“Don’t you know that people don’t walk on the sidewalks or in the street in San Miguel de Allende!” Roger joked when he learned I’d taken a nasty fall Thursday night.
Because of uneven sidewalks and roadways, ex-pats talk about falling a lot in San Miguel. I’d been so proud of myself celebrating the one year mark without taking a tumble – never walking anywhere without consciously reminding myself to watch it, spread my toes flat in my shoes, step around slick spots, etc. But, combine wine at dinner with Mary and David with a late night sprint to catch a cab and my record’s been broken.
Gawd it hurts to fall when you’re old. I’ve got the scraped knees, abraided palms, and split lip to prove it. The worst part was losing my glasses. Nothing broken. Skin will repair itself, but replacing my glasses will be pricey.
I’ve been wondering if San Miguel is the Venice of Mexico? Not the canal part of course, but the holiday and wedding part. On my first (train) trip to Venice my Italian company informed me that ‘everybody in Italy’ wanted to get married in Venice. My Mexican neighbors have told me many times, voices bursting with pride, that ‘everybody in Mexico’ wants to visit San Miguel. My dentist subscribes to society magazines where a bunch of weddings in San Miguel are strategically featured in center spreads. We already know that people flock here for the traditional festivities, of which it’s said that San Miguel has more than any other place in Mexico. That seals it for me.
Bad news for “She Who Smiles” this week.
When Mia first came in October I noticed she had a limp in her right front leg. I thought it might be a sprain from playing. Veterinarian Danny Cox physically examined her a few weeks later and concluded it was probably just a muscle pull. And the limp went away on its own.
But a couple of weeks ago when the rains started, the limp reappeared. Same leg, same limp. This time Gabrielle and I took Mia to Dr. Alma for an x-ray. What we learned is sad news indeed. Because of malnutrition as a puppy, Mi’s bones are not strong. She will need to take doggie arthritis medicine – probably for the rest of her life.
My time of fostering her is coming to an end. Now we must find a person willing to take a dog with a disability. “If they only knew her like I know her,” I cry inside.
I’m busy pulling it together to make the schlep back to the U.S. Now working with scraped knees and a split lip.
‘This too shall pass,’ I tell myself, but some days are longer than others.