That is a working ferris wheel framed in the window.

Sadly, Paul (El Guapo) has not been present in these pages, on account of his computer was struck by lightning, and he doesn't have the patience to sit in a cybercafé. Too bad, because Paul has a shoe fetish, and has helped me develop an eye for them. He'd be proud to see me wearing my newly purchased red loafers, without socks.

I'm becoming such a free spirit.

The red shoes inspired me. Riding a creative rush, I looked everywhere for boxers that weren't boring. After all, how one looks in one's underwear is sooo important.

I found some with a pattern of parrots drinking beer. Perfect!

Hungry after all that shopping (well, it was a lot for me) we looked for a snack. The Galleria offered lots of choices.

(Somebody help me out here. Are there such things as Kosher McDonalds anyplace else?)

We went out onto Florida street. Nearly every shop had a barker out front. This nice young man invited me to come up to his second-floor emporium to check out his cashmere inventory.

I dunno. With that grim expression, he just didn't strike me as someone I'd like to disappear up a darkened stairway with. In any event, it was too hot to even think about cashmere.

Jean manhandled me into a place that sells Argentinean-made leather goods, where I bought a couple of belts.

The light one is rawhide. Jean asked the sales clerk about the other one.

"What kind of leather is it?"

"It's beaver."

—§—

One kind of shopping you readily can get me to do, besides going to an Apple store, is in bookstores. BsAs has a bunch of them on Avenida Corrientes, and nearby, there's El Ateneo, which claims to be the largest bookstore in South America.

El Ateneo is housed in a spectacular restored old theater. The old stage contains a café; specialty books on medicine and engineering are stocked on the balconies.

Most books are, of course, in Spanish, although a respectable selection of English-language books is available. I bought an anthology of Gaucho poetry. I find reading in Spanish laborious, but since poetry must be read closely, I don't mind frequently consulting a dictionary.

Like large general interest bookstores everywhere, overproduced lightweight titles are set out in special displays. For $30 US, you can read yet one more history of the life of Eva Perón, a figure who receives far too much attention in my opinion. Could it be that author Felipe Pigna, a historian at the University of Buenos Aires, is here pandering to popular tastes?

Before I get too snotty about Evita, I have to remember that we all need mind candy once in a while. I bought Noah Gordon's The Physician which should put me to sleep every night until we fly home.

—§—

Flush with the success of getting me to shop for clothes, Jean pushed her luck and dragged me across town to a craft street fair.

It turned out to be the same collection of aging hippies selling bad wallets you'll find at street fairs all over the world.

Tourists, mainly Americans, crowded among the kiosks. Several bought mates (MAH-tays) and bombillas (bome-BEE-schahs). Mates are used for drinking Argentina's national drink, also called mate. It's a sort of tea made by steeping leaves of a plant called yerba mate in hot water, properly drunk by sipping through a bombilla—a metal straw with an end designed to strain the liquid through all those leaves. Traditionally, everyone shares a single mate and bombilla, making mate-drinking an intimate social moment.

This is one of those purchases travelers always regret. They get back to Grand Rapids, unpack their mate and bombilla and their slightly squashed box of Cruz de Malta teabags, only to realize mate-drinking has no place in their lives. So the whole kit gets put away until an emergency Christmas present is needed for Tiffani's latest loser boyfriend. Perhaps serving as a deterrent to a bad marriage.

Jean found a leather purse that she liked and I didn't, but then my opinion is neither here nor there in these matters. One of the 20 peso bills she gave the seller was counterfeit. Apparently there's a lot of that here, because I frequently see sales clerks holding bills up to the light. Jean's bill was so badly made that one of the 20s was wearing off. She replaced it with a good one, then promptly used the counterfeit to buy a bracelet.

I lasted ten minutes at the craft fair before retreating in the 95º heat to our air-conditioned apartment where I stripped down to my parrot boxers and wrote this post.

Feliz año a todos.

The Sarmiento is perfectly suited for making a retired engineer happy. Visitors are allowed everywhere (except up in the rigging). The ship uses both wind and steam power (look for the stacks between the foremast and mainmast) so it offers a look at two types of propulsion technology. Does it get any better than this?

A group of smiling boys takes the helm. It has three ship's wheels. Why? Does it require several men to control the rudder in heavy seas? Down in the guts of the stern, there's a rudder servomotor, but maybe it can break down. Then you'd have to steer with sheer muscle power.

