He stood out front, staring at his cell phone. The Red Sox were up one run over the Orioles. Not usually a timely person where social occasions were concerned, he was early tonight. He didn’t want to risk being late. It was his first date in a year.
Joyce had encouraged him to see women after twelve months.
“You have to mourn me for a year.” She had insisted.
“But then, I want you to meet someone and not be alone for decades.”
She had said this with humor and with all the sparkle she could muster, even while her skin became paler with each passing day and her cheekbones protruded more and more unnaturally from her face.
He walked inside and requested a patio table. Then he came back out and looked at his reflection in the window. He still had a lot of hair and in spite of his SPF 30 sunscreen, his face was flushed from a recent Good Harbor Beach afternoon. He turned as he heard the unmistakable clack of her platform sandals on the pavement.
“Zeb, is that you?”
Kara was some things that Joyce was not, but he willed himself not to compare. A friend of a friend, their paths had crossed often in the past year at benefits and barbecues. Younger than he but not young enough to raise the ire of his adult children, she was the logical choice for a first date. A divorcee with a nineteen year-old son studying abroad, she spent plenty of time working in development at a non-profit, but she also liked to have fun.
Zeb remembered a hand placed a little too familiarly on his arm, a good-bye hug, and a kiss on each cheek. She was not afraid to touch. Joyce had said that her therapist friend explained that a bereaved spouse should eventually look for a new companion. It is a testament to a good marriage.
Kara walked ahead of him, out to the patio. Their table was in the corner, under an umbrella, and candlelit. He ordered Grey Goose, on the rocks. She ordered a glass of the house chardonnay, dry and not fruity. He opened his menu. She put her hand on his, and asked him about his day.
He appreciated her interest, but that look of genuine concern still brought tears to his eyes. The women in his family and the women from the Temple had been so kind. Yet sometimes he wondered if he had played the role correctly, if he had fulfilled their expectations. On that beastly hot July morning, they had arrived with platters of cut up fruit, chicken Caesar wraps, and veggie roll ups. Attired in black linen, they looked freshly ironed. He was barefoot, and in cargo shorts with a Springsteen tee shirt from the concert in Fenway Park. Was he supposed to be hosting, greeting, setting out clean tablecloths and cutlery, and then seeing people to the door? Was there no book on this? Joyce would have read the book and known what to do.
Kara raised her glass to his and exclaimed:
“Let’s have a toast to a new chapter in your life.”
Yes, he was going to try. He still marveled at those who had contacted him, and those who had not. Some had interrupted vacations, while others had neither phoned nor visited. People have baggage about death.
His day had been fine. Several skin tags to be removed, a possible melanoma biopsy, and a Botox consult. Being a dermatologist had always enabled him to have a schedule he could count on with enough time off for travel to Barcelona, Paris, Jerusalem, Mexico City, Santa Fe, and Seattle. He and Joyce loved to wander through the Arab market, ride bikes along the waterfront in Barcelona, and devour patisserie and café au lait in St. Germain des Pres.
Kara’s son was studying in London. Maybe they could meet there for a few days in the fall? He contemplated this for a moment. Things were moving much too fast, like the sea of faces and the bodies that milled through his home. It was a beautiful tribute to his wife and to him, but he had felt dizzy. At one point, he had to go upstairs and lie down on his bed, their bed. His daughter, Eloise brought him a glass of ice water, and a plate of Melba toast with peach preserves. She sat back on the spot once kept warm by her mother.
“So Weez, how are you?”
He was using the name coined by her baby brother, Matthew before he could say Eloise.
“Oh Dad, I feel sad for you, for Mom, for me, for Matt…I wasn’t prepared for the finality…and it sucks.”
They embraced, and Eloise went to her old bedroom to collect her thoughts. Now the guest room, it still had her wallpaper, her vintage tapes, and her stuffed animal menagerie. Babar and Celeste provided comfort.
