It’s a pretty relaxed vibe around here right now. The town itself sort of invites that. A lot of walking around, peeking in shops, sitting in the plazas. It’s hard to be in a hurry over anything in San Miguel.

I caught up to the kids as they walked home from Spanish class.

This little guy lives in the field across the street from us. For a feral cat he sure is sweet. Comes running over to be pet, meowing loudly the whole time. This is one of the two or three that come sneaking into our garage each night, where Ali has food and water waiting for them. It’s probably unnecessary, though, as we’ve noticed that the old lady that owns the tienda a couple doors down brings them a box of food every evening.

Floors were finished, but then we realized that there was still work to be done if the stove and fridge were going to fit.

After banging that out with a hammer and chisel, he laid some new tile and sealed everything again.

The Teen Connect group all headed out to the water park. The water slides were nice, but the real star was the grass. Having a grassy, and shady place like this to lay around on is a rarity here.

We didn’t come to San Miguel to sit around. Impeccable clay courts are a five minute walk from home.

I’m a decent enough tennis player, but what I’m missing is someone to play against. Lowe’s been taking lessons and is quickly becoming a worthy opponent.

The property the courts are on also has a small RV park. In all our travels through San Miguel in our motorhomes we were never able to fit in, though. They have a very strict 24-foot rule. It’s not their choice, it’s just the longest possible length that can make the turn into the small entry off of the narrow cobblestone roads outside. We were always over by a few inches, and would have to stay at the Hotel San Ramon just outside of town. This place really has to be a highlight for overlanders, though—right in the heart of town.

We stop at this little hole-in-the-wall pastelaria for Tres Leches all the time. Still haven’t tried the pudding dog, though.

Ali and I have a bed and a ceiling fan and… that’s it.

So, it’s Easter Sunday, which in many parts of Mexico means it’s also the Quema de Judas (Burning of Judas). They don’t really burn Judas, though, they blow him to pieces.

Over time the tradition has evolved from just blowing up Judas, to blowing up other bad guys. Politicians are easy targets—one in particular. The white signs say who donated the paper mâché figure. The yellow sign says, “To hell with the tariffs.” Which, when you consider what everyone in Mexico would normally write on a sign attached to Trump, is pretty friendly banter. I was even impressed that this guy was simply giving a thumbs-down. Everyone else was posing with a different finger.

The rings around the waists have fireworks that cause it to spin around wildly for a few seconds before the big boom.

The crew in the black t-shirts would lower the ropes, light the fuse, and then quickly hoist them back into the air.

The bomberos were on hand to put out the inevitable fires and pick up any missing fingers.

Lest you think these were mere firecrackers. In Mexico, they are basically bombs.

Smiles everywhere, interspersed with the occasional parent doing the walk of shame, carrying away a screaming, horrified two-year-old who wouldn’t get their hearing back for a week.

Last one, with a little extra powder inside.