All Hell Breaks Loose on Avenida Zacateros

It had been fairly quiet until then, that is, our second visit to San Miguel de Allende, a haven for Americanos who like the colonial Mexico that comes without too many flies.  I drove here back in December of 2004, but that was before the cartels took ownership of la fronterra and made the stretch between Nuevo Laredo and Monterrey a little dicey.  Great drive--mostly on the cuota with spectacular scenery--you can make it from the border to San Miguel in nine hours and I hope to do it again once either the Gulf Cartel or the Zetas take sole possession and things quieten down.  This time, we flew to Leon where the hotel picked us up for the approximate 90 minute drive through some really drought stricken country--think Texas times two.
We stayed at a new joint that is run by the Rosewood people--hoity toity types who think they're a cut above everyone else.  It was certainly nice and new and the people were swell but you miss a little of San Miguel when your plumbing and a/c work perfectly and you never trip over that step that's a couple of inches different than the one before.  That said, the hotel had a men's toilet facility just down the stairs from our room which was quickly identified and pointed out to me by Mrs. Bulba for my use and enjoyment during the length of our stay.  I suppose this is a mostly universal occurrence; that whenever possible women will do whatever it takes to avoid any restroom facility recently visited by the male of the species.  Yes, Virginia, men are pigs.  Otherwise, like the rest of the hotels and restaurants in one of the premier destinations in Mexico, it was about a quarter occupied during the week (the uber-rich chilangos from Mexico City sort of fill up the place on weekends).  Yep, a sour economy and fear of multiple gunshot wounds can do that.
The chief attraction of the place is the fascinating architecture as you meander along the winding streets--the Mexicans were way ahead of the curve and recognized the uniqueness of the city way back in the 1920s, preventing any substantial change that would detract from what was and is there.  The gringos took to it after American GIs after WWII, found that they could get an art degree at an accredited school there, living cheaply and being generally unkempt and drunk and pleased with not having a bomb dropped on them.  Anyway, lots of art types, art galleries, artistes, art-a-ramas in San Miguel, along with chingas of shops dedicated to separating pesos from your wallet.  That's what we were doing on yet another day when just up ahead a few blocks, the proverbial shit hit the fan.  People running, sirens blasting, screams, the whole shooting match.  Essentially, at the juncture of Zacateros and and Codo, some kind of circus outfit that was in the process of trolling through town to advertise their arrival ran into a bit of unexpected trouble--it seems the truck pulling the two open barred cars containing three tigers and a lone jaguar became disconnected, an event apparently unknown to the driver who continued on happily, while the cat cars slid to a halt with the doors open to the urban wilds of Greater San Miguel.  The possible impending doom of this event did not escape the nearby food vendors who packed up with a speed not seen since the insurgentes rolled into town during the last revolution.  What saved a tragic (but also what would have been a spectacularly entertaining) event was that the unseasonably high temps (if you want a record heat wave, just ask Mrs. Bulba and I to book a flight to your city) that had the tigers and jaguar in a funk--they were sapped and pretty much decided to pass on the local fare and go with the regularly scheduled menu--running down food vendors on a hot day is an uncertain thing; some of them can turn out stringy and they go bad quickly.  As you might expect, sorting out the carnage took a while--the police on the scene had a helluva time making sense of it, but eventually the animal cars were re-hitched, the cages closed, and the the Greatest Show on El Mundo rolled on.
Notable in San Miguel are the far fewer touristas since the prior visit and a shocking scarcity of Texans--I counted three Texas plates the entire time I was there--apparently, I'm not the only one a little shy about motoring south through Nuevo Leon.  No, most of the Americans seem to be from recently arrived flights out of San Francisco or somewhere up north.  And, most all of them are in the 40+ range--San Miguel is not exactly a party destination.  Many of the women are wearing some sort of eco based fabric made out of hemp or cardboard or something.  A lot of them appear to be attempting to recreate a hippie phase that either once did or did not exist prior to marrying (and divorcing) a fairly successful patent attorney.  I'd overhear snippets of their conversations while sitting at some outdoor cafe on El Jardin (the central plaza) and the air would be pierced by a lot of terms like "empowerment" or other lame Oprahisms--the kind of stuff that instantly drives me bat shit crazy.  The men are mostly like Larry David, being generally unfriendly towards any other American face but fawning over an authentic local, obliviously tone deaf to their reverse racism.  Maybe that's too strong for it--let's just say they reflect the civility of where they're from.  Speaking of which, the hotel would deliver the condensed version of the New York Times, designed for cruise and resort passengers worldwide and I'd eye it every morning while having breakfast at the dive I discovered one day (40 pesos and damn good bacon).  If you read the Times every day, you may be immune to it, but if you're part of the great unwashed and prone to reading lesser publications, it can be an entertaining diversion.  The reporting carries just a tad bit of shade and the editorials read like instructional posts for their subscribers.  The best of the Times, in my humble opinion, are the quirky pieces on some obscure sport or pastime, or place.   The crossword puzzle is nice, too.


Tiger siesta on Zacateros.  Note the spiffy policia motorcycle.

 Made it back despite the best efforts of Continental Airlines--flying is a contact sport.