Between cobblestones and cathedrals, a writer searches for renewed vision in San Miguel de Allende
A DISPATCH FROM THE UNDERWORLD
by Anita
For those attending mass in San Miguel de Allende, getting there is the first miracle. A dawn awakening, a chilly bath, hurried dressing in their very best, a desayuno of yesterday’s tortillas with steaming atolé, then hurry to the bus stop to wait for the jerky stop and go of the dusty transport. Upon arrival in the Centro, they keep their eyes on the cobblestones as they weave between tourists with pale skin, dressed in store bought clothes. The earnest voice of the priest fills the plaza, while a steady stream of regular folk, campesinos and abuelos lean on canes and make their way through the magnificent gothic door of the iglesia. Cool air caresses their morning faces, calm on the surface, but smoldering with expectation beneath.
The Virgin and her son Jèsus await them in the vast interior of the sacred sanctuary. Humble women and dutiful husbands sprinkle holy water and make the sign of the cross, Father, Son and the Holy Ghost. But where to sit? Every inch of every pew is claimed, as bodies reluctantly shift to make room for one more. They come with illness, either themselves or loved ones. Hands rise in a sea of supplication—hands with swollen knuckles, tremors, affliction. Antennae tuned to the frequency of the Lord God Almighty. Soprano voices and guitars blend and swell to erase lingering doubt. Raised hands expand in spirit to enormous vessels that match the vastness of their tristeza, their illness.
The priest crescendo’s, “Salud! Salud! Salud!” Well-being streams from heaven through the painted dome and deep into ailing bodies. Folks turn to their neighbors and embrace one another. Todo bien. All is well.
I turn and leave the church. I did not raise my hands despite their desperate tingling. My skin and store bought clothes are all wrong. The sign at the entrance clearly states tourists must respect worship services. I’m too tall to embrace someone a foot shorter than myself. But the real reason is that I cannot in truth make the leap of faith. My faith lies in drinking latte’s and typing words on a screen. I’ve come to San Miguel de Allende to bathe in bougainvillea vibes and touch other writer souls who give birth to literature because they must.
Emerging into the midday sun, I reorient to the city streets of San Miguel. The Virgin of Guadalupe greets me from a painted wall where she advertises a hotel. She herself is a Middle Eastern-European hybrid, refitted for Mexico and split into multiple Virgin identities. The locals claim she is everywhere at once and love her more than the holy trinity, but of course, no one says that out loud. Her message is transmitted through a peaceful facial expression, her gentle hands folded in prayer, and her sacred body robed and protected from the vagaries of humanity.
“Hey you, Anita,” she says.
When I snap my head around, her lips are closed and she gazes over my head at the vista beyond. She is well aware that tourists cannot handle daylight miracles. I take a selfie and stumble down the steep incline for coffee. Today is my last day before I return by taxi, airline and car to my expat casita in the southern state of Oaxaca. At home, she, the Virgin of Guadalupe, graces my desk in her small wooden painted version. With patience and diligence, she helps me tell the story of why I came to live in Mexico so many years ago.
Anita is a wayward writer living in Oaxaca, Mexico since 2001. She is currently working on a novel set in her Georgia hometown, as well as an essay about expat life in a Zapotec village.
