of us who enjoyed each other’s company behind one of the gates of San Miguel, as new and old friendships merged.

The four of us separated and wove our way through the folks scattered on the patio. We teased and laughed, talked and philosophized. We couldn’t have found company more pleasant, more engaging.

Howard asked us before he and his guests left that evening how long we were staying; he wanted to invite us for cocktails at their house. With only one night left in our stay, he was bummed, because they had dinner plans the following night.

He stewed for a moment and said, “Oh heck, just come over about 5:30, we’ll have drinks, just drinks, no appetizers, because we have dinner plans at 7:00. Just come for the hour and a half, so you can see our place. We would love to have you. Muriel will work out the details about how to get there, won’t you, darling?”

“Of course. I’ll take care of it.” Muriel said.

“Of course. We’ll be there,” we agreed. Our second invitation into a home–behind closed gates.

After Bill and Howard and their two guests left, we returned to the living room. Muriel and Leslie set about with a map to highlight spots in town we must not miss. They suggested that we make a point to see.

“The Fabrica La Aurora Gallery is a short hike from your hotel. Not all the galleries will be open tomorrow morning. For those that are in, stop and visit with the artist, browse, and explore. There is a coffee shop in front, but a sandwich shop in the back I recommend. Go to the back corner, just keep going back and to your right and you will find it. They offer coffee, sandwiches, smoothies and the like.”

In conversation we learned that Harley had been born in an internment camp for the Japanese in Arizona. Later when those in the camps were “adopted” by families east of the Mississippi River, his family went to live with a Quaker family in Pennsylvania. He became an aerospace engineer – even worked with NASA for two years – and lived in several locations before retiring from his last job assignment in Dallas. He was widowed with two grown sons when he met Muriel.

Muriel had a story of her own. Married once for fourteen years, her husband died from cancer. Married a second time for less than a year, her spouse was killed in an accident. Now she says, “I make sure Harley gets to the doctor regularly. I feed him right, remind him to take his vitamins, encourage exercise, and give him probiotics—whatever it takes to live my life with him as long as possible.” With no children of her own, she considered herself blessed with stepchildren and scads of step-grandkids. She worked to keep up relationships over time and distance.

While I talked to Harley about Quaker topics we shared in common and his life, Muriel showed the other three women some cards of her art work. I missed getting to see them, so I found some of her art work on-line later. (Google her name, Muriel Mimura, to see her stunning artwork on-line; or go to her Facebook page, Muriel Elliott Mimura.)

On our way back to the hotel that night, the four of us each shared the nuggets of gold we had mined from our new friends. We left their place with stories to tell, memories to treasure, and another invitation to make any tourist envious.

(MORE TO COME)