I went to San Miguel de Allende for Día de Muertos (Day of the Dead). But I didn’t dance with the dead—no matter how many cemeteries I wandered through, gawking at gaudily decorated graves, during this macabre annual celebration.

As is custom, to entice the dead to journey back to the world of the living, bribes of their favorite food and beverage were laid out in tempting displays in front of every burial plot. Some gravestones dated back to the 1700s. Chicken mole and large bottles of tequila were by far the most popular gustatory offerings. I’d think the ancestors would get tired of chicken mole year after year, but there it sat, freshly prepared on dinner plates on countless graves, along with the intricate decorations family members had piled onto their relatives’ tottering tombstones and crumbling crypts.

The altars of bright marigold petals and hot-pink chalk designs were flamboyant—not somber—but there were no funeral jigs or skeleton waltzes to join in. Instead, my travels during Día de Muertos found me dancing with very-much-alive, joyous Mexicans in settings as diverse as cantinas to parking lots to a torture museum café.

Side-splitting laugher accompanied me on this grand adventure, but first I had to get over my fears. I suffer from tourist phobia, which is hypocritical because I am one. Usually shunning popular destinations, I found myself inexplicably drawn to the expat haven of San Miguel de Allende in Mexico. Why had I avoided going to San Miguel all these years? Trepidation that I would be surrounded by mostly white, rich, faux-artsy Californians, and Texans who enjoy cheap maid service and dress like Frida Kahlo on Halloween. Cringe.

San Miguel’s renowned writing community was the lure—I had signed up for a workshop on completing your book manuscript, thinking this would kick my book over the finish line. Alas, the workshop was canceled, but I was still eager to experience Mexico during Día de Muertos—one of the most colorful pagan traditions in the world. But the main reason I wanted to go was to speak Spanish. Latin languages are so poetic. Food for the communicator in me—for the artist in me. I find Spanish to be more romantic and lyrical than Teutonic English. I had learned it during my years as a South American importer decades earlier, and enjoy honing my skills by traveling to Spanish-speaking countries.

Gleefully convincing myself I would work unsupervised on my book during vacation, I succumbed to temptation and went on the trip anyway.

San Miguel stunned me in many ways. It’s a World Heritage site, classically lovely with cobblestone streets and houses splashed in hues of ochre, persimmon, pomegranate, and sunburnt orange. Two thousand hewn-wood doors stud the colonial buildings within the historical center of town. Curious, I stood in front of quite a few of these handcrafted behemoths and waited for the doors to creak open, hoping to see what lay beyond. When a door did open, serendipitously, the view within inevitably revealed a lush, verdant courtyard graced with bubbling fountains and filled with twittering songbirds. The columned homes made of brick and tile surrounding the gardens could have been straight out of Architectural Digest. 

This place was heaven for any aesthetic hound or culturally thirsty traveler. I did meet a few expats—five percent of the population are foreigners, but many of them stay within their luxury compounds recuperating from facelifts. Yes, Americans come here to get “work” done—just not the same kind that I was hoping to accomplish. 

But to my surprise and utter delight, everywhere I wandered I was surrounded by teems of jovial Mexicans who swooped me up, including me in their festivities. 

On my second day in San Miguel, I stood on the huarache-worn steps in front of the pink-stoned Gothic cathedral La Parroquia. Two other tourists and I bonded as we giggled at a bride wrestling with something in the back seat as she debarked from a vintage Rolls Royce limousine. It took her ten minutes to extract the troublesome satin-and-lace wedding veil and train. She pulled and yanked. She yanked and pulled. Two bridesmaids joined her and they tugged too. Finally, yards of material snaked out of the backseat to land in voluminous mounds on the cobblestones, looking like an albino anaconda. My new friends, sisters on holiday from Mexico City, and I laughed so hard we had to hold onto each other. The hilarity was contagious and soon their entire family was heehawing along with us. 