A gorgeous binnacle houses a gimbaled compass and a handsome brass ship's telegraph completes the helmsman's complement of controls and indicators.

Wouldn't it be nice if this kind of design went into computers? I'd love to have a Mac made of brass and teak. With ivory keys.

Standing rigging is made from steel cable as would be expected in a late 19th-Century ship. Running rigging is of manila rope. Shown here at the mizzenmast, a bewildering array of sheaves and pinrails provides means for managing and securing halyards and downhauls.

I spent an hour tracing the lines to see how the sails were controlled.

The Sarmiento is a warship, although it was used exclusively for training naval cadets and for goodwill expeditions and never saw any action. Nevertheless, it's armed with a couple of cannon and it can fire torpedoes.

Steam power complements the sails, provided by a three-cylinder triple-expansion engine. (Writing that last sentence made me shiver with delight.)

Just look at those big cylinder heads. The brass thingys are pressure relief valves. They keep the ship from blowing up. An overhead crane visible at the upper right is used for removing the cylinder heads.

(I removed the cylinder heads on every car I owned from age 13 to age 23. I love removing cylinder heads. So of course I made a point of seeing how they did it on the Sarmiento. I wonder what the head bolt tightening pattern was?)

(Sorry about that. I sort of drifted off.)

I don't know what the red thing is. Part of the condenser?

What triple-expansion means is that a small, high-pressure cylinder extracts as much energy from the steam as it can. Then, instead of wasting the exhaust steam, it is routed to a medium sized cylinder and then on to a huge, low pressure cylinder to wring every erg out of it.

Sounds efficient, doesn't it? But I doubt this engine achieved even 25% efficiency; one reason why piston engines were ultimately replaced by turbines.

The engine turns the drive shaft which runs through a long tunnel in the bottom of the ship.

Note the absence of a handrail between the catwalk and the shaft. You wouldn't want to walk down here when the ship was pitching.

The drive shaft turns the propeller, or screw, which has been dismounted and placed onshore for viewing. This is a sophisticated design, with graceful hydrodynamic curves. Vernier markings where the blades attach to the hub assist in precise setting of pitch.

The screw is eight feet from blade tip to blade tip. The blades themselves are pitted from gravel stirred up on shallow bottoms.

Even though it was built back in 1897, this vessel has electrical power. Here we see the dynamo room...

... and the electrical control panel. The old knife switches are dangerous, but I love the completely exposed mechanisms. Their form and function exactly match.

One of the most riveting scenes from that greatest of the Titanic movies, A night to Remember, is of circuit breakers blowing as seawater shorts out the electrical system. The control panel looks just like this one, and when the breakers start arcing, you know the end is not far off.

If I were a member of the Sarmiento's company, this would be my desk. The chief engineer's post is in the engine room, eyeballing his gages, shouting up a speaking tube: "Captain, I'm givin' her all she's got. She canna take much more o' this."

As a senior officer, I would have my own cabin...

... and for special occasions, I would wear my dress uniform, complete with sword. Of course, if I actually had to use my sword, I'd be completely lost. Unless I used it to cut out a spare gasket or something.

I'd dress up on special occasions; like the time President Taft came on board the Sarmiento during a visit to Boston. I'd be one of those guys way in the back.

Technologists have always been under-appreciated. One of these days, somebody's going to call me with a frozen computer, and I'm gonna say, "Why don't you call an English major? Oh! That's right! You are one."

"Say, can you give me some fries with that?"

The Presidente Sarmiento was one of the last of the beautiful ships. Within ten years, masts and sails were gone, and forms of ships descended into today's boxy cruise palaces. We are fortunate that the porteños preserved this one, so we can appreciate the elegant work of our great-grandfathers.

And so they did here. The park was designed by architect Charles Thays, who arrived in Argentina from France in 1889 at the age of 40, promptly changed his name to Carlos, and went on to create some of Argentina's greatest city parks.

That's an Andean Condor on top of the gate—Argentina's answer to the American Eagle. It's the largest land bird in the Americas, and is the pride of the Andean countries.

Argentineans may claim they're not Latins, but they use parks just like Mexicans do. Everywhere I saw families spread out on the grass enjoying picnics or just hanging out.

For those left behind in Northern climes, I can't resist pointing out that the photo of the shirtless man kissing his baby girl was taken on December 24th.

A coltish young skater makes her way down miles of paved pathways.

In a couple more years she is going to be devastating, her wake littered with broken-hearted boys.

