Madrid to León: eighteen hours. We stumble off the plane. Nothing to declare. We get the red light anyway. A porter, his hand truck piled high with suitcases cuts in front of us at the inspection table. Mexican queue discipline.

We see Manuel's smiling face, waiting with his van to drive us home. Only an hour and a half longer now, bumping over topes and potholes—a far cry from European Union highways. Topping a rise, we see the far-off lights of San Miguel de Allende. Forty minutes more. It's dark when we reach our door.

Rosie greets us, launching herself into the air, bouncing across the floor. She grabs the stuffed animal we brought her and prances back and forth with it.

Rosario has left us a salad and some pasta with fresh tomato sauce. Mexican food. Really. You don't think Mexicanos just eat tacos, do you?

We eat our supper, then curl up in our comfy bed with Rose.

—§—

A month ago, San Miguel was just coming into the hot, dusty season, a great reason to be someplace else. Today, the rainy season has begun. Our timing was perfect. Looking west from the bluffs overlooking town, I can see a cloudburst obscuring my view of the Sierra de Guanajuato.

We've got another couple of months before everything turns green and wildflowers carpet the hillsides.

Prickly pear cactus—is it our Official National Plant? After all, it's on the flag. I take Rose up to the Landeta County Park for an outing, and to get a cactus fix. To assure myself I'm really back in Mexico.

The fruits are ripening. Soon roadside stands will be selling them. Tunas. Gringos call them prickly pears and mostly don't eat them. They're missing out.

They taste a little like watermelon. The beetles know. A bird pecked a hole in this tuna and created a feast for the insects.

I went to Spain for stimulation and excitement. I came home to get away from all that. In Europe, I tried to take in an entire country in one gulp. Here, I can quietly contemplate minutiae.