Later, his friend Jake mentioned:
“You know, everyone means well but if you’re a peripheral acquaintance you could write a sympathy note or make a donation to a charity specified by the family, I mean if you want to go the extra mile.”
Jake had a point.
He needed to turn his attention to Kara. She was naturally fresh faced with a touch of colored lip gloss and a suggestion of eyeliner. Her blond highlighted hair was caught back in a wooden clip perhaps from Bali or maybe from that craft center over on Mass Avenue in Central Square. He ordered another Grey Goose, this time straight up with a twist of lemon. She ordered another glass of chardonnay.
He regaled her with the tale of the couple that came into his living room and sat on his sofa, he with his ascot and carved cane, she with a tight face-lift, carefully coiffed bun, and expertly polished fingers and toes. They chatted about their yacht moored on Nantucket and their cruise around the Greek Islands. All the while, he wanted to reminisce about the happy times with Joyce and peruse the stacks of old photos that Matthew had arranged on the cocktail table. These images displayed how vibrant and pretty Joyce had been. It turned out that these two were business contacts of his brother Ruben’s but at the time, he had no idea who they were. Ruben and his wife, Nell hadn’t arrived yet. They were at Whole Foods purchasing more cut up fruit, and disposable cups for coffee and sparkling water.
They were a family in mourning, so why did they feel as though they were organizing a six-day party? He started to laugh, as did Kara. The absurdity of that situation finally got to him, and the relief of releasing pent up emotion was cathartic. People at neighboring tables turned and stared. He wiped the laughing tears from his cheeks.
Suddenly he remembered the Straubs, who had walked up his driveway at 5:20 p.m. on the fifth day of Shiva.
“The Jewish concept of sitting Shiva seems so comforting and civilized…” Kara was commenting.
“Yes, it is, but there are logical afternoon and evening visiting hours published in the newspaper obituary….” He explained.
“These people were not in our inner circle.”
Matthew had played fourth grade soccer with their son and they had carpooled on occasion, supplied water and orange slices. His son never even liked their kid. He had tripped Matthew once when he was running up the field, getting ready to score on goal. Even at nine years old, this child was competitive with his own teammates, not wanting anyone to have an edge on him. His parents already had dreams about college recruiters and athletic scholarships. His father was the type who shouted orders from the sidelines, and argued with the coach about his kid getting more playing time. And years later when his wife died, they thought they could show up during the quiet hour while he was attempting to force some pasta primavera down his throat before the minyan, the evening prayer service.
“They are Jewish; they should have known better.” He declared.
“So did you invite them in?” Kara wondered.
“No, I told them they should come back later…actually Nell asked them to leave before I could get the words out…Nell can be formidable.”
He knew they lived a few streets away. They claimed they couldn’t come back. Mrs. Straub’s mouth froze in the “O” that reminded him of “The Scream” painting by Munch. Mr. Straub said that he was just home from the office, and they were rushing to leave for the long weekend. You are aware of how it can be with that ferry. They hurried away from his door.
Had he been unbearably rude? All these weeks later, it still bothered him. Kara assured him that he and Nell, for that matter, had had guts, that the Straubs had been completely inappropriate, that he had somehow been an obligation for them to check off of their “to do” list.
He ordered a bottle of Montrachet for them to savor with the chef’s special almond encrusted halibut. For dessert, he chose the strawberry/rhubarb cobbler topped with a spoon of vanilla ice cream. She requested two scoops of sorbet, mango and raspberry. After he finished his espresso and she had sipped her ginger tea, he walked with her down Mt. Auburn Street to her home on Foster, a tidy house with an English garden out front. She put her key in the lock, shut off the alarm, and beckoned him inside to look at her pictures from Ecuador. Her bedroom was visible from the front entry. Beyond it was a terrace furnished with wrought iron chairs and terra cotta planters.
“I’d like to come in, Kara, but I have an early morning appointment, a forty year-old freaked about spider veins…can we look at the photos another time?”
“Zeb, I understand, we can make another plan.”
“How about The Beehive next week for great jazz and dinner?”