After we’d caught our breath and wiped away the tears of mirth, they formally introduced themselves: Siblings Magdalena, Liliana, and Enrique; Liliana’s two kids Erik, age 22 and Miguel, age 8; and Grandma Esther. 

Magdalena pulled a silk flower wreath out of a shopping bag—the same floral halo all the other women in the family were wearing. She placed it on my head and said in Spanish, “Now we are sisters. Would you like to join us for dinner?”

Taken aback by their gift and impromptu invite, I hesitated and then said, “Por qué no (why not)?”

Winding down backstreets, we ducked into to a funky hole-in-the-wall cantina around the corner from the guesthouse where all six of them were sharing one room We indulged in Negro Modelos, mounds of piquant guacamole, and sombrero-sized platters of chicken mole enchiladas—a most popular dish for the dead and the living, apparently. Enrique got the party started when he flagged down a strolling mariachi band and negotiated a price per song. We danced and sang for an hour in the space between the dining tables. I had met my tribe: folks who dance uninhibitedly, sing at the top of their lungs, and hoot with laughter. 

In between our sing-alongs to “Bésame Mucho” (“Kiss me a lot”) and “Guantanamera,” they raised their frothy beer mugs in unison and said, “You must come with us to Guanajuato tomorrow for the Cervantino Festival.” 

“I’m supposed to go on a garden tour,” I said. A sad puppy pout spread across the table. Even Miguel, the eight-year-old, looked bummed. 

I shrugged, then, nodding wisely, said, “What is more important—new friends or a garden tour?”

This caused a riot of clapping and ordering of the mariachis to sing a boisterous rendition of “Cielito Lindo.” Everyone, including Grandma Esther, jumped up, linked arms, and shouted the lyrics: “Ay, ay, ay, ay, canta y no llores (sing don’t cry).” This was followed by enthusiastic hip gyrations from the sisters and Erik waving his hands wildly in the air like a tornado, knocking over a few waiters in the process. You’d think Mexico had just won the World Cup. How could I possibly have said no?

The next morning at 7 a.m., steaming coffee in hand and their wreath on my head, I met my newly adopted family back in front of La Parrochia. They were all dressed up—heels, makeup, fancy shirts, and shiny slacks. Next to them, I felt underdressed in my yoga pants, but at least I had chosen a royal-blue silk blouse and had gussied up with chandelier earrings and a cut-velvet scarf. And they admired my Skechers, which I had chosen because they doubled as dance shoes, as I had a sneaking suspicion dance would be part of this adventure.

I had no idea what the Cervantino Festival was or how far away Guanajuato was, and I didn’t care. The fun began right when we piled into their van. First stop: the gas station—up went the music volume. Everyone except Grandma Esther tumbled out, dancing on the tarmac, to the surprise of the other customers. It was still only 7:30 in the morning—and they hadn’t had coffee yet.

We danced and cavorted every place we stopped. They were on a road trip to forget about recent illness and loss. Within the last three months, Enrique’s wife had died from an aneurysm and Grandma had survived a double mastectomy. 

“Life is hard,” Enrique said, tears edging around his eyes.

Frequently Liliana, Magdalena, or Grandma Esther would reach over and hold my hand. 

“Thank you for trusting us,” Liliana said.

I replied, “Thank you for trusting me. How do you know I’m not an axe murderer?” This made them pause and glance at me sideways, and then we all broke into gales of laughter.

Tragedy had a smiling face during the two days we spent together. Laughing and crying. Dancing and hugging. Joking and jostling. Sadness and joy. More crying. It was all there, shared openly with no burying of feelings.

We danced amid their tears at almost losing their mother. We macarena-ed through the ringing of Liliana’s abusive boyfriend calling her every half hour. “Dump the bastard,” I told her. 

We danced through Enrique’s suffering. He bought a little grey-and-white crocheted cat to place on his wife’s Day of the Dead altar. “Maria Elena loved cats. She had five,” Enrique shared with me.

