Under San Miguel's spell

When I reached what I call the Continental Divide of my existence — age 50 — and discovered half my life behind me and half in front (or so the longevity in my family would lead me to believe), I was perplexed. Should I head east? West? Should I stay in the milieu I have called home off and on for most of my life? Or would it be more productive to shake it all up and recreate myself?

As I pondered the possible geography of my future, many tempting locales came to mind. Yet none stuck with me quite as tenaciously as San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.

Built into the side of a hill, San Miguel faces a plateau edged with craggy mountains that cut the sunset into fiery splinters. For half the year, the landscape is arid and Arizona-like; the other half, it’s a lush, flowered spectacle. Recently dubbed a UNESCO World Heritage Site, most residents merely wonder why it took so long.

San Miguel's undeniable draw

I’d been six times in 12 years. I’d made friends there — in Spanish lessons, on bird walks, at yoga classes, by connecting with expats whose conversations I overheard in cafés and while reading the local English-language newspaper in the world-famous central square, the Jardín.

The small colonial town had always been kind, returning me to my northern existence reinvigorated and relaxed. But now the question about going back was more pressing: I needed a setting that would encourage a new sense of purpose. Silly me, I thought, a place doesn’t do that — you do. But still, San Miguel had always had a nurturing effect, prompting me to explore my creativity much more profoundly than I would back home.

I decided to rent a house and, in my quest to discover how others had evolved in this magical environment, I met Sandra Gulland.