By Rodrigo Díaz
I decided to return to San Miguel for several reasons. Many of them are obvious, and perhaps redundant when talking about the beautiful cobbled streets, the churches or the parks and gardens that the city boasts.
When one crisscrosses the city, unhurried and unpretentious, like a tourist who has deliberately dispensed with a map so that the place leads him, pushed by hidden fates to places least photographed. That’s exactly why I decided to leave the big city and return to the picturesque town where my grandmother, in the early 90’s, had settled.
I say “I came back” because I had lived in San Miguel before, from the age of 17 to 22, during the last five years of the millennium. I confess that at a time when, the free, artistic and non-aligned spirit that I had not found in either Colima, or in Guadalajara, took me down some psychotropic paths with dizzying ease.
Fortunately those times have passed —the giddiness at least. Once again, I have recognized those fates that rest under the stones, in the canteens and inside the cafes. I see them there, blending in with the people who populate spaces and attitudes, as if hiding from tourists, from the boutique hotels and fancy bars, so the original spirits that they probably protect will not be transformed.
This is my inspiration —the hunt for the fates of San Miguel, recognizing the original spirit when during the week— rarely on a Friday or Saturday. I walk downtown for a coffee or meeting new friends, old friendships that inevitably share a history. I am sure that the magic of this place has long arms and can bring you back at the least expected moment, even if you are about to get married in Timbuktu. This is San Miguel, and we are grateful.
