Editor’s Note: Kennebunk residents Oliver Payne and Abbe Anderson and their yellow Lab, Buster, are wintering in San Miguel de Allende in central Mexico. In recent years, the fortysomething couple has been searching for a place to escape Maine winters. The following is their first dispatch in an occasional series from the road and San Miguel.

Hola, amigos.

Greetings from San Miguel de Allende in Mexico. Hope this finds you warm and well.

We left Maine Jan. 8 in such heavy snow that Oliver could barely sweep the flakes out of our rooftop luggage carrier as fast as they blew in. But we left the storm behind and made it to San Miguel in just a week. We were able to cover more ground this year in less time since Abbe mustered the courage to take the wheel of our VW camper van – twice the size of any vehicle she’s commanded before – and by passing up all sightseeing, even such notable locations as Celeryville, Ohio; Ina, Ill.; Arkadelphia, Ark.; and Poteet, Texas.

We drove almost straight through on our two major legs, Kennebunk to Chicago and Chicago to Texas. While one of us steered, the other shared the bed with our yellow Labrador, Buster, who politely tolerated our encroachment. Each night, however, we hit a wall at precisely 1:30 a.m. and slept at a rest area till the van cooled, and we woke up at almost exactly 3:15.

From Chicago, we headed south just in time to miss the city’s infamous rush hour and again drove through the night, landing at the house of Abbe’s hospitable aunt and uncle in Fort Worth just in time for lunch. We were lucky to be visiting family, as we were still wearing the same clothes we’d slept in, enhanced by a generous dose of Buster’s hair. We had dinner with Abbe’s cousins that night and felt right at home with them, as they, too, have a yellow Lab.

After a scenic drive through the Texas hill country west of the interstate, we stopped for tea in San Antonio with another aunt, then spent the night in the border town of Laredo. The desk clerk assured us that all rooms had an “ocean view of the river.” The following morning, we walked Buster along the banks of the Rio Grande, nearly hidden by tall reeds, under the watchful eyes of U.S. Border Patrol agents in sport utility vehicles. In contrast to this wariness, Oliver observed the calm daily influx of Mexicans walking across the international bridge to their jobs in our country. We felt like we were already in Mexico with the predominance of Mexican faces, the many shops with signs exclusively in Spanish and the huge Mexican flag across the river (more visible than our stars and stripes).

Just like last year, we crossed the border without even being stopped by Mexican immigration. For the next three hours, we saw little but mountains, cactus and roadside stands offering dried snake fillets and potted yucca plants. As we got into more fertile territory, these sights were replaced by signs for strawberries and cream. On the advice of a guidebook, we avoided the very expensive toll road (around $15 for 75 miles) for the “libre” or free one, and found it perfectly adequate and more scenic.

Outside Monterey, the first big city, things got more interesting. Oliver witnessed a pink sofa flying off a pickup truck, swerving to avoid a collision between two semitrailers – fortunately, in our rearview mirror. Then, as the sun approached the horizon, Abbe, lying in the back with Buster, felt the highway getting unusually bumpy, and attributed it to inferior Mexican road construction. Oliver, however, realized we had a flat tire – fortunately, right near a gas station (Pemex, the government oil monopoly).

After helping us change the spare, the attendant directed us across the road to an abandoned school bus with “VULKA” spray-painted on its side. This was the office of a tire-repair shop, “vulcanizador” in Spanish. No pneumatic equipment here: The repairman whacked expertly at the bead with an adzelike tool that probably hasn’t been used in the United States in decades. He then did his best to patch and scrape out our snow tire, but warned that it wasn’t good for more than 10 kilometers. Meanwhile, Buster cozied up to the local dogs, who treated him to their foulest-smelling delicacies.

We would have enjoyed the sunset drive through the Sierra Madre Oriental (Eastern Mother Range) more if we hadn’t been so worried about our aged spare tire making it to the next city, Saltillo. But we got to the Volkswagen dealership on the outskirts of town without incident just as night fell. While the dealership staff were as stylish as in the United States, all they could do for us was provide us with the names of local tire vendors.

Buster, however, noticed instantly that one of the patrons had a yellow Lab puppy and quickly got to know him. Paco, the pup’s owner, gave us his cell phone number in case we needed anything.

For dinner, we stumbled on a unique restaurant called La Casa de la Arrachera (the House of the Skirt Steak). After being offered a free drink, we were surprised at the generous variety of appetizers that kept appearing unsolicited: guacamole, melted cheese, bean and sausage soup. Each item we finished was instantly replaced with more. Just as we expected to see a menu, the waiter laid a monumental plate of grilled skirt steak and chorizo sausage on our table. We finally asked what the drill was and were told it was an all-you-can-eat buffet. Our parking spot happened to give Buster a perfect view of our gluttony through the windows of the van and restaurant, and he yelped at us periodically throughout the meal. Luckily for him, we made such a small dent in our steak that the management let us take some home, against their usual policy.

