THE POSTSCRIPT, Carrie Classon

“I suppose I have to start packing,” my husband, Peter, said.

It is always so hard to leave. Packing up from San Miguel de Allende is not a terribly difficult process because we leave the art on the walls and the dishes in the cupboard and, this year, a brand-new beautiful couch sitting in the apartment. We know the hotel housekeeper, Lulu, will keep a watchful eye on everything.

So it should not be so hard to leave, yet it always is. Our stuff stays behind, and we leave with memories.

There is a principle in psychology which says that in order to slow time, you need more novel experiences. Childhood seems to last a long time because everything is new and everything is a first. As we age, we do more of the same things. This makes one day blend into the next, and one week into the one after that, and before we know it, 10 years have passed without it seeming like any time at all.

Coming to San Miguel, we find ourselves doing things we’ve never done before on at least a weekly basis — and this is unusual for a couple of people who are fond of our routines.

I write every day. I have friends who complain about this. “You should come to yoga!” they insist. “You should go to the hot springs!” “You should take an art class!”

They think I should make exceptions to attend morning events — events that occur right smack in the middle of my writing time. Occasionally I do. But 9 days out of 10, I am at my desk writing.

My friends’ reaction to this is either to tell me that I am very disciplined or very boring. I don’t think either one is true (although I will accept that I might be a little dull). I write every day because I enjoy it, and most of my enjoyment comes from getting better and getting things finished. It’s no more complicated than that.

Peter is very much the same way about his morning hikes. Peter gets positively grouchy if he is deprived of daily exercise, not because he has a gun to his head, but because his long, strenuous hike is what makes him feel good.

Fortunately for both of us, there is no shortage of things to do and see in the afternoons and evenings, and last night, we had a going-away gathering of friends and neighbors.

We called it a book launch, although after two and a half months, I no longer think of “Loon Point” as launching. It’s more like a ship out at sea. It has left me behind on shore and is off having amazing adventures with all its readers.

But I read from “Loon Point” one last time, and the violinist David Mendoza played, and we served food to friends. Everyone met someone they had never met before, and friendships were forged and a lot of fun was had.

Then Sebastian (who, unlike most of our guests, grew up in San Miguel) came out of the kitchen and announced, “It will rain soon.”

Everyone looked up at the blue sky in surprise. Fifteen minutes later, it began to pour.

We said our goodbyes. We promised to get together again. Every person headed off to a different life in a different place.

I knew we would never meet again — not in quite that way, not with that exact group of people, not for that meal or that experience. And I will remember last night for all of those reasons.

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