“I’d like that Zeb, let’s talk soon.”
She reached up and kissed him on both cheeks. He gave her a quick hug. As he walked the few blocks to his car, he realized he had noticed that her bed was plumped with a duvet, a coverlet, and piles of pillows. He remembered Joyce lounging on her Indian bedspread in her dorm room, a scented candle glowing on her nightstand, Hendrix belting out “Purple Haze” from her turntable, and a hookah filled with hashish.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Aron and Jackie
The phone was ringing when I walked in the door. He sounded like he was smiling as he spoke: “ Mom, I have good news and you’re the first to know…we’re engaged.”
I put my grocery bag down on the counter, all the while picturing toddler Aron with his thick brown curls, riding his fire truck through our Wayland yard. At other milestones in his life, I have somehow gone back to that image. He is even wearing a bulky sweater that his great grandmother Sarah knitted for him. Perhaps this vignette enters my mind because when he was eighteen months old, I said to myself: he is incredibly cute; I wish I could freeze him at this stage.
“I am so happy for both of you…you know this is what I’ve been waiting for.” As a mother, I’ve always hoped to launch my children, to give them opportunities yet clear boundaries. When they became young adults, I bit my tongue and didn’t tell them what I thought they should do. I clenched my teeth when Aron climbed Kilimanjaro, wandered in Zanzibar, and roamed around Trinidad. The one exception to keeping my mouth shut was Jackie’s involvement in his life. Weeks before, I had let Aron know that I could guess what Jackie would like for her 30th birthday. But he didn’t need to be cajoled, because he had a plan. They had been fully committed for years.
I asked to speak with her. “I’ve thought of you as a daughter for a long time, but it’s nice to have it official.” Perhaps she too was tearful, because she handed the phone back to Aron. For three years, she has been present for some great celebrations: anniversaries, birthdays, bat mitzvahs, weddings, and births. She has also been with us during difficult illnesses and tragic death. Last summer she spent nine days with us while we kept a sad vigil, and then dealt with a funeral and shiva. She seemed to know when to listen, when to hug, when to offer to cook, and when to sit quietly.
My son met her during his freshman year. They acted together, most memorably in “Inspector General” and “Arcadia”. She graduated and moved to Los Angeles, yet the friendship continued. It was meant to be, as their friends have said. When she moved to New York to attend journalism school, she contacted him. They have been a couple ever since. Visually, they look alike with their dark hair, brown eyes, and slim bodies. Together, they can usually share one chair.
“I cannot wait to give you hugs of congratulations!” I exclaimed. We ended our conversation so Aron could phone his dad and his siblings. His dad later commented to me: “If this is what our family is becoming, I feel very lucky”. As a mother, I’ve always hoped that my children would find true love. Recently Aron told his grandfather Maury that Jackie is the love of his life. They complete one another, intellectually and emotionally.
I put my grocery bag down on the counter, all the while picturing toddler Aron with his thick brown curls, riding his fire truck through our Wayland yard. At other milestones in his life, I have somehow gone back to that image. He is even wearing a bulky sweater that his great grandmother Sarah knitted for him. Perhaps this vignette enters my mind because when he was eighteen months old, I said to myself: he is incredibly cute; I wish I could freeze him at this stage.
“I am so happy for both of you…you know this is what I’ve been waiting for.” As a mother, I’ve always hoped to launch my children, to give them opportunities yet clear boundaries. When they became young adults, I bit my tongue and didn’t tell them what I thought they should do. I clenched my teeth when Aron climbed Kilimanjaro, wandered in Zanzibar, and roamed around Trinidad. The one exception to keeping my mouth shut was Jackie’s involvement in his life. Weeks before, I had let Aron know that I could guess what Jackie would like for her 30th birthday. But he didn’t need to be cajoled, because he had a plan. They had been fully committed for years.