They were fully in the moment and lived Ram Dass’s creed Be Here Now, though I doubt they even knew who he was. And they included me, who had only just entered their stratosphere. They genuinely liked each other and hugged a lot, whether it was the pudgy 8-year-old, the gay 22-year-old, or the myopic granny. They included me in their flamboyant and frequent demonstrations of affection— hugging and giving me neck massages on the tour bus rides and when we shuffled down slippery mud stairs into silver mine shafts. And my dream had come true—they didn’t speak an iota of English so I got to chirp in Spanish 24/7.

When we arrived in Guanajuato a few hours later, Magdalena asked me, “Where do you want to eat?” She was the purse holder and bean counter for their vacation funds. 

Aware that money was tight for them, I said, “Wherever you choose.” 

They conferred among themselves. As cheap as possible was the verdict, so we joined the swarms of Mexican families crowding through the wrought iron doors into the central market. We shared a breakfast of shredded pork shoulder tacos and bolillos (buns) stuffed with beef, pickled hot peppers, and dripping with grilled onions. 

I asked Grandma Esther, “How many people come over for Sunday dinner?” 

“Forty-eight.”

“How many?” I asked incredulously.

“Sometimes 65. We all live near each other.” 

“You must have a very large dining table!”

Esther grinned, her eyes twinkling through coke-bottle glasses. “I have 14 great grandchildren.” 

I playfully punched her in the arm and said, “You’re four years younger than me. At 65 years old I’m so far behind you in the progeny department—only one son and zero grandkids.”

Shaking her head, she said, “Qué lástima (what a pity)!”

I turned to Erik—Esther’s grandson. He had nudged himself next to me and was plying me with chili peppers to test my stamina. After my sixth pepper, Erik said, “I thought gringos were hot sauce wimps.”

Feeling emboldened by the chili peppers, I asked, “Does your family accept you being openly gay?” 

“They don’t mind. The only rule is I can’t kiss my boyfriends in front of my little brother.” Erik rolled his eyes, but this sounded reasonable to me no matter what sexual orientation he was.

“What music do you have on your iPhone?” he asked later when we were sipping Pepsi and eating spicy peanuts in the torture museum café (once a papal prison). Guanajuato has a plethora of gruesome, weird, and tacky museums. My adopted family wanted to visit them all and eat the horrid junk food sold at food stalls in front of the attractions, from gelatinous pig foot tacos to fluorescent taffy to “monk’s balls”—a cloyingly sweet chocolate bonbon.

On a sugar high from the treats they were fattening me up with, I turned up the volume on my phone and Pharrell Williams’ song “Happy” blasted from the small speaker. Erik squealed, “I love this song! and jumped up and grabbed my hand, and we did a lively salsa right there in the cafeteria. Soon the entire room was up and dancing—it had overtones of a Mexican daytime TV musical. Next up on the playlist was a Spanish version of Ed Sheeran’s “Shape of You,” which rocked the house. Even the workers were doing the windy-windy and lip-syncing behind the counter. 

At sunset, djembe drummers playing extemporaneously at the vista point overlooking the shimmering lights of Guanajuato got us going again. Liliana started a conga line with Erik and me, who held onto her waist as she sped around the plaza. I looked behind me at one point and saw that our snake had grown to more than 50 Mexican students waving beer bottles and cheering us on while also trying to maintain their grasp on the frenzied person in front of them. The whipping snake was spearheaded by a very energized Liliana—one hot mama in her tight jeans and lacy tube top. The other dancers circled around us and started to bounce up and down with the drummers pounding out the beat with fury. I pulled a hamstring muscle showing off my high kick, but the pain didn’t stop me—I just popped an ibuprofen and sashayed back into the mêlée.

The entire family spun and shook their booties gleefully as twilight faded. It was like a Mexican version of American Bandstand to wild jungle beats in the dark of the night. Just when I thought my feet were going to fall off, we piled back into the van. They had to return to Mexico City and work the next day. 

Stuffed between flannel-shirt-clad Erik and his amiable aunt, Magdalena, I was warm and snug. Just before dozing off, I asked, “How long a drive is it to San Miguel?” 

