San Miguel seems to have more than its share of old people. Lots of folks come here to retire, while young adults move away in search of employment.



The gringa pictured on the right apparently doesn't have to work anymore. Her untroubled face framed by her smart hat and designer sunglasses tells us as much. Nor is she a slave to fashion; with maturity such things pale in importance. The baggy pants, the tacky Nike swoosh sweatshirt coupled with the nice leather bag and the rock on her left ring finger say, "I don't have to impress anyone anymore."

Naturally things are different for the Mexicana. Her apron tells us she still works, either as a housekeeper or a cook for someone like our gringa, or as a homemaker for her own gamily. No retirement for her. No IRA, no social security, no pension. Her rebozo appears to me to be more stylish than the Norteamericano's hat, but then, I am a fashion cretin.

I'm struck by how their characters show in their faces.



The Norteamericana seems cultured, elegant, aristocratic. Her feature look soft, a little tentative—until you notice her iron grip on the strap of her bag. Don't doubt it for a moment; she can take care of herself.

The Mexicana's face tells the story of the troubles she's seen. Her life has not been easy, but she's handled whatever came her way. She's strong, capable, determined.

Two grandmothers, two different lives, two iron constitutions. It's a sure bet they've never spoken to one another. Too bad. They probably could find a lot in common.

These ladies are making baskets of dried flower arrangements, as they do every day.



They appear to create most of their wares right where they sell them, under the portico on the west side of the Jardín. Their enterprise lends a pleasant air to the scene.

Some years ago, the woman pictured below was among their number.



I haven't seen her in recent months. I miss her placid, dignified face, and the comfortable constancy of her presence on the plaza.

Almost a year ago, I posted on the subject of the high-tech toilets Jean and I found during our trip to Japan. In particular, I noted that they came with warning labels because they were electrified, so what with all those fluids flying around, we would be taking on some incremental risk over using old-fashioned passive toilets. The problem the labels warned about was danger of electric shock.

As it happens, the problem, now that it has materialized, isn't electric shock. It's flames. Apparently a manufacturing defect caused a few to catch fire, forcing the manufacturer to recall 180,000 of them. The company spokeswoman's remarks are rich: "The fire would have been just under your buttocks."

What has happened, as I pointed out in my previous post, is that a simple device has become overcomplicated.

God only knows what's in one of these things. The controls alone require some sort of manual to decipher. Let's see. Stop. I got that one. Whatever it's doing, some time or another, you're gonna want it to stop. Water pressure: that could get interesting. Warm seat, deoderizer: we can figure those out.

But what does "standby" mean? Causes one to ponder, doesn't it?

The pink button apparently is used when ladies wish to elevate themselves on a gentle cloud of mist. The blue button is, of course, only for use by males who are members of the Omega Gamma fraternity.

Toilets have come a long way since the 16th century.

Or have they? No moving parts, no clogging, no overflow, no replacing flapper valves, no fires, no shocks, no warning labels: just a few minutes of solitude and relief. Maybe we need to re-think all this.

We don't have much industry in San Miguel de Allende. This is both a blessing and a curse: a blessing because it moderates development and growth so our town retains its low-key colonial character; a curse because there are few real career opportunities for our native daughters and sons.

Ambitious young people know they have to learn two things: English and computers. Then they can move to Querétaro or Léon and get a job in a manufacturing company where they have a chance of working up the ladder. It's tough on people whose culture values close-knit families. Among my English students, many had never traveled as far as Mexico City, less than four hours away. Mexicans want to stay near their parents, their siblings. They don't like to move away.

San Miguel used to have a carpet factory, but it became uncompetitive in the latter half of the 20th century. The old buildings now house a bunch of expensive art galleries and antique dealers—very chi-chi. A local girl can get a job there waiting on customers for, oh say, $3,000 pesos a month—if she speaks English and maybe knows a little something about selling art.

So what's left? Well, we have a small glass factory. My friend Paul Latoures is building a toy factory, but it's not up and running yet. Then, we have the dye works.