I asked to speak with her. “I’ve thought of you as a daughter for a long time, but it’s nice to have it official.” Perhaps she too was tearful, because she handed the phone back to Aron. For three years, she has been present for some great celebrations: anniversaries, birthdays, bat mitzvahs, weddings, and births. She has also been with us during difficult illnesses and tragic death. Last summer she spent nine days with us while we kept a sad vigil, and then dealt with a funeral and shiva. She seemed to know when to listen, when to hug, when to offer to cook, and when to sit quietly.
My son met her during his freshman year. They acted together, most memorably in “Inspector General” and “Arcadia”. She graduated and moved to Los Angeles, yet the friendship continued. It was meant to be, as their friends have said. When she moved to New York to attend journalism school, she contacted him. They have been a couple ever since. Visually, they look alike with their dark hair, brown eyes, and slim bodies. Together, they can usually share one chair.
“I cannot wait to give you hugs of congratulations!” I exclaimed. We ended our conversation so Aron could phone his dad and his siblings. His dad later commented to me: “If this is what our family is becoming, I feel very lucky”. As a mother, I’ve always hoped that my children would find true love. Recently Aron told his grandfather Maury that Jackie is the love of his life. They complete one another, intellectually and emotionally.
Colonial Mexico
The chiming of church bells and the clanging of cowbells melded together as we approached San Miguel de Allende, a colonial town in the heartland of Mexico. The tires on our rental car rubbed against the curbs of the narrow, cobblestone streets. Giggling schoolchildren, making their way home for lunch, clustered in groups on the sidewalks.
The stucco buildings are restored haciendas from the 17th and 18th centuries. You can peek inside the cooling courtyards filled with flowering plants potted in ceramic urns. Red hibiscus, orange lilies, lavender bougainvillea and white gardenia greet the eye. Sometimes I spotted a fountain in the center of a courtyard. The stucco walls could be painted terracotta, ochre, rose or deep blue. The carved wooden entry doors might be latched to block out the street noise.
As my husband and I walked on Calle Correo, the raindrops punctuated the strong sunlight. The soles of our shoes gripped the slippery stones. The sidewalks often had space for only one person. I had read that the correct protocol is to step down into the street if an elderly couple or a parent with a child approaches, as long as you are the one facing the oncoming traffic. We stopped for lunch at El Pegaso where arrachera, tender beef, was accompanied by refried beans, spicy salsa and smooth guacamole.
The heartland is at the center of the country and is fertile territory. The lush mountains covered with pine-oak forests and deep green prickly pear cacti patches surprised us. We had imagined a barren, arid Mexican landscape. In the 1500’s, the Spaniards discovered this promising land, rich with silver mines. It was only a matter of time before they set out to conquer it. Under Spanish rule for centuries, enchanting towns like San Miguel de Allende flourished. The buildings from that period still line the streets and pepper the hillsides. Those that are restored provide a glimpse of life during that era.
As we continued to meander, we found that some streets were closed while crews of men were resetting the stones by hand. Earmarked as a national historic site many decades ago, San Miguel’s old world charm is protected. Fabrica La Aurora, a collection of artists’ studios and galleries located in an abandoned cotton mill is situated at one end of town. This building is an excellent example of the creative way in which older structures are regularly adapted for reuse. We enjoyed meeting weavers, metal sculptors and painters while we viewed their work.
When we wandered closer to La Buena Vida Bakery, we inhaled the scent of freshly baked breads, muffins and rolls. Meringue hearts topped with fresh raspberries and cream, crunchy vermicelli pancakes added to black bean soup, and boneless chicken breasts stuffed with ham and caramelized onions were some of the dishes we savored at Casa de Sierra Nevada, the renovated villa where we were staying. We learned that the values of home cooking, family and church are vitally important in this country. Recipes are passed down from one generation to the next, because food is a way to nurture and to love. Even the smallest village has a central square with a church providing its focal point. Here the main plaza is called El Jardin. A Gothic cathedral looms beside it.
