Some decades back I wrote a story called "Apples," about a man who, through various machinations, wound up on Avalon. Every day was wonderful and every day was the same, until, as Al Stewart once penned, "the days washed by like waves of an endless sea," and he was lost forever in dreams.
San Miguel de Allende could be like that, I think.
The weather is stable and predictable and lovely; the architecture remains in most part unchanged since the 19th century (at the latest); the streets are cobbled and walkable, and the rhythm of life is as close to eternal as you get. If you can't relax here, you can't relax anywhere.
Raine and I have been here for twenty-five days, and it feels like maybe a week. It would be so easy to fritter away our remaining time, without the familiar compass of work and obligation to guide our steps, but neither of us wants to fritter. There's so much to see and do; even if the lulling, beautiful days tell us to just let them go and bask in the forever moment.
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