Back at the Hotel Imperial (a lapsed Best Western that we had selected for its proximity to two tire stores), Abbe broke a bottle of petitgrain essential oil, which produced more environmental fragrance than we needed. Fortunately, the heater in our room didn’t work, so we were transferred to a less-fragrant and warmer room. (Saltillo, like most of Mexico’s picturesque colonial cities, gets chilly in the winter because of its mile-high elevation.)

Once in our new room, we heard honking outside. Oliver investigated and was surprised to find Paco, the young Mexican from the VW dealership, who’d brought his wife to meet Buster. After just seven hours in Mexico, we were already entertaining!

The next morning, we got new tires installed as quickly as at home and probably more cheaply (regular tires, that is; the salesman laughed when Oliver inquired about snows). We easily made it to San Miguel de Allende by sunset; only the last mile, through the town’s steep, cobbled streets, was a challenge. And our street, Sierra Gorda, was the worst: After overshooting the house we’re renting, at No. 7 (which turned out to be next to No. 69), we were virtually stuck at the bottom end, overlooking a precipice and unable to negotiate a turn right or left, or even to back up until we substantially unloaded the van. Oliver broke a side-view mirror in one especially narrow section and never did manage the turn into the gate of our house. After nearly dislodging both front and rear bumpers, we gave up and parked on the main street.

The house we’re renting, a converted tannery, has more than enough space for two people and a dog. We selected it off the Internet primarily for its garden, which is spacious enough for Buster to get some exercise, though not without risk: Buster tore back into the house, whining, after his first encounters with the many cacti the owner has planted. It took us a little while to Buster-proof the house. He was especially interested in the large animal skull used as a doorstop, and the knuckles of a decayed wooden saint.

The spacious house has high ceilings, brick floors and stone walls, so it takes a while to heat. We couldn’t figure out how to operate the gas heaters the first night, but the cold weather motivated us to learn. (It got near freezing on a couple of mornings.) Abbe singed her hair the first time she successfully ignited one of the heaters, which are open-flame, unvented and, according to a front-page article in the local newspaper, a potential source of carbon monoxide poisoning if left on all night.

The last few days of January have been warm enough that the heaters haven’t been so necessary, with several hours of afternoon sun flooding our terrace and solarium. (A pigeon has taken advantage of our open doors to stroll into our house, reawakening Buster’s bird-dog instincts.) In fact, the beginning of the spring planting season is celebrated here on Feb. 2 with the blessing of the farmers’ seeds and a large sale of plants and flowers in the city’s main park, Parque Juarez. It’s beginning to feel like June back in Maine.

Our most visible neighbors are local Mexicans, who proved friendly and mercifully tolerant during Buster’s first foray into our street unleashed: He tried to join a children’s game but ended up puncturing their ball. The Americans down the street have so far remained hidden in their gated compounds, if they are even in town.

While Oliver’s fluent Spanish needs little augmentation, Abbe spent the first week in an advanced Spanish class at the Centro Bilingue. In addition to the Spanish language, Abbe learned a lot about rituals and symbols of Mexican culture. (Some fun facts about the pinata, for example: It was originally star-shaped, with each of its seven points representing one of the deadly sins; the stick used to break the pinata symbolized Christianity; and the candy that fell from the pinata represented the fruits of living a penitent life.)

Lorenzo, the teacher, participates in ceremonial Aztec dances. One day he brought in the headdresses and costumes he has designed and let us decorate them with pheasant feathers and try them on. Oliver came to photograph the class, and was roped into festooning his own headdress.

Lorenzo has compiled a book of photos of each of San Miguel’s 40 annual festivals, without which, he feels, life here would be quite boring. We look forward to seeing his Aztec dance troupe take part in one of the local celebrations in March, if we’re still here. He has warned us, however, not to applaud at this sacred ritual.

On a recent return trip from the state of Michoacan, we stopped for lunch in the quaint, small town of Tlalpujahua, and visited the local church. The Catholic fathers knew they had to incorporate indigenous symbolism if they were to attract the native Indian population, so jaguar heads are carved into the front doors, light fixtures are shaped like husks of corn, and the walls are covered with bright Mexican murals. The Holy Family is relegated to a supporting role.

At the opposite end of the religious spectrum, we attended a local Unitarian Universalist service, which seemed more like a political forum than a communion with spirit. The featured speaker argued that true democracy is socialism, and alleged that Cuba is a more legitimate democracy than the United States – an allegation that doesn’t accord with what we’ve read and heard from people we know who’ve visited Cuba.

Having felt guilty about leaving Buster alone when we visited the butterflies, we invited a friendly street dog that had been lingering outside our gate to keep Buster company in the garden while we went to the church service. Since we saw no blood on our return, we repeated the experiment when we left for a party that night. The next day, however, we discovered that a garden hose had been chewed through.

There are so many interesting Americans here that we really have to make an effort to speak Spanish. Two friends from Kennebunk who spend each winter in their San Miguel apartment nearby had us over for a wonderful welcome dinner. We attended their gallery opening yesterday, featuring a new series of paintings inspired by chaos theory.

