There are certain experiences in life that sound charming in theory and feel like a personal vendetta in practice. The Mirador in San Miguel de Allende falls neatly into that category.
Now, if you’ve never heard of it, the Mirador is essentially a scenic lookout perched above the town, offering postcard-perfect views of terracotta rooftops, church spires, and that golden, late-afternoon glow that makes everyone briefly consider quitting their job and moving to Mexico. It’s lovely. Truly.
Getting there, however, is another matter entirely.
Let me translate it into Canadian: imagine climbing the stairs of the CN Tower for fun. Then add a dash of the Grouse Grind for personality. Sprinkle in 30-degree heat and the faint suspicion that you’ve made a series of poor life choices. That’s the Mirador walk.
Naturally, this is how our day unfolded.
The plan, you see, was simple. Innocent, even. A quick stop at El Manantial, a charming little bar we had spotted in a YouTube video. It promised excellent margaritas, Day of the Dead murals, and swinging saloon doors, which frankly sounds like the beginning of a very good decision. After that, a civilized dinner on a rooftop near the Jardín. Easy.
We had already been walking for about half an hour when we wandered through a park hosting an art show, paintings, sculptures, the kind of cultural detour that makes you feel pleasantly accomplished. Then we exited the park, consulted our GPS with blind faith, and spotted a staircase. A staircase that, in hindsight, was less “shortcut” and more “ominous prologue.” Up we went.
At the top, we paused, lungs filing a formal complaint, and were rewarded with a sculpture of a giant hand, which I had seen online and never located. “Well,” I thought, “this is going splendidly.” A bonus discovery. A triumph. That, as it turns out, was the last coherent positive thought I had for quite some time.
Because just around the corner… more stairs. And then more.
And then the slow, creeping realization. That dawning horror. The mental replay of earlier advice: “Don’t walk to the Mirador. Take a cab. You’ll thank us.” We had, in fact, taken a cab up there previously for precisely this reason. And now, like two stubborn protagonists in a cautionary tale, we were doing the one thing we had explicitly been trying to avoid. “For fuk’s sake,” I muttered between gasps, “how stupid are we?”
The stairs came in waves. You’d crest one set, heart pounding like a percussion section, only to round a corner and be greeted by another flight, waiting patiently like it had all day to ruin you.
We stopped at least four times. Possibly more. Time loses meaning when you’re negotiating with your own cardiovascular system. Thankfully, we had a bottle of water, which we drained with the reverence of people who now understood the value of hydration on a spiritual level. The sun, meanwhile, had decided to participate enthusiastically, turning the whole ordeal into a slow roast.
There were two other women making the climb. One looked about half my age and stopped just as often, which provided a small, petty comfort. Misery loves company, especially when it’s wheezing beside you. At one point, while we were paused and pretending this was all part of a fitness plan, my husband casually remarked, “If I have a heart attack, just roll me down the hill. It’ll be easier for the medics.”
By then, I had entered a new phase of the journey: open hostility. I was swearing like a long-haul trucker and no longer cared if we ever reached the restaurant, civilization, or the afterlife. And then, finally, the summit.
We reached the top around four o’clock, having left the house at 2:30. A brisk outing, if you define “brisk” as “an endurance event.”
We found El Manantial, collapsed into two chairs, and ordered margaritas with the urgency of people who had just survived something mildly heroic. Ken disappeared to the washroom. I sat there, oddly fascinated by the fact that I didn’t need to go. Not even slightly. It turns out that when you sweat out your entire body weight, certain systems take a break.
After a restorative pause and the slow return of dignity, we made our way back down toward the Jardín. I stationed myself in the square, listening to mariachi bands and contemplating my life choices, while Ken secured a reservation at Trazo 1810. And here’s the important part: it has an elevator. A glorious, civilization-affirming elevator.
Dinner was lovely. Wine was involved. The moon rose obligingly, casting that soft silver glow over the rooftops as if to say, See? Worth it. And in fairness, it did save the day. As for the Mirador? The view is undeniably beautiful. The journey up? Character-building, they say.
Personally, I feel I’ve built quite enough character already. Another glass of wine, por favor!
REFLECTIONS OF A SWAMPER 