Yeah, it's a French park all right. The original of this fountain, The Four Continents, is in Paris.

Someone explained that it was so named because at the time, Australia was considered part of Asia. Lessee. Four plus one equals five. Aren't there, like, seven?

I'm guessing the French see the Americas as just one continent because we have no culture. And Antarctica doesn't count 'cause you can't get good pommes frites there.

A monument to Argentina's national hero, General José de San Martín, caps a hilltop in the eponymous park.

A bronze of the General astride his horse, flanked by mounted soldiers, occupies the lower portion of the monument. His arms are folded over his chest in satisfaction over his accomplishments. At its peak, we see an allegorical winged Argentina, her arms raised, holding broken chains signifying freedom from Spain.

—§—

In the city center, a checkerboard of parks, each occupying an entire city block, were originally laid out as refuges in the event of another devastating earthquake. Today they are refuges from urban traffic and noise. This one is named Plaza Italia, in recognition of the heritage of nearly half of Mendoza's inhabitants.

The centerpiece of Plaza Italia is a less-than-impressive fountain—it just kind of sits there and dribbles—backed by a spectacular wall of scenes composed of tiles.

The tiles depict the discovery and occupation of the New World. Here we see Christopher Columbus and one of his lieutenants ordering the crew to turn right at the equator.

Next, we have conquistadors bringing enlightenment to the savages. A priest, backed up by an officer with drawn sword and a fierce dog, is spreading the gospel. A worker is tapping a barrel of wine to make the lesson go down easier.

A final scene shows the peaceful outcome of the meeting of the two cultures. The Spanish have built a mission and have finally managed to get some pants on the befeathered indian. The indigene's soul has been saved, and he has been broken of his idle habit of hunting and gathering, now better serving God by growing food for the priests.

In the middle of the checkerboard of parks we have Plaza Independencia, a stately four-block park featuring broad stone plazas, flights of wide steps, and hundreds of elegant lamps.

A wall flanking a reflecting pool features a bas-relief the subject of which I cannot fathom.

I'm inclined to call it Rudolph Nureyev Discovers the Joys of Bondage.

Nighttime in Plaza Independencia, and a neon sculpture depicts the Arms of Argentina. Or of Mendoza. They're similar and I can't tell them apart.

Christmas is over and our party is returning to Buenos Aires. I'd never even heard of Mendoza before this week. I would never have thought of coming here. The world is full of undiscovered gems: this is one of them.

The city's trees are watered by an extensive series of channels. These sycamores can find water at astonishing depths, but they can't survive on only 8-10" of rain a year. So they need supplemental water. I don't think I've ever before seen street trees that are irrigated.

In 1861, Mendoza was leveled by an earthquake. Ten thousand people were killed, a sizable fraction of the population at that time. Much of the way the city is laid out and built is informed by this tragedy. Parks, for example, have been placed every three blocks or so to provide sanctuaries.

City planners note: this field may not be much help during an earthquake, but kids use it for pickup soccer games, and soccer moms don't have to load them into the SUV and drive them to their games. Less traffic, more soccer. Sounds good to me.

Once you have lots of public parks, you might as well install lots of benches. Benches encourage all kinds of healthy activities.

I'd appreciate it if someone would tell me exactly what is going on here. Whatever it is, I think I'd rather like it.

Fabián told me these are called chorizo houses. I got it right away. Sausage houses. Long and narrow. In Louisiana they'd be called shotgun houses.

They were built to standards developed after the earthquake. Single-story buildings are more survivable. Build deep, not up. They're set on wide streets so people can run outside to escape falling masonry. And then there's those carefully irrigated sycamores: two in front of each house, to keep walls from falling into the street where people are trying to escape.

Mendoza provides housing for the poor. Projects like this one are built to get people out of the shantytowns.

Of course, the system doesn't work. The government builds new houses and sells them cheap to the poor, who promptly resell them at a profit or rent them out, moving back to the shantytowns. It's so very hard to do good works.

—§—

Juan Perón was here. When you see monumental public buildings like this presidencia, you're reminded of the regime.

Massive, full of vertical lines, an oversize portico, lack of adornment; this building might have been designed by Albert Speer. I can't keep from speculating: Is there something systemic about how Italians and Germans and Spanish react to economic crises?

"Jeez, Giacomo, looks like the economy's going to hell. We better go elect a fascist."

