San Miguel at Dawn: Closing Scene, Opening Shot

Absent an airplane, I'm not an early riser. But Donna is, and she swears San Miguel is at its best when the town is transitioning from night into day. She’ll come back from her morning wanderings full of stories while I’m still on my first cup of coffee.

At dawn the town lives in two worlds. Taco stands shutter after a long night, the pastor but a memory, the roasted pineapple long gone. Club goers sally forth in sequins and wrinkled shirts, their laughter ricocheting through the quiet streets as the afterparty wobbles home. Meanwhile, tourists, determined not to miss a beat, emerge from hotels clutching their phones convinced this sunrise will be the best ever.

And then there’s San Miguel’s daily ritual: breakfast.

This is a town where people don’t just eat in the morning, they breakfast. And boy, does San Miguel have breakfast spots—from piping hot guisados folded into fresh tortillas, to European-style coffee, fresh juice and pastries, and everything else in between. On certain days, even a full English breakfast with all the trimmings including Heinz baked beans.

But Donna swears by the beans at Rincón de Don Tomás on the Jardín—slow-cooked, earthy, the kind of dish that feels like it’s been tended for generations. Enjoyed while the square stirs awake: vendors rolling in their carts, setting out ice cream flavors for the day, same as they’ve done for decades, church bells colliding with the scrape of chairs on stone, and somewhere faintly, a school brass band rehearsing an off-kilter march.

It’s a transition built for screenwriters. As last night’s revelry lingers on, the morning insists on its own rhythm. In the still, high-desert air, the sounds sharpen. Personalities are still fresh. You catch the waiter setting tables before he puts on his smile, the clubbers giggling over last night's dance floor drama, the vendor counting change under his breath. Details like these sharpen your characters and scenes.

Try this: if you’re a night person, flip the tortilla. Sit down with your notebook or laptop as the sun rises. Write a scene where breakfast isn't just backdrop but the heartbeat of the moment—the beans, the tortillas, the way strangers and lovers share a table before the day pulls them in different directions. Think of it as writing a story at the exact hinge between aftermath and beginning.

That’s San Miguel’s gift at dawn: it hands you both—the closing scene and the opening shot—in the same breath.

One of these days, I’ll flip the tortilla. Until then, Donna brings me the stories.

Gorditas at the Tuesday Market - Photo Credit: Lorraine Flett