At Casa de Sierra Nevada, the young man at the reception desk knew that it was my birthday. That afternoon our room was strewn with dozens of red rose petals, chocolates and flickering votives. On our bureau was a startling bouquet of white lilies. In the morning as we prepared to leave, I realized it was impossible for us to take the large glass vase with us. On the inn’s patio, I saw that a baby shower was about to begin. I handed my flowers to the guest of honor who was imminently expecting her first son. She and the other women in her extended family hugged me, and communicated with their limited English and my inadequate Spanish, that my husband and I should take a basket of their enticing pastries so we wouldn’t get hungry on the road.
Our next destination was Guanajuato, the birthplace of famed muralist Diego Rivera and a university town, which is now a World Heritage site. On the way we stopped at Dolores Hidalgo, a small hamlet where the insurgency against Spanish rule began. Here in 1810, Father Miguel Hidalgo delivered an inspiring sermon that strengthened the Mexican resolve to win independence. Further along the winding route is Santa Rosa. Impressive urns strategically placed by the side of the road beckoned us to stop. We parked at the Mayolicas factory store and were greeted by Rosa who explained that the patriarch of the family had started the company forty years earlier. It has grown and now supports fifty families in this picturesque village. Vases, pitchers and platters are hand turned on the wheel. Rosa showed us inside the factory where artisans, both family members and other town residents, paint intricate designs on each piece.
The road to Guanajuato climbs sharply through the mountains. The town is nestled in the hills. After a major flood in 1905, the river was diverted and a tunnel system was created that successfully keeps traffic away from the historic center and leaves many of the streets for pedestrians only. Jardin Union, the main plaza, is a hub of activity with leather-faced men wearing either sombreros or NY baseball caps while they sell woven shawls, ponchos and vests. Ancient women sit on benches, chatting and clutching their handbags on their laps. University students wearing jeans and logo tee shirts are smoking cigarettes. Mothers promenade with their babies and shepherd youngsters in school uniforms selling packages of chicklets. There are strolling mariachi players, mimes and magicians.
Behind the plaza is a maze of bustling alleyways. Houses painted lavender, turquoise, orange, red, bright blue or yellow rise steeply along these passageways. Dogs bark from wrought iron balconies while residents sweep their front stoops. Toddlers stare curiously at us while two little girls shyly wave.
The Museo Casa Diego Rivera has many drawings as well as some of the studies that the artist completed in preparation for his giant murals. Perhaps the most famous of these is “A Dream of a Sunday Afternoon in Alameda Park”. Since the time of the Aztecs, Alameda Park has been a central part of life in Mexico City. In this piece of art, Rivera chronicles his own life and highlights pivotal figures in Mexican history. He whimsically adds a likeness of himself as a young boy and a portrait of his wife, the painter Frida Kahlo. Another museum worth a detour is Museo Iconografico del Quijote that houses one man’s private collection of all things inspired by Cervantes’ Don Quixote. There are paintings, sculptures, tapestries and books. This museum’s benefactor, Eulalio Ferrer, was a Spanish journalist who was imprisoned in a Spanish concentration camp. His vision of the man of La Mancha sustained him during this difficult period.
At the edge of the Jardin, we stopped for crepes and café con leche at an outdoor table in front of the Hotel Museo Posada Santa Fe. From our vantage point, we looked up at the Greek muses gazing down from the roof of the Teatro Juarez, a neo-classical theatre dating from 1903. This building is a stunning composition of multi-colored local limestone. Costumed musicians gathered on the bandstand in the middle of the plaza while my husband and I perused our guidebooks, and marveled at the territory we had covered in five days.
If you go:
Many airlines fly Boston-Leon: American, Continental, Northwest and Delta. They connect through Dallas, Houston, Detroit and Atlanta. After renting a car at the airport, it took us under two hours to drive to San Miguel. Guanajuato is 45 minutes from the airport. We have some Spanish comprehension and some ability to speak the language. English can be scarce in many places.
In addition to the Casa de Sierra Nevada in San Miguel de Allende, I noted Villa Jacaranda, a warm and inviting property near the Jardin. The Vista Real Hotel has a grand view of the valley, lovely gardens, and a restaurant.