San Miguel de Allende’s cultural mix lives up to its billing. We heard a poetry reading a few days ago at the local library. Another night, on our walk home, we stumbled upon a great 12-piece Latin jazz band playing in honor of Ignacio Allende’s birthday. (Allende, after whom this town is named, was a hero of Mexican Independence in the early 19th century.) The birthday celebration lasted all weekend, complete with fireworks and parade. We also hear Mexican “oompah” music, accordion and tuba, around lunchtime many days.

In addition to the scheduled entertainment, San Miguel’s animal chorus performs day and night. When we heard the clucking of some mysterious-sounding fowl next door, Oliver climbed the stairs to our roof, from which he could peer into our neighbor’s courtyard and spot the tuneful turkey. At any hour, we are likely to be regaled by the trio of the neighboring rooftop dog, the turkey and Buster. (His contribution, however, is muted by a sound-activated device on his collar that sprays his muzzle with citronella fragrance if he barks too loudly.) We use earplugs to dull the noise – that is, when Buster isn’t enjoying the earplugs as canine chewing gum.

San Miguel has grown quickly for several years, bringing too many cars and buses and the attendant pollution, but mainly downtown. Because there are virtually no parking places in town, and we don’t want to risk our van on the steep hills, we’ve driven little since we got here. There are still some who use burros and horses to wend their way around the cobblestoned streets. Last week, we witnessed a fight between two antagonistic burros tethered too close to one another. When one bit the other’s neck, the victim kicked back with its hind legs.

The climb up to our house is so steep that Abbe has resorted to using Oliver as her personal burro. After grocery shopping in town, Oliver, carrying both knapsacks and all four bags of fruits and vegetables, still manages to beat Abbe up the hill. Even more discouraging (or perhaps, inspiring), so do the 80-year-old Mexican women. Abbe intends to check out the local yoga classes and investigate teaching opportunities here, but the uphill climb usually seems like enough exercise for one day.

Wanting more exercise, however, Oliver tried out his mountain bike on a ride up to the nearby botanical garden and nature preserve. A sign on the fence of the preserve evidenced a growing controversy about encroachment on the beautiful open land:

“Attention developers, builders and owners: please limit the height of the homes you’re building within sight of the preserve to four meters. [signed] The directors of the Charco del Ingenio Preserve.” An unfinished house not 50 feet away soared to at least twice the prescribed height, though it was encouraging to see yellow plastic tape on one of its pretentious columns reading, “Work suspended.” Oliver was less encouraged to see work under way on another house butting right up against the preserve.

Oliver tried only one more ride – to get a tune-up of the trip-worn bike – before concluding that his muscles were in danger of being shaken right off his bones by the cobblestones. He has now joined a local gym.

Our tentative plan is to stay in San Miguel through mid-March, tour the southwestern United States for the next couple of weeks and return to Maine in early April. We highly recommend a visit to San Miguel to anyone who needs a break from winter. It’s very gringo-friendly, the weather’s become ideal as illustrated by Buster, who has shed nearly all his winter coat.

We’ll keep you posted on our travels.

About San Miguel de Allende

One of several picturesque cities of Mexico?s Spanish colonial era, it was founded in the mid-1500s, initially as a mission. It soon became a garrison to protect the Camino Real (or royal road) linking Mexico City with the rich silver mines in the cities of Zacatecas and Guanajuato.

San Miguel de Allende is located in the central highland state of Guanajuato, about 500 miles south of the U.S. border and 150 miles north of Mexico City.

At 6,035 feet above sea levae, San Miguel is not tropical. While daytime highs average in the high 60s in winter, it can get chilly at night (with an occasional freeze) and on cloudy days.

There are dozens of hotels, motels and B&Bs, ranging from $30 to $500 per night. Another option is to stay with a local family, which can be arranged through one of the Spanish language schools. One motel near town, La Siesta, also has camping facilities (tent or RV), and there are two other RV parks outside town.

You can spend a week or a semester refreshing your high school Spanish language skills ? or learning from scratch ? at one of many excellent schools, including the Centro Bilingue, Academia Hispano-Americana and the Instituto Allende. The Escuela de Bellas Artes (School of Fine Arts) offers courses in painting, music, dance and crafts.

The city has entertainment offerings on a par with Portland, though different: It is a more adult scene, with more Mexican music, of course, and a surprising amount of jazz. The bilingual weekly paper, El Atencion, has excellent listings of ?Que pasa? (what?s going on).

San Miguel is extremely safe to walk around in, even at night in all but one or two confined areas. The problems with Mexico City that have been so widely publicized (rogue taxis, express kidnappings) are unheard of here and, by the way, can be avoided with reasonable caution even in Mexico?s largest cities.

Untreated tap water is not drunk even by locals; bottled water is cheap and ubiquitous. Restaurants are highly conscious of hygiene in preparing food to protect the health of their important gringo clientele. (Neither of us has suffered Montezuma?s revenge in eight visits to Mexico since our first trip in 1989, when we were incautious.)

Medical care is excellent and much cheaper than in the United States. (In fact, many part-time residents delay nonemergency procedures till they return here.)