The San Miguel Writers’ Conference, Mexico, is the second largest in the world (Maui is #1). So many amazing events, so much going on at once, so much to see and hear, how to choose?—it’s overwhelming in every sense. How the volunteer crew shepherd 900 people workshops, excursions, meals, book signings and sold out speaking events, much of the time in the rain, is anybody’s guess. How they can organize such terrific parties, also in the rain, ditto. A month or so is needed to digest the kaleidoscope of impressions. My particular highlights in no particular order: Cuban American writer and poet Richard Blanco, whose knockout warm, witty speech had everyone on their feet. My wonderful hostess, her hospitality, breakfasts of huevos and exotic fruit in her art and animal-filled home in the Centro from which I’d hike through the park each morning to the Hotel Mina (under construction but the tangle of workers and materials seemed part of it somehow). The participants in my overfilled two classes (DON’T BE AFRAID OF DIALOGUE), all so bright and attentive with great questions. My lunchtime reading from my new book, tentatively titled THE RUNAWAY CHILD, was a success even though held in a tent with cheerful lawn picnics yards away. The grand fiesta with unlimited supplies of food and tequila; giant puppets; ballet folklorico; music; mariachis; feathered, stamping Aztec dancers, and on and on and who cared about the rain anyway. And always the colonial magic of San Miguel with its colors, cobbles, bells, tempting restaurants and delicious shopping: I bought an elegant lady skeleton (a catrina) wearing a spangled purple dress and garden party hat. And then: meeting old friends and making new connections; shmoozes and hideaway dinners in dark places; and at the very end, rounding out the whole experience in the airport security line, a casual chat with keynote Gloria Steinem while we took off our boots.