Category Archives: Writings

photography, San Miguel de Allende, Writings

Revelling in those wide open spaces

We once lived in a house that had a 360-degree view of San Miguel de Allende from the rooftop.

We still live in the house but the view is mostly gone.

In its place is a three-story condo project that wraps around the two sides facing Centro, the Parroquia, and the sunrise. It would be oppressive were it not for the chiffon yellow paint job. Chiffon yellow tends to soothe.

At any rate, this picture is not about that.

This picture was taken many blocks away on the top floor of the Posada de Las Monjas hotel on Calle Canal. Twice a week I climb the Escher–like staircases to the top to take Pilates. The walk to the studio is almost as grueling as the class. But obviously worth it.

And I’m not just saying that because the instructor is my wife, Rose Alcantara.

This is the view from the studio.

On Monday , we were expecting a late-season shower. The clouds to the West looked promising. They apparently had business elsewhere. All we got were sprinkles.

And a spectacular view.

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San Miguel de Allende, Writings

So Others May Eat — so much more than a hot meal

We were mystified.

One minute, Dr. Grace Lim is delivering her weekly health talk on Wednesday to the nearly 120 guests of So Others May Eat in the Parroquia de San Miguel Arcangel courtyard. 

“Many of you only have each other,” she reminds the elderly San Miguelians, all over the age of 65. “You need to watch out for each other.”

A frail elderly woman reaches up and asks for the microphone and Dr. Lim hands it to her.

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fiction, San Miguel de Allende, Writings

A once-powerful man dies alone, in exile — an ending Chekhov could have written

“(His) gift for artifice notwithstanding, he’d spun such dense layers of fabrication that inevitably he lapsed into self-contradiction.” –  “Fantasia for Piano” By Mark Singer, Sept. 10, 2007, New Yorker magazine.

When the end came, it was a mere shadow of the audacious and raucous life that led up to it.

How sad. Imagine a man who promiscuously craved attention his entire life dying alone in a cold and dark room in a cold and dark dacha in the midst of a most unforgiving Russian winter. 

Or nearly alone. With him was the sullen old nurse who spoke little English and seemed to know more about boiling cabbage than ministering to a dying man. In her defense, boiled cabbage was valued more by her people than this corpulent and grotesque American who knew only how to complain.

“Everything,” she often told her husband as they ate dinner in the dacha kitchen. “There is nothing in this existence which is not out to make his life miserable. Just ask him. Jesus Christ did not suffer as much for all Mankind as this man thinks he suffers when the temperature drops just a few degrees.

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Reviews, San Miguel de Allende, Writings

Pro Musica’s opening concert sets a high mark for the coming season

Pro Musica kicked off its new season with a phenomenal duet, Adam Sadberry on flute and Chloe de Souza on piano.

We had a discussion the other night about High Season. Specifically, how do you know when it begins?

Somebody suggested you know when you can’t get a table at a restaurant you’ve been walking into for the past five months. Someone else thought Dia de los Muertos was the line of demarcation. Perhaps it’s when you can get an Uber every day of the week.

I decided that today officially marks the beginning of the “busy season.”

And the marker is the Pro Musica classical music concert series.

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Memoirs -- fact and fiction, photography, Scotland - West Highland Way, Writings

Q: What’s a Highlands hike like? A: It’s a Longfellow

Sorry for the Dad Joke. It just came to me in the wee hours of Sunday morning. Turns out, the Cosmos is as corny as I am.

“Hey, shiny new Artificial Intelligence program: Write me a poem about walking through the Scottish Highlands and do it in the style of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.”

OK, I didn’t do this. I may still do this — but I didn’t.

Not yet.

Recently, I re-read Longfellow’s “Song of Hiawatha” for the first time since my childhood.

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fiction, Rants and raves, San Miguel de Allende, Writings

Trump in exile: To the dacha we go, over wide and drifting snow

He awoke with a sharp grunt. Like someone had kicked him in the balls.

Come to think of it, it hurt down there, too. And he had to pee. Again.

“Driver,” he called to the front of the black town car. “Pull over. I have to piss again.”

“Can you hold it for about 10 minutes, Mr. Trump? This is a pretty bad place to pull over.”

“President. I told you to refer to me as President Trump. I don’t want to say it again.”

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photography, San Miguel de Allende, Scotland - West Highland Way, Uncategorized, Writings

Hiking the West Highland Way

There are many ways to hike Scotland’s often challenging 96-mile West Highland Way, between Milngavie and Fort William.

You can walk until you tire and pitch a tent. You can stay in posh hotels. You can stay in bunkrooms. You can stay in budget B&Bs. You can carry all your possessions in a backpack. You can have your luggage shipped to the next night’s lodging. You can dine in decent restaurants. You can eat in pubs. You can stock up on Ramen, fruit, and power bars at convenience stores.

One thing everyone has to do is walk the walk.

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photography, San Miguel de Allende, Scotland - West Highland Way, Writings

Hiking the West Highland Way: Day 10, walking with the ghosts of Argyll’s army in the shadow of Ben Nevis

At the top of the first climb of the day, looking back on Kinlochleven and River Leven.

Long hikes through Scotland’s Highlands are hardly a new concept.

Why, as far back as 1654, the 1st Marquess of Montrose (James Graham) marched his 1,500 Royalist troops and Irish mercenaries 36 miles south to Inverlochy in 36 hours in knee-deep snow to surprise the larger and better-stationed troops of the 1st Marquess of Argyll (Archibald Campbell).

Montrose quickly routed Argyll’s men in the battle just north of Fort William — the end point of our West Highland Way trek — and chased them down this path to the spot where I am standing, about 7.5 miles south of Fort William. Argyll’s men were slaughtered, not so much in battle, but in retreat. Barely 400 of his 1,900 troops survived. Montrose lost less than a dozen.

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photography, San Miguel de Allende, Scotland - West Highland Way, Writings

Hiking the West Highland Way: Day 9, conquering Devil’s Staircase — with Rose

Rose Alcantara drops a rock on the cairn atop Devil’s Staircase and makes a wish (perhaps that I could walk a little faster?)

The barmaid in the first pub you reach when you walk into Kinlochleven is keeping busy pulling drafts. Lots and lots of drafts. It is around 1:30 p.m. and the place is filled with hikers who already completed their 9.5 miles from Kingshouse.

There is a celebratory feel to the day’s finish, probably because one and all have conquered the steep switchback challenges of the Devil’s Staircase, the highest point along the entire West Highland Way.

They all have something else in common: Check-in time for lodgings all over Kinlochleven — as if by mandate — is 3 p.m. Hikers who aren’t filling the pub are sunning themselves in the nearby park, lounging on sidewalk benches, picking up supplies at the Co-op, or seeking other pubs and restaurants.

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photography, San Miguel de Allende, Scotland - West Highland Way, Writings

Hiking the West Highland Way: Day 8, into the land of the gods via lochs, munros and moors

Scotland’s most photographable structure: Black Rock Cottage (now known as The Ladies’ Scottish Climbing Club). Behind it rises the formidable-looking Bauchaille Etive Mor (“Great Herdsman of Etive”).

In Scotland, there are beinns and munros (hills and mountains). Hills are most anything below 3,000 feet and that is what we’ve been mostly skirting on the West Highland Way. They are impressive as you walk trails carved into their lower regions. They form majestic, sloping walls on either side of gentle glens.

Today we are heading into munro country but to reach it, we must cross 50 square miles of the Rannoch Moor, a boggy region of grasses and heather and scores of small ponds and lochanes. I don’t think anyone who wanders off across the moor would ever be heard from again. It is a beautiful and unforgiving place.

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