That's of course what happened in Europe, and when the Great Depression hit here in Argentina, the Spanish, German and Italian expatriates did exactly the same thing. Mussolini, Hitler, Franco, Perón; is there a pattern here?

—§—

I see beauty in pre-war industrial design. Apparently, Argentineans do, too, because when the railway through town fell into disuse and was converted into a pedestrian walking path, they preserved the semaphores. Bless whoever came up with this idea.

They preserved the old telephone lines, too. These poles bring back childhood memories in technicolor. They're not in use anymore, but they've been left up there to remind us what the urban landscape used to be like.

More careful thinking has gone into the development of Mendoza than most cities, and the result is a jewel, a city that works. Wide streets limit congestion. Trees filter exhaust fumes out of the air. Wide sidewalks make walking a pleasure.

Civilization emerges in places where grapes and olives grow. It happened 10,000 years ago in the Fertile Crescent, and it happened because the agreeable climate produced abundant food, freeing time so people could do things like write the Bible. We live best in places like this. Places like Mendoza.

—Tom Lehrer, The Vatican Rag

—§—

I know I've offended someone, quoting those lyrics. Please forgive me. The sniggering teenager inside this 66-year-old body sneaks out at night sometimes, and I'm at my wits' end knowing what to do with him.

—§—

Some of the world's greatest art and music was inspired by the church. So how come it produces such bad images today?

This is just pure treacle. Jan van Eyck would vomit. One of the world's greatest institutions, and this is the best they can come up with?

Here we got Charlton Heston and Elizabeth Taylor gazing at the Gerber baby. The composition misleads: Joseph, who can't even claim paternity, is the dominant figure. The Madonna has been reduced to a vacuous groupie, and the Son of God just looks cute.

Does the Archbishop of Mendoza actually believe he is spreading the Word with this kind of thing? Winning converts? Reassuring the faithful?

All of its waters are collected and used to supplement the meager 8-10" of annual rainfall in the area. The river is fed by snowmelt from the glaciers and snowpacks of the Andes. Much of the gravelly riverbed was exposed as we drove by, great cliffs of alluvial soil marking the current path of the waters.

This river—this scene—is so important to Mendoza that artists frequently paint images of the mountains fronted by the river that gives life to all those trees and grape vines.

So this pass was important for the freedom of South America and the founding of Argentina. It is important today for the water it provides. And for many years, it was the site of a railway link between Argentina and Chile.

Built over a period of 35 years, the complete route from Buenos Aires to Valparaiso was completed in 1910—the first rail link to connect the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. It cut transit between the two ports from eleven days to a day and a half.

Rusting track and ruined railway buildings are all that's left today. Fabián says that a border dispute between the two countries (in the 1980s?) in 1978 might have broken into hostilities but for the intervention of the Pope. During the ruckus, though, the Chileans blew up their side of the Transandine Railway.

The railway is scheduled to be refurbished and reopened in 2010. The center of the world has shifted from the Atlantic to the Pacific ocean, and 1,500 semis a day winding over the mountain passes just aren't enough to handle increasing trade with China. Now that the generals no longer run either country, it's time to rebuild this important connection.

The road isn't particularly easy to drive. Tight curves, steep grades, tunnels and avalanches impede traffic.

Our destination was not the Chilean border: Our van lacked permits to cross the border, and we didn't have visas anyway.

(Time was, Americans were welcomed almost anywhere in the world with a minimum of bureaucratic fuss. Today an application for a tourist visa to the USA costs $100, due to more than double next year. And odds are, if you have brown skin, you'll be turned down and lose your $100. So of course, other countries are retaliating. You're hassled at the Chilean border. I'm told it's tough to get into Brazil anymore.)

We stopped 35 KM from the border, to view the highest mountain in the New World, Aconcagua.

I apologize for the photo above. I hate this kind of stuff. Looky everyone. We were really there! If there had been a restroom at the summit, I would have insisted we pose in front of it, like the Chinese gamblers day-tripping from Vegas do at the Grand Canyon.

For the record, we have left to right, Judy, Bill, Jean and a scruffy blogger.

This is what we drove the seven-hour round trip to see:

I'll have to travel to Tibet to see one that's higher.

But many of you know that I'm more interested in small details than in monuments. Here I'm adjusting aperture to shoot some alpine wildflowers.

It's like all those times I was in the Sierra Nevada in spring, just after the passes opened. The alpine meadows burst into flower. Few things thrill me more.

