After four months here in San Miguel it was time to take a break from our break from our routine in the States. Part of our intent in spending extended time in San Miguel was to afford the opportunity of exploring some of Mexico we’d not yet seen. One place highly recommended was the Reserva de la Biosfera Mariposa Monarca, the Monarch butterfly preserve in Michoacán state. After some preliminary Internet research we decided on a 5-day trip in late November, using the city of Morelia as our base of operations. We’d spend a day exploring Morelia, a day at the reserve, and then a final day in Pátzcuaro before heading back to San Miguel. Two days would be needed for travel.

Getting to Morelia by bus from San Miguel is almost an all-day affair with a connection in Queretaro an hour to the southeast. We arrived in Morelia in early evening, having left San Miguel around 10:30am, and took a white-knuckle taxi ride from the bus station to our hotel downtown. Morelia is a cosmopolitan city with the usual press of cars and people found in larger cities. The city center, or zocolo, is dominated by the impressive double-towered Cathedral, a combination of Herreresque, baroque, and neoclassical architectural styles. Built between 1640 and 1744 it remains a marvel of construction and artistic detail. Open plazas stretch on both sides of the Cathedral to the east and west. Dramatic stone buildings with archways, called portals, line the streets of the zocolo. Originally private mansions, they now are hotels and shops. There is a European feel about the city and an air of wealth, both past and present. The only street vendors we saw were a couple balloon merchants, and the streets were conspicuously absent of beggars.

To see the Monarchs we hired a private tour guide to drive us and handle all the particulars of getting into the preserve, which is about a 3-hour drive from Morelia. The complicated logistics and remoteness of the preserve made hiring a guide the most reasonable approach. Our guide, Eric, spoke very good English and not only drove us to the sanctuary but also accompanied us up the mountain to the butterflies. Besides Dave and myself, the tour included only one other couple from Bristol, England who’d been in Mexico for about 3 weeks.

The Monarch butterflies congregate in the high altitudes of the preserve, clustering by the thousands in pine trees so that their branches are weighted down like snow. A local guide walked us up the steep trails and into the underbrush in search of the Monarch’s resting spot for the day. They move around from day to day so the guide’s familiarity with their movement makes it easier to find them. As I struggled up the trail breathing heavily and inhaling a chocolate bar, I wondered how we would manage to find the little buggers in all of the massive forest around us. Looking up, we could see a few individual butterflies far up in the trees’ canopies. I doubted our ability to find a whole group. With a little re-direction from another guide taking a couple and their child up, we stopped before a grouping of trees near the top of the trail. I couldn’t really see what everyone was looking at in spite of Eric describing what should appear as light colored leaves hanging from the pine branches. We made our way around to the opposite side of the trees, just downhill from our original approach, and at an angle more illuminated by the sun. Suddenly, the trees became a sculpture made of butterflies, literally hanging by the thousands from the trees’ limbs, individuals gliding and flitting in slow, graceful trails through the air. Even without direct sunlight their presence was a spectacle.

We became instantly quiet, and I sank onto a tree stump to take in this impossible sight not 10 feet before my eyes. Butterflies twirling, orange wings flapping in lazy elliptical patterns, gliding overhead and then coming to rest on leaves and ground cover all around us. The masses of butterflies clinging to the trees spoke to the incomprehensible effort for each to arrive at their destination and the sacrifice others had made in attempting it. I wondered at these infinitely fragile creatures overcoming such insurmountable odds over several generations to return each year to the same place, and their triumph as a group year after year that makes their survival as a species possible. I sat in humbled silence to be witness to their journey and knew that this would be one of the unforgettable highlights of my life.

The next day we took a bus to Pátzcuaro, a small town about an hour southwest of Morelia. Pátzcuaro sits on the shore of Lago de Pátzcuaro (Pátzcuaro Lake) where local fisherman historically plied the water in distinctive boats and caught their fish in butterfly nets. Today the fishing continues but pollution makes consumption of the fish rather risky. Pottery, textiles, and lacquerware are among the popular crafts the city is noted for. We wandered the main square, a large open green space with broad sidewalks and trees, and noted that fall had come to Pátzcuaro. Yellow leaves littered the ground, and we scattered them with our feet as we walked. A short bus ride took us to the neighboring town of Tzintzuntzan, home to the pre-historic Tarasco empire. Their artisan market overflowed with colorful woven Christmas decorations, reminding us of the season upon us. A walk through Ex-Convento de San Francisco revealed two churches, one for the Franciscan monks who built the complex, and one for the Tarascos, a dark, intimate church smelling of age and dankness. Withering olive trees – said to be the oldest in the Americas – dotted the churchyard.

