by Debra Thompson
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by Barbara Goodman

Lynne, a woman I met at a Dems Abroad mixer, a transplant from the DC area, invited me to a party at the house she's renting in Centro. Walking in, I felt like I had stepped into an Isabel Allende novel: the home, with its high ceilings, colonial architecture and rooms branching into patios then terraces then back to living spaces, was peopled with a handsome crowd balancing plates of pot luck.

I took the cake I brought and walked into a modest kitchen where offerings were sprawled on the limited countertops. I continue to be surprised at how modest the former gentry were when it came to kitchens. They designed casas with cupola-topped bovedas, cathedral-worthy doors, and patios that photographed from certain angles resemble botanic gardens, but their kitchens lack cabinets and prep areas.

by Terry Tomlinson
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My first instinct was to scoot. I am moderately socially anxious, and my partner, whom I'd dragged along, makes me look gregarious. This is our third winter in San Miguel, and while it is indeed easy to meet people, it remains, for me, challenging to think of what to say after those initial pleasantries. (I write because I can't talk.)

But Lynne swept me to a courtyard, where suddenly I switched into social mode, which in SMA involves a lot of WhatsApp scanning of people with names like Bill and Sue and Debra: Greatest Gen parents gave their Baby Boom kids a fairly limited rainbow of names.

Terry Tomlinson
*

(I've played with the idea of ditching Barbara for something more whimsical, but unlike those shape shifters growing up in the Instagram age, I'd feel like a fraud with Bee, and Bibi is too Netanyahu. I'm still auditioning Biba as my grandmother name. My daughter had a daughter in December and Biba was a trendy London boutique of the Sock-It-To-Me days. If it sticks... well, hell, by then I'll be in the directories of too many phones as Barbara, a name firmly embedded in the 1950s/60s.)

by Terry Tomlinson
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Anyway, I was surprised (and pleased) when Lynn invited me to her get-together. Lynne is a gregarious, apple-cheeked blond who retired the last week in December and moved to SMA two days after her exit interview. Her super-power, she says, is connecting people and apparently, she's good at it, since after less than a month in San Miguel, at that party she has dozens of people scooping hummus onto carrots, and others eating cake.

When my daughter visited SMA last year, she made the (to me) fabulous observation that "San Miguel is Portlandia por jubilados," (Portland for retirees) and indeed, the fiesta-goers were, in many cases, a swirl of colorful fabrics and designer eyeglasses. (Even I, a Midwesterner, plead guilty to the lenses, though my dress is more Lands' End than Frida Kahlo.)

Debra Thompson (L) and the author
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There is something self-selecting, of course, to the kind of American/Canadian/Big City Mexican who chooses to relocate or winter in SMA, but the overwhelming number of talented artists, writers, and musicians dropped into this pueblo seems statistically unlikely and a cause both for awe and (for me) imposter syndrome. Years ago, as an art student whose bodies-and-bottles (life and still life) instructors suggested she change her major to sociology, I had the epiphany that I shared all the foibles, eccentricities, dare we say neuroses of the accomplished; but lacked their talent.

Among those with talent I met that evening was a woman named Terry Tomlinson. Her name rang a bell as I'd recently read a piece she wrote for Lokkal about her practice: Terry works with handmade paper, often three dimensionally. Several decades ago, when it was still possible to do so on an artist's income, she designed and built a home/studio on Terraplén. The place resembles a gallery/courtyard/curator's office at the Museum of Modern Art: clean lines, Italian leather couch, papyrus sprouting from the back of a Zen-like indoor pond. She hosts an open house/studio every Wednesday.

by Debra Thompson
*

I only learned about Terry's house later that night, after conversations with a man who started his own film school and a woman who knits beautiful tops, when I met one of the younger party goers, a petite, dark-haired woman with facial piercings and a French accent.

I approached Lynne with what I thought would be my "thank you and good night," she turned and said, "This is Victoire."  Readying for departure, I'd collected my spouse from the roof (or rather, one of the roof's several sub-roofs/patios/terraces) where he'd been nursing beer and listening to church bells. I saw his face fall as Victoire instantly pushed my "wow, another interesting person" button. "You're an artist?" I asked, after learning she was about to de-install an exhibit at Casa Europa. "Not exactly," she said, in her gallic accent. More of a curator, she scanned my WhatsApp into her phone and said she'd contact me.

Victoire (in black) in Terry's home
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Victoire (standing) in Terry's home
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Which is how, two days later I found myself sitting in a crowded room (all those de-installed Casa Europa canvases) above a framing studio on Calzada de la Estación listening to Victoire (the only Victoire in my WhatsApp directory) tell me she moved to San Miguel a little over a year ago from Mexico City. Before that she'd worked for a gallery in Brussels. And yes, there were stints in California and New York. Years ago, she'd interned with the conceptual artist Marina Abramovic; she of the in/famous MOMA installation where visitors had to squeeze past naked bodies to enter.

Victoire's now connecting artists in SMA with residents and visitors who might appreciate their work. She also wants to match art lovers with other art lovers. (Did someone call my name?) To this end, French doors hosts a monthly fine art-meets-fine cuisine dinner. For the next, Feb 22, chef JJ Casteñada is preparing a dinner based on the minimalist palette of Terry and Debra Thompson, another artist who works with cold wax.

Debra Thompson (L) and the author
*

I never changed my major to sociology, but I did change my focus to photography, and my degree to literature. I found that if I entered a room with a camera or a pen it lessened my social anxiety. Once in Toronto, I found myself at a gala for the opening night performance of Phantom of the Opera. I got the ticket at the last minute, hadn't known it would be opening night and I was wearing a denim dress. At intermission, I took out a pad and lied that I was from the Globe and Mail; what did the tuxedoed gents and ballgowned ladies think of the performance?

For the dinner focused on Terry and Debra's art, which will be hosted at Terry's home (also with a small kitchen, but one with stainless steel appliances) Victoire is asking guests to wear black and white. I expect it might feel like a Truman Capote novella, but I'm sure I can pull off the dress code.  Possibly I can even mingle with the other guests. San Miguel, or at least certain generous individuals living here, invites us into its whirl of art and conversation. I'm trying to get more comfortable with that.  

*

**************

Barbara Goodman has been published in the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, Time Magazine, and American Airline's in-flight magazine; in a former life she received the Parenting Publications of America's award for Best Commentary in a small-circulation periodical. She's a member of the Society of Professional Obituary Writers, and the author and illustrator of the online series, "Eventually It Starts to Make Sense."

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