These flowers were photographed on December 23rd, the first day of summer south of the equator.

Having successfully captured images of the elusive purple lupine, we drove home—another three and a half hours on the road. I set my shutter to 1/1000 second and took scores of images through the van window, too tired to ask Hugo, our driver, to stop to set up proper shots.

Every turn produced another spectacular view. Whenever I tried to nod off, something like this would open up in front of me, and I'd have to line it up in my viewfinder.

Argentina has its sophisticated European city: Buenos Aires. It has its wine aficionado and foodie magnet: Mendoza. But for my money, the real Argentina is elsewhere, in some of the most beautiful and spectacular scenery imaginable.

Don Felipe is a working winery producing a premium label, much of which is exported. But what makes it fun to visit is its museum, the finest wine museum Jean and I have ever visited.

A great deal of equipment used by Don Felipe from the bodega's earliest days has been preserved and carefully restored. An old truck has new green paint and lovingly finished wooden components. Processing equipment borders rows of vines.

A large selection of 19th-Century woodworking tools illustrates the art of barrel-making.

I wondered, what is the function of this large cowhide tub? And is the drain at the near end what I think it is?

Why yes, the drain is in fact just what I thought it was: the cow's tail.

What did you think it was?

A sketch on some tiles shows a cowhide tub in use.

A barefoot man tromps grapes, the juice running through the tail drain into a leather bucket. Do you think wine made this way tasted anywhere as good as today's vintages?

Wine presses reduced the labor of the crush while extracting more of the juice. Beat the hell out of grape-stomping. No longer in use today, old presses litter the grounds of wineries the way wooden wagon wheels flank the gates of ranches.

The old gear is redolent of an age of authenticity, a time of pride of craftsmanship. But it can't handle today's volumes or price structures. Wine making today is accomplished with the latest in high-tech equipment: centrifugal crushers, stainless-steel fermenting vats and tanks.

All that's left of the old ways are the wooden aging barrels, here imported from The U. S. or France. They make up a major portion of the cost of winemaking, because they cannot be re-used—maybe only once or twice if at all. A French barrel costs $1,000.

We toured the winery with perhaps 40 other tourists. I hate tours. When through some accident I wind up on one, I usually wander off by myself, one ear cocked in the rare event that the tour guide says something interesting.

The main reason I don't like tours is having to crowd through sites with other people. Our group consisted mainly of tourists who were there because a travel agent told them they should see the place, not because they had any real interest in it. Count me among these people.

But this guy intrigued me. He walked around for an hour with his eye glued to the camcorder viewfinder, panning down rows of barrels and equipment. He's gonna have to edit the hell out of that video to make it watchable.

Factory tour over, it was time for Judy and Jean to shop—the high point of their morning.

They lined up at the counter to buy a couple of bottles at low, low winery prices.

—§—

In the Bible stories I read as a kid, those early middle eastern people grew grapes. And apricots and figs and olives. Those crops seem to go together. I guess they flourish in the dry Mediterranean climate, just like the climate we enjoyed in the Sonoma Valley, just like the climate in Mendoza. Most places we've visited, where premium wine is made, so is olive oil. Not that tranny lube you buy in the supermarket, but spicy, fruity artisanal olive oil.

Don Felipe still has its old olive presses, although I didn't find out if they still make oil.

The press on the left has a conventional pair of cylindrical millstones. But the reason I'm even bothering to write about olive oil is the press on the right. I've never seen anything like it. Three conical stones press the olives against a flat stone plate. Unlike the cylindrical press, the entire surface of the plate is engaged in the pressing work. So I imagine this design is more efficient. Cool, huh?

Stuff like this tickles my engineer side. But then again, engineers are like that. I remember as a teenager, picking up a camshaft and showing it to a similarly inclined friend. We both looked at it, and burst out laughing.

Not many people can see the humor in a radical camshaft grind. Or the beauty in a trio of conical millstones. Or the ingenuity of a cow tail drain. But for me, the opportunity to stumble on stuff like this is a benefit of traveling.

At this point, I can't resist making a convoluted parenthetical remark before resuming my narrative. As they say nowadays, that's the way I roll.

Notice that the fields of grapevines as seen from the plane window are not laid out on a rectilinear compass grid, thus making the countryside look more like Europe than the USA. U. S. farmland looks orderly because during the early 19th Century, teams of surveyors were sent out from Washington to lay out townships and measure our new country. Since none of the land was occupied, they could place boundaries anywhere they wanted, so they set the standard township to be six miles square, or 23,040 acres. They aligned townships with the four compass points, and so divided the land into uniform squares as far as the eye could see. That's why the midwest looks so boring from the air.

