By Mike Stoltz
Well, I’m freshly back from what was supposed to be a four-day trip, which evolved into an eight-day trip to the U.S. I was there to fire a bank and a phone company, get a Monkey Pox vaccination (they are unavailable in Mexico), and grab some stuff of value and importance from storage that I could stuff into a large suitcase. I grabbed a couple of flannel shirts, an emulsifier (how did I live 10 weeks without it), a wine rabbit, and four Nest cameras. In the process, I had my passport, two-week old residence card, three checkbooks, and a wad of cash lifted from my premises, never to be in my company again—not a lot of time for feeling violated and whacked upside the head. (I feel it now as I write to you.)
I had to act fast and get an appointment as soon as possible at the nearest passport office as my “to-do” list in San Miguel de Allende was growing exponentially. It happened to be San Diego and at 8am, four days after my original return flight. San Diego was only a two-hour drive on the 405, but first I would probably need my birth certificate. I’m sure you carry yours right next to your American Express card, but I have no idea where mine is. I had some vague memory of it being in a green vinyl box, maybe between my Webelo merit badge and a Padres Team pennant signed in the 1960s, but where? City? Country? One of the few providential occurrences on this trip led me to my storage unit—a short, two-hour detour on the I-I10 to Palm Springs. There it was, legible, certified, but next to the 7th grade guitar chords to “Puff the Magic Dragon.” The Webelo reference was probably wishful thinking … I was stoked and on my way outta here! Unfortunately, the passport book wasn’t printed until an hour after my flight was to leave, so the good folks at United helped me navigate the friendly skies three hours later, routing me through San Francisco.
So, I’m beat, finally in an Uber from Querétaro to San Miguel, and I’m feeling really “strange.” We’ll leave it at that. You gotta be kidding! I’m having a reaction to the Monkey Pox shot! The only person in the world! Take me into the street and shoot me!
It coincides with Mexican Independence Day that apparently lasts for two days, beginning on September 15, with an historic proclamation at precisely 11pm that echoes the times. In the charming colonial town of Delores, not far from San Miguel, Father Hidalgo, who weary with the oppression and subjugation of colonial Spain, said, “I’m fed up and not gonna take it anymore, nor should you.” I paraphrase, of course. I’m sure it wasn’t parroted from the film “Network,” nor in English, but his speech is echoed the night before, and a bell is rung to symbolize, what else, but freedom.
I really needed some cheering up, so a couple of neighbors took me to a preplanned party in my community of Vista Antigua. There were mariachis, tequila, a marvelous punch made of—among other things—oranges, pears, guava, and raisins, with cinnamon and clove—intoxicating without being intoxicating. Then my gastronomic highlight was this traditional entrée meets dessert called chiles en nogada (poblano chiles stuffed with a savory meat), which had this phenomenal white walnut cream sauce garnished with red pomegranates. You get it? The colors of the flag. All patriotic and satisfying. I was beginning to feel my woes of the past seven days in the U.S. wash away with the sounds of brass playing national songs, which the local Mexicans know and chime in with unified cadence. You can start to hear fireworks and more brass and a colony of chanting, which I later learned was a military parade. But not a military parade that was intended to show a false bravado like some other we heard of a few years back. No, it was in celebration of their victory over oppression. Quite the contrary to the latter.
Where I grew up in Santa Barbara, an authentic Spanish presidio, every August we have Old Spanish Days, which are five days dedicated to preserving the culture, history, and heritage of its founders at the turn of the century and yelling “viva la fiesta” as often and as loud as you could. Growing up there, we get kind of burned out on the parades, horse dung on State Street, lots of tourists who don’t know how to drive, too much egg confetti, and no place to park. But as much as I’ve whined about Fiesta in the past, the celebration of Independence Day in San Miguel was a needed, soothing, and nostalgic reminder of where I came from. There were a lot of American expats to be certain, but I saw more Mexicans who likely have second homes here and, evidently, put this holiday high on their list. I’m hopeful that one day I too will be able to put the Fourth of July on the top of my list again and feel the pride these folks do. I’ll keep the faith; my homeland will get it together someday.