“Two hours,” said Enrique, who was driving.

“Isn’t Mexico City in the other direction?”

“Yes.” 

I sat straight up. “But it’s late! I can hop on a bus from Guanajuato to San Miguel, no problem.” Never mind that the word “hop” made my hamstring cry out at me.

“No way!” they yelled in unison. “We’re taking you all the way.”

As the cathedral bells clanged midnight, they dropped me off in front of La Parroquiawith hugs and kisses and tears, and their trademark sad puppy expressions. Pulling myself away, I limped back to my lodgings.

The next day, still sporting the frayed flower wreath and missing all the hugs, I wandered into yet another ornate chapel to get a good look at the statue of Mother Mary. She was dressed in a baby-blue gown and peered down, glassy-eyed, from the altar. On my way out of the church a silver-haired man with a sparkling smile said, “Sit down. Join us.” I hadn’t realized that a small group of parishioners had assembled while I’d been gazing at the Virgin Mother. And join them I did—kneeling and praying to Mary out loud with my new buddies in the pews around me. I’ve never been religious and don’t know the prayers, but the man next to me made a point of singing loudly into my ear so I could join in. I even crossed myself a few times, probably in the wrong direction. After an hour, they suddenly rose (my knees were grateful, particularly after the beating they’d taken the night before) and filed into the aisle.

A gentle hand guided me by the elbow into the center of the procession heading toward the altar. My friend the prayer coach and another man hoisted a saint’s icon perched on a palanquin onto their shoulders and we proceeded to circle the church, chanting. I was a foot taller than the other processionaires and the only non-Mexican. It reminded me of a slow conga line danced to a dirge instead of marimbas. Many circumambulations later, I ducked out of the line and headed back into the sunshine, chuckling to myself that I seemed to be magnetically attracted to conga lines.

Later, as I walked across the Civic Plaza, I heard my name being called from the street. There was my prayer coach driving a pickup truck. I waved, then went over and asked, “Can I hop in and drive with you a short way?”

“Por supuesto!” He said with that same warm smile spreading across his face.

As we bumped along the cobblestones, I asked, “What was your group doing in the church? Was it a special novena for Day of the Dead?”

He laughed. “No, no. Our group of 12 people from my neighborhood meet every Monday and pray to Mother Mary. It is very powerful. You should join us. Afterward we meet at my house for dinner and music.” 

 “I’m sorry, but I’m going back to the States in a few weeks,” I said, feeling a tug of sadness.

This is how friendly Mexicans are—they tuck you under their wing and include you in their life.

I felt complete permission to be my exuberant dancing self in Mexico. I didn’t have a moment to write—too busy dancing. Not one word made it onto the page, but I did wear out two pair of shoes and spoke a dictionary’s worth of Spanish. The culture and language even permeated my dreams, which were colorful swirls of movement and laughter, all in Spanish with no subtitles.

Alas, the frivolity faded on the day I departed. A grey veil of dullness dropped over people’s faces as soon as I landed in Houston. No smiles, no nods, no help figuring out immigration lines. No laughing. No hugging. Definitely no dancing! Just dreary annoyance written across everyone’s face. 

Boy, if there is ever a time America needs to dance, it’s now! I thought as I looked at my fellow citizens.

To keep my spirits from deflating now that I’m back home, I watch the video of my Mexican family dancing in the cantina. Enrique’s staccato laughter rings out in the background as he films Liliana, Magdalena, and me cavorting to the mariachi players. Erik and Grandma Esther send me Facebook messages daily; bunnies and balloons are Grandma’s go-to emojis. The entire family insists I visit them next spring and I will take them up on their offer. I want to sit at Esther’s humongous Sunday table with four generations of happy people. I want to do the cha-cha-chá around platters of chicken mole. I’ll load my iPhone with more favorite dance tunes.

Between now and then, there will probably be more to mourn. Someone will have died, someone will be sick, others suffering through unknown tragedies. But the veils will lift, the spirits will visit, and we will dance.