On Friday before catching the first bus in a series of three to take us home, we climbed a staired path to the east of the main square in Pátzcuaro and sat on a rock overlooking the center of town. The red tiled roofs of the buildings shone through the morning haze, exposing a city with both historical patina and old world charm. One more moment to reflect on the week’s events before heading off on the journey home.

—Stef

The sun has put down a nice placid sky for the evening, with a slice of smoky gray laying low above the distant mountains. This is the season of burning fields, land purposely put to the torch to burn off dry grasses and underbrush. Black-charred fields multiply each day in the open areas around San Miguel and each evening brings new columns of smoke rising behind the city. The ground is set for renewal and the color of anticipation is black.

We set out for San Miguel Viejo this morning, walking to where we think we can catch the bus to take us there. The Mercado of San Juan de Dios has a bus park beside it where we picked up the Cineguita bus a few weeks ago. San Miguel Viejo is off in a similar direction but no buses seemed to be headed there today. Its Sunday, December 12th and today the patron saint of the Americas is honored with song, dance and worship. The Virgen de Guadalupe appeared to Juan Diego, a Mexican Indian peasant farmer, in 1531 and he carried her image emblazoned on his cloak back to the bishop as proof of seeing the vision and receiving the message. That cloak is the centerpiece of the Basilica de Santa Maria de Guadalupe in the north of Mexico City where 2.3 million faithful are gathered this weekend to honor her. In San Miguel, we listened to an out of tune mariachi band accompany a fine tenor singing a song in her honor at a small shrine near the Mercado.

The Virgen has developed quite a following over the years as she represents different things to different people. The armies of Father Hidalgo and Morelas carried her image as their standard into battle. The mestiztos and Indians of Mexico honor her because she specifically reached out to the indigenous people and spoke to one of their own, side-stepping the established Catholic institutions. The feminists of today have taken to her as a counterpoint to the dominant masculine projection of God’s image in Christianity. In common is her powerful, real presence in the lives of millions of people, an influence not limited to Catholics. To some she has become the great unifier of spiritual people of all races. To some she is an embodiment of the earth mother, and very little is required of her Catholic lineage.

We give up on the bus idea and jump in a cab for San Miguel Viejo. We are headed for the original settlement location, Old San Miguel. Fray Juan de San Miguel set up his first mission there and stayed until, as legend has it, his dogs wandered off and were found resting near the natural spring known today as El Chorro, in present day San Miguel. The settlers thought the dogs knew better and moved to where they were.

The taxi driver takes us out across the railroad tracks and bears left heading down a small penisula that juts into Presa San Miguel, the man-made lake in the valley. We pass a group of people parading back towards town with red and white balloons, carrying a small santo that may well be Our Lady. We drive on down the shaded lane and into the dusty brick and cactus fences of the pueblo. Our driver isn’t sure of the location of the templo but is soon set on course after quizzing a lady outside her small shop. He drops us just outside the edge of town, by a maize field within site of the mission church. Stef and I head down the dirt and cobblestone path towards the small red-brown mission church, all that remains of Fray Juan’s original settlement. The church sits by itself in dramatic relief against the surrounding countryside. The corn stubble, cows and alfalfa fields wrap a silence around the church and a great mesquite tree leans overhead. The terrain behind the church rolls down to the lake and rises up beyond into deep blue mountains.

We walk into the courtyard and look up at the detail on the edifice. Christian symbols mixed with pie-shaped peyote buds, snakes and saints all blessed by the quiet purity of this reverential site. We take turns peeking in the keyhole since the door seems locked. A candle burns inside and small windows contribute to provide just enough light to see a dim altar presenting an image of the Virgen. I try to get my fingers in the cracks of the door to see if its just wedged shut since there are no visible locks. The door remains resolute and we are at last resigned to getting only tantalizing glimpses through a keyhole.

Black ibis fly by in groups of three and four. Two caballeros ride their horses up from the lake carrying crisply turned white hats on their heads. A great stack of corn shocks is piled high outside the wall where Stefanie sits to look out towards the egrets by the lake. I sit in the courtyard. I snap a few pictures and then I try to raise the spirit of this old church to ask where it came from and to find out where we might be going. There’s a knowing in this place and I guess I’ve come to ask. Just in case the mood is conversational.