We stayed at Villa Maria Cristina in Guanajuato. It is a glorious, restored hacienda that requires walking 25 minutes to the historic center. We enjoyed the exercise and the calm of sleeping at a distance from the hectic activity. It is easy to find taxis if you are tired of walking. Options in town are the Hotel Museo Posada Santa Fe, a historic inn dating from the 1860’s that is right on the main plaza. Hosteria del Frayle, dates from the 1670’s when the building was used as an ore refinery. Now it is an appealing hotel near Jardin Union.
November-May brings pleasant weather, sunny days in the 70’s and nights cooling to the high 40’s. We experienced one passing shower, and warm evenings.
The stucco buildings are restored haciendas from the 17th and 18th centuries. You can peek inside the cooling courtyards filled with flowering plants potted in ceramic urns. Red hibiscus, orange lilies, lavender bougainvillea and white gardenia greet the eye. Sometimes I spotted a fountain in the center of a courtyard. The stucco walls could be painted terracotta, ochre, rose or deep blue. The carved wooden entry doors might be latched to block out the street noise.
As my husband and I walked on Calle Correo, the raindrops punctuated the strong sunlight. The soles of our shoes gripped the slippery stones. The sidewalks often had space for only one person. I had read that the correct protocol is to step down into the street if an elderly couple or a parent with a child approaches, as long as you are the one facing the oncoming traffic. We stopped for lunch at El Pegaso where arrachera, tender beef, was accompanied by refried beans, spicy salsa and smooth guacamole.
The heartland is at the center of the country and is fertile territory. The lush mountains covered with pine-oak forests and deep green prickly pear cacti patches surprised us. We had imagined a barren, arid Mexican landscape. In the 1500’s, the Spaniards discovered this promising land, rich with silver mines. It was only a matter of time before they set out to conquer it. Under Spanish rule for centuries, enchanting towns like San Miguel de Allende flourished. The buildings from that period still line the streets and pepper the hillsides. Those that are restored provide a glimpse of life during that era.
As we continued to meander, we found that some streets were closed while crews of men were resetting the stones by hand. Earmarked as a national historic site many decades ago, San Miguel’s old world charm is protected. Fabrica La Aurora, a collection of artists’ studios and galleries located in an abandoned cotton mill is situated at one end of town. This building is an excellent example of the creative way in which older structures are regularly adapted for reuse. We enjoyed meeting weavers, metal sculptors and painters while we viewed their work.
When we wandered closer to La Buena Vida Bakery, we inhaled the scent of freshly baked breads, muffins and rolls. Meringue hearts topped with fresh raspberries and cream, crunchy vermicelli pancakes added to black bean soup, and boneless chicken breasts stuffed with ham and caramelized onions were some of the dishes we savored at Casa de Sierra Nevada, the renovated villa where we were staying. We learned that the values of home cooking, family and church are vitally important in this country. Recipes are passed down from one generation to the next, because food is a way to nurture and to love. Even the smallest village has a central square with a church providing its focal point. Here the main plaza is called El Jardin. A Gothic cathedral looms beside it.
At Casa de Sierra Nevada, the young man at the reception desk knew that it was my birthday. That afternoon our room was strewn with dozens of red rose petals, chocolates and flickering votives. On our bureau was a startling bouquet of white lilies. In the morning as we prepared to leave, I realized it was impossible for us to take the large glass vase with us. On the inn’s patio, I saw that a baby shower was about to begin. I handed my flowers to the guest of honor who was imminently expecting her first son. She and the other women in her extended family hugged me, and communicated with their limited English and my inadequate Spanish, that my husband and I should take a basket of their enticing pastries so we wouldn’t get hungry on the road.