This is indeed a small manufactory. The building, the size of a large house, contains dye vats somewhere deep inside, out of view of passers-by. Thick yarns, once they're colored, are hung over parapets and the tinaco to dry in the sun.

The yarns are then woven into area rugs on these looms.



A truly 19th-century facility. All the machinery is hand-made out of wood. Note the wooden pawl-and-gear. Two-by-fours laid on the floor serve as treadles. I kind of like it.

I had to sneak in to take this photo. The owners are publicity-shy because they dump used dye solution into a creek which runs into the Presa Allende, our large agricultural reservoir. Pressure is building for them to knock it off. In response, they are circling their wagons.

The creek also receives effluent from the slaughterhouse. Consequently the waters, before they leave town under the bridge on the periferico, are incredibly nasty. But city officials say the slaughterhouse pollution problem will be solved by moving the facility to another location. (Sounds to me like we're exporting our problem to someone else.) When that happy day comes, the dye works will stand out as the major single pollution source in town (setting aside sewage from private homes) and they will surely have to move or shut down.

I don't think many tears will be shed. They don't provide many jobs anyway. But I'll miss those old looms, and the colored yarns draped on the building.

By Mexican standards, San Miguel de Allende is an expensive place to live, as is Banderas Bay and the Mayan Riviera.

Other small communities offer rock-bottom living costs. My friend Lupe Cano built a retirement house in his home town of Capilla de Milpillas, about an hour from Guadalajara. He and his wife, Berta, treated Jean and me to dinner at a local restaurant: tacos, pozole, flautas, beans and rice with four huge cokes in returnable glass bottles. The check for the table: $6.

The Cano family sits for a formal portrait.

His elegant four-bedroom 2,400 square foot home cost about $25,000 U. S., land and construction. Note the roll-up doors on the corner—just in case Berta decides to generate a little cash with a tiendita (little store).

Lupe's house in Capilla de Milpillas.
In those days, I needed suspenders to hold up my jeans.

Most Norteamericano retirees would not feel at home in Capilla de Milpillas. Few if any gringos live there, so fluency in Spanish and love of real Mexican culture unrelieved by cappuccino and hamburger joints would be essential. Too bad, 'cause you can't beat the cost of living there.

That's why so many expatriate Americans relocate to San Miguel. Here you get the same year round gentle climate, the challenge of living in another culture and learning another language, but you get to do it with thousands of people just like yourselves.

Some people snippily refer to San Miguel as "Mexico Lite." Well, OK. I admit it's nice to have neighbors who speak my native language. But I bet that here, it's just as hard to deal with Telmex or CFE (the power company) as it is in Gomez Palacio.

Moreover, San Miguel is a beautiful city, with preserved colonial architecture and a vibrant art community. Its popularity has driven up prices, so it's not the low-cost-of-living haven it once was. Many who come here would want one of the more centrally-located homes. These cost maybe $300,000 and up, up, up.

But all is not lost. This home, which belongs to my friend Pete, cost considerably less.

Milagro, the wonder dog, deters riffraff entering the premises.

Pete's two-bedroom, two-bath home is located in a subdivision called La Luciernega, about two miles from the city center. This development of all-new homes is completely sold out; the majority of owners are people form Mexico City and other conurbations looking for vacation homes, although some are being held unoccupied for investment.

Pete demonstrates his kitchen skills with a bottle of Be-Lite.

Pete says a neighbor bought a home here not long ago for $75,000, so current values have not yet reached six figures. Tough to find a home anywhere for so little money, much less one that is within walking distance of the new Gigante supermarket, the MM Multiplex, Office Max and McDonalds; a home that's a $2 taxi or a 40¢ bus ride from the Jardín.

Milagro, taking a break from guard duty in Pete's garden. Silly dog.

Owning his house free and clear, Pete's living expenses could be amply covered by Social Security retirement benefits, with money left over for exploring Mexico.

So despite rising prices, it still can be done—retiring in San Miguel on Social Security. And what's amazing is that it can be done in a place that is repeatedly ranked among the top ten retirement cities in North America, by magazines like Forbes. Beats the hell out of a double-wide in Altus, Arkansas or a third-floor walk-up in Hackensack, NJ.