THE POSTSCRIPT, Carrie Classon

Traveling to San Miguel is always a little tumultuous.

My husband, Peter, and I spend a part of every fall and winter in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. It is not an easy place to get to. We have to take two flights with a layover in between, then an hour-and-a-half-long shuttle ride to our apartment hotel.

The second flight is on a small plane, and this time there was a lot of turbulence. Both my cat, Felix, and I get motion sickness, and neither one of us felt good, although I did not throw up all over myself, and Felix did.

When we got to Mexico, I tried to clean up Felix in the restroom before he had his usual visit to Customs. This time, there was more paperwork to be filled out. I was too tired to read the long document in Spanish, which I had to sign in two separate places. Then Felix had a longer-than-usual inspection. I held him while the medical examiner took his temperature and inspected his ears and looked at his teeth. Felix still had wet feet from his mini bath in the restroom.

When we finally got to the hotel, the staff was glad to meet us, and our little apartment looked as it always did — the same and a little different. Green drapes had replaced the white ones. There was a brand-new blue-and-white checked quilt on the bed. Peter and I unpacked everything, and then all three of us crashed. But Felix did not sleep well that night. In the middle of the night, he wandered around the apartment, crying out.

“What is he saying?” I asked Peter.

“He doesn’t like his food,” Peter answered. Maybe Peter was right. Felix has a different kind of food in Mexico, and he is a fussy eater.

But to me, it sounded more like, “How did we get back here? I’ve been here before! I remember this place — but it’s different!” Over and over again.

I feel the same way.

Everything is the same and different at the same time. I talked with Oscar, a local artist, and he told me how he had fewer students, the restaurants were empty, the weather was unpredictable and city politics were unstable.

“Who knows what will happen next!” Oscar said. And no one knows — it is true. I see the accumulation of gradual changes. I see cause for worry. I see more uncertainty.

And so, I buy vegetables.

The thing about vegetables is that they are always the same — and different. I buy carrots and celery and beets and onions. I buy potatoes and bananas and strawberries. I buy avocados and peppers and broccoli. I pile them all on the counter of the tiny, family-owned store around the corner. The vegetables are all fresh and inexpensive, and Peter and I cook them all up in advance, so we always have plenty of good food to eat.

That night, Peter made a big pot of vegetable soup. I had broccoli with a quesadilla from the hotel restaurant. And Felix was calmer the next day. He still didn’t like his food, so Peter gave him some inexpensive food he bought by the scoop in the market. Now he is happy. I fell asleep last night with Felix curled on top of me.

In times of uncertainty, this is what we need. We need good food. We need to stay close together. And we need to remember that everything is always the same and always different at the same time.

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