Our next destination was Guanajuato, the birthplace of famed muralist Diego Rivera and a university town, which is now a World Heritage site. On the way we stopped at Dolores Hidalgo, a small hamlet where the insurgency against Spanish rule began. Here in 1810, Father Miguel Hidalgo delivered an inspiring sermon that strengthened the Mexican resolve to win independence. Further along the winding route is Santa Rosa. Impressive urns strategically placed by the side of the road beckoned us to stop. We parked at the Mayolicas factory store and were greeted by Rosa who explained that the patriarch of the family had started the company forty years earlier. It has grown and now supports fifty families in this picturesque village. Vases, pitchers and platters are hand turned on the wheel. Rosa showed us inside the factory where artisans, both family members and other town residents, paint intricate designs on each piece.
The road to Guanajuato climbs sharply through the mountains. The town is nestled in the hills. After a major flood in 1905, the river was diverted and a tunnel system was created that successfully keeps traffic away from the historic center and leaves many of the streets for pedestrians only. Jardin Union, the main plaza, is a hub of activity with leather-faced men wearing either sombreros or NY baseball caps while they sell woven shawls, ponchos and vests. Ancient women sit on benches, chatting and clutching their handbags on their laps. University students wearing jeans and logo tee shirts are smoking cigarettes. Mothers promenade with their babies and shepherd youngsters in school uniforms selling packages of chicklets. There are strolling mariachi players, mimes and magicians.
Behind the plaza is a maze of bustling alleyways. Houses painted lavender, turquoise, orange, red, bright blue or yellow rise steeply along these passageways. Dogs bark from wrought iron balconies while residents sweep their front stoops. Toddlers stare curiously at us while two little girls shyly wave.
The Museo Casa Diego Rivera has many drawings as well as some of the studies that the artist completed in preparation for his giant murals. Perhaps the most famous of these is “A Dream of a Sunday Afternoon in Alameda Park”. Since the time of the Aztecs, Alameda Park has been a central part of life in Mexico City. In this piece of art, Rivera chronicles his own life and highlights pivotal figures in Mexican history. He whimsically adds a likeness of himself as a young boy and a portrait of his wife, the painter Frida Kahlo. Another museum worth a detour is Museo Iconografico del Quijote that houses one man’s private collection of all things inspired by Cervantes’ Don Quixote. There are paintings, sculptures, tapestries and books. This museum’s benefactor, Eulalio Ferrer, was a Spanish journalist who was imprisoned in a Spanish concentration camp. His vision of the man of La Mancha sustained him during this difficult period.
At the edge of the Jardin, we stopped for crepes and café con leche at an outdoor table in front of the Hotel Museo Posada Santa Fe. From our vantage point, we looked up at the Greek muses gazing down from the roof of the Teatro Juarez, a neo-classical theatre dating from 1903. This building is a stunning composition of multi-colored local limestone. Costumed musicians gathered on the bandstand in the middle of the plaza while my husband and I perused our guidebooks, and marveled at the territory we had covered in five days.
If you go:
Many airlines fly Boston-Leon: American, Continental, Northwest and Delta. They connect through Dallas, Houston, Detroit and Atlanta. After renting a car at the airport, it took us under two hours to drive to San Miguel. Guanajuato is 45 minutes from the airport. We have some Spanish comprehension and some ability to speak the language. English can be scarce in many places.
In addition to the Casa de Sierra Nevada in San Miguel de Allende, I noted Villa Jacaranda, a warm and inviting property near the Jardin. The Vista Real Hotel has a grand view of the valley, lovely gardens, and a restaurant.
We stayed at Villa Maria Cristina in Guanajuato. It is a glorious, restored hacienda that requires walking 25 minutes to the historic center. We enjoyed the exercise and the calm of sleeping at a distance from the hectic activity. It is easy to find taxis if you are tired of walking. Options in town are the Hotel Museo Posada Santa Fe, a historic inn dating from the 1860’s that is right on the main plaza. Hosteria del Frayle, dates from the 1670’s when the building was used as an ore refinery. Now it is an appealing hotel near Jardin Union.
November-May brings pleasant weather, sunny days in the 70’s and nights cooling to the high 40’s. We experienced one passing shower, and warm evenings.
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