The day moves past noon and soon we are walking to town in bamboo shade along our path returning.

—Dave

I think our vision of December in Mexico was one of sunny, warm days with slightly cooler nights. The dry season begins in September so we anticipated continued idyllic t-shirt weather. I guess we missed the part about cold weather this time of year in our guidebook. Gray clouds greeted us one morning at the beginning of December and have been a frequent visitor since then, along with temperatures in the 50’s and 60’s during the day while dipping into the 30’s at night. That makes for interesting living without central heat. Thankfully, we have a gas space heater in our living/kitchen area, which we crank up during the day. After our first frigid night I remembered the down comforter on our closet shelf, and we’ve been snug ever since with flannel sheets, wool blanket, cotton blanket, and poly-fill comforter besides the down. Dave declared this morning that it’s felt like we’ve been camping these past 2 weeks what with the ever-present chill in the air, especially in the morning, requiring us to light the fire and wearing the same limited supply of cold weather clothes just about every day.

We have become a familiar couple to our Mexican neighborhood over the 4 1/2 months we’ve lived here. Though we only know a handful of our neighbors, we’ve come to feel a part of the community. We recognize the sellers’ calls (“Agua Santorini!”), the ding!-ding!-ding! alerting us of the trash men, the ear-piercing whistle of the neighbor boys who sit outside our house on the curb, and the bark of our the dog next door. Since school started, we’ve come to expect the teenage couple entwined “belly-to-belly”, as they used to say in my high school, across the street from us each afternoon before classes. I throw milk bone dog biscuits to the white roof dog down the street from us as we pass by, and I routinely say “hi” to Ricky, a black pit bull who hangs on our street and is a favorite with the kids. He always comes sauntering over for a little pat to the head.

Late last week the Christmas Posadas began and we wondered what our colonia would do for this very traditional occasion. Posadas (literally “inn” in Spanish) are a nightly event from December 16 through Christmas Eve re-enacting the plight of Mary and Joseph trying to find shelter for the night. Posadas have become a true community event with each colonia having their own procession. On the night of the 16th we began to hear singing soon after sundown, like carolers going door-to-door. From our living room balcony we could see a group of 30 or so people gathered outside our neighbor Raul’s gate along the calljon that runs down the hill from our street just to the north of us. People stood with candles illuminating their faces in the dark. Just inside the gate a smaller group stood, answering in verse those outside. Finally, the gate was opened and the children at the head of the procession carried the litter with the crèche inside the yard and placed it on a table in front of the house.

As we stood watching, our maid, Chela, spotted us and motioned for us to come and join them. With her second beckoning I knew that I had to go join in. This was an opportunity not to be missed, in spite of my trepidation at not knowing the rituals of the ceremony. I slipped on my jacket and gloves and hurried outside into the cold night, down the steps of the calljon to Raul’s gate. Chela was just inside, and we exchanged greetings and then stood for a moment with arms around each others’ waists. One of Chela’s daughters was near by, but that was the only other familiar face. Eyes turned in my direction, the only gringo present. Chela then moved into the yard amidst the rest of the gathering while I remained at the periphery, content to observe and be a silent part of their tradition. Voices raised in unison, young and old together singing from memory these songs to commemorate the night of the birth of Christ. Songs alternated with chants and spoken verses, and I understood but a few words. Yet it mattered little.

Soon Dave came to join me, and we stood together as the last song was sung into the night. The mood shifted from solemn to festive as bags of fruit and nuts were handed out to everyone. We were ushered inside the yard by a man standing next to me, in spite of our protestations, and given a bag as well. Raul appeared and welcomed us, bringing us glasses of hot fruited punche, quickly followed by a splash of Tequila for additional fortification against the cold. He then invited us inside to meet the rest of his family. Sitting on the couch watching 3 of the small children and trying to determine whether they were siblings, one of teenagers on our other side told us in English that they were cousins. The spell was broken, and one of the women across from us said, “Mama!” and pointed to herself. There followed a part English, part Spanish exchange of introductions and talk of our families.

Away from our own traditions, friends, and families it felt good to be included and welcomed by our neighbors. We watch nightly to see where the Posada will go and listen for the sounds of our neighbors’ voices to fill the night air. They bring a friendly warmth to the cold that has descended.

Feliz Navidad,

— Stef