Lost & Found in San Miguel

Bohemian charm meets quiet luxury within the historic walls of Rosewood San Miguel de Allende, a spirited escape in the beating heart of Guanajuato

By Anna Constantino

I’m awakened by the chime of a nearby bell tower. The sudden jostle of our taxi proves just as effective an alarm clock. Through the post-travel haze, the hilltop view comes into focus: church spires, terracotta rooftops, and lush greenery painting the valley below. Our driver turns with a wink, “It’s a magical place!” We feel the truth of it the moment we step onto the cobblestones, warm air against our faces. Lanterns swing from an oak tree, their glow mimicking fireflies against clay-toned façades. Muffled guitar melodies drift through the streets. A brick path leads us to a pair of grand wooden doors, our weekend refuge at Rosewood San Miguel de Allende.

Our bags are swept away in exchange for a glass of mezcal and a lemon wedge, an appropriately bold welcome. We wander each nook and curving path, staking our claim on a weekend of bliss. The property, originally a 16th-century Spanish Colonial structure, hosts 67 rooms, suites, and private residences echoing the design ethos of a hacienda. Every corner offers a surprise: flora teeming with butterflies, archways washed in rich hues, sculptures nestled in alcoves. We arrive at our suite, soaking in the balcony view of a shimmering pool dotted with pinstriped umbrellas.

With an appetite for cocktails and dinner, we head to an on-property restaurant, the renowned Pirules Garden Kitchen. Curated by Chef Odín Rocha, the restaurant marries sustainability with the region’s gastronomic heritage, weaving culinary storytelling into every dish. At a green-tiled bistro table shaded by indoor trees, we watch the bronze-clad open kitchen in action. My palate wakes instantly with a sip of avocado leaf gin and tonic, complemented by layered flavors threading through each bite: wood-fired sardines, brioche with salted passionfruit butter, and salsa macha so addictive I buy a jar to take home.

A course of smoked endive follows, its flavor echoing elote, the result of produce scraps repurposed to infuse the oven with ash. A 10-hour pork belly arrives next, accompanied by green mole, herb oil, and fresh tortillas for the most decadent DIY taco imaginable. Hours of sipping, storytelling, and swooning culminate in a glacée-topped orange compote and a rum-infused madeleine, the taste of liqueur and the chorus of crickets easing us into reverie.

We rise to birdsong, sunlight slipping through French doors. An overindulgent night of feasting doesn’t deter us from breakfast, where we graze on fresh papaya and pineapple.

Carrying the theme of all things “verde” into the morning, I opt for green chicken enchiladas and a kale wellness shot, fortifying me for my spa treatment. Robe and slippers on, I’m welcomed to Sense, Rosewood’s spa, where Mexican healing traditions guide each ritual. Tea in hand, I’m led into a candlelit room lined with singing bowls, where I lie on a bed of quartz. “Locals believe San Miguel is built on a bed of crystal quartz,” my therapist explains, weaving the stone into my sound bath and massage. Whether it is her precision or the bed’s magic, I emerge utterly free of tension.

To prolong my state of bliss, a quick sauna is followed by an afternoon of grazing on red shrimp aguachile poolside. Between turning book pages, quick dips, and sun-naps, I sip a concoction of matcha, coconut, and mezcal—the chic cousin of a blended piña colada. Sun-kissed and content, we retreat to our private balcony to cool off with an ice-cold room service cerveza.

Bikinis give way to sundresses as we trade the pool for Luna Rooftop, a favorite in town for cocktails and bites with a menu fusing Mediterranean and Mexican flavors. We share jamón truffle croquettes, roasted lettuces with peach and tangerine oil, and a handmade sausage flatbread while gazing out at the cityscape. We then embark on an evening stroll to peruse artisanal shops and galleries, stopping short at the sound of laughter spilling from a doorway on Calle Tenerías. I poke my head in to find four people sipping wine at a round table, the walls adorned with textiles and black-and-white photos. My lack of Spanish and sudden guilt at intruding quickly absolve when a voice calls, “Would you like some wine?” Is the pope Catholic? And in we go.

We sit at the table, shaking hands with Marcelo Castro Vera, owner of Octagano Vino Ancestral, and company. His winery prides itself on returning to the basics: grapes pressed by foot, fermentation in clay pots crafted by locals, bottling with little intervention. We taste through the lineup, soon to be traded for an entire bottle, the Rosado (rosé), winning us over with a juicy hibiscus profile and stunning hue. Snacks arrive in waves, from guava paste and soft cheeses to buñuelos, crisps with habañero salsa, and crickets.

We climb to the rooftop just as storm clouds descend over the mountains, sharing stories with a group of American women who were lucky enough to stumble into the same treasure trove. Our attention snaps to chacha music and muffled laughter, beckoning us to explore once more. We descend the ladder, where a conga line develops in the corridor, sweeping us into a dance as we hoot and holler with passersby joining in jubilee. The sky creeps to darkness, our chants in rhythm with overhead thunder, as we stumble onto the road. We splash through puddles, a familiar lantern light guiding us away from the friends who were strangers only hours before. “See you soon!” we call. “San Miguel will always be here for you!” drifts back through the night. I suppose, no matter where you go, the magic is in the company you share it with.