Tapiz is a working winery. Here we have a vineyard making grapes, olive trees olivulating, and behind all that, the Andes, quietly glaciating in the summer sun.

Our bedrooms are in a separate villa that's bigger than my house. We have our own swimming pool and we have a couple of big, ratty dogs who have adopted us. It's so quiet that Bill thinks something must be wrong.

Club Tapiz has the best restaurant we've visited in Argentina. It's better than any in San Miguel de Allende for that matter. Dishes are imaginative: grilled Camembert with pine nuts and honey; exquisite lamb chops in "American mustard sauce" which turns out to be an artisanal mustard and basalmic vinegar reduction; apple pie with homemade ginger ice cream.

The kitchen is supplied from a fine vegetable garden. Sweet corn, tomatoes, peppers, green beans and squash are brought to the table minutes after picking. Some of our breakfast fruits come from peach, quince and pear trees growing alongside the vegetable plot.

The saint who is responsible for this lovely place has constructed a wonderful compost pile, the hallmark of the true organic gardener. On the right, a chef snips fresh herbs for tonight's Christmas Eve dinner.

I'm writing this in a comfortable living room, wallowing in the luxury of a WiFi hot spot. A nice lady brings me a double espresso. I sit in soft, overstuffed furniture and gaze at paintings on the walls. Straight ahead is one called: Eva leaves her hometown of Junín.

Eva again! What's with you people?

My eye wanders to a painting to my right. Hmmm. Now this is interesting.

What is the artist trying to say here? That life can be insecure? That an errant breeze can put one into an unforeseen situation? What do you think?

Bill, Judy and Jean are all getting massages and facials. I'm getting fat. For me, this is a very, very different way of passing the holidays.

To all of you, my best wishes for a wonderful Christmas. As we say in Argentina, Fröhliche Weihnachten.

In front of Casa Rosada, we have a monument to Christopher Columbus. Veneration of the discoverer of the New World is less controversial in Argentina than elsewhere, given that Columbus began the chain of events that ultimately permitted all those Italians and Germans to migrate here.

Between Casa Rosada and Rio de la Plata lies Puerto Madero, the city's old dockyards. Displaced by modern shipping facilities located elsewhere, Puerto Madero fell into decay, until developers recognized an opportunity.

Puerto Madero has undergone urban renewal eerily similar to the renovation of San Francisco's SOMA. There, decaying factories have been transformed into the million dollar condominiums and office complexes that today house the center of the dot com universe. Here in Buenos Aires, old docks have been sandblasted, re-roofed and otherwise turned into prime retail and residential real estate.

The dockyards still retain the old cranes, repainted to look like modern sculpture. They appear to be in working condition, but I can't see any actual work for them to do. No matter. They're a visual delight.

A 21st-Century suspension bridge crosses one of the boat basins. Whoever designed this project has created an incredibly interesting space.

At street level, the old dock buildings house hundreds of retail businesses. Most are chains or franchises. I didn't see a Starbucks, but we all know they're there. It was the restaurant below that caught my eye.

Yes, brought direct to you from Mall of America, the pride of American culture.

The place is jammed. In a sophisticated, European city, everyone wants to eat at Hooters. Go figure.

One travel writer dismisses Puerto Madero as a yuppie wasteland. There's some truth to his observations, but these old dockyards are a pleasant place for strolling, for hanging out in a café. I spent several hours here, feeling sleepy and content, just like I do among San Francisco's über-yuppies inhabiting the renewed waterfront, down by the new Giant Stadium.

I've seen trains like this one in Amsterdam. It's neat and clean and runs quietly and precisely, tootling sweetly when it comes to crossings. We're looking at German precision, here. No broken down rust bucket being pushed down the track by a gang of campesinos.

These public telephone call boxes are lifted straight out of England. You won't find them anymore in the U. K., but they're a fixture in Buenos Aires, along with public clocks with Roman numerals on their faces.

Does this woman look Mexican or Brazilian or Chilean to you? Probably not.

I'd guess French, although her sunglasses and red wristwatch band point to Italy. French women of a certain age have a propensity for adopting revealing, hyper-stylish appearances. No over-50 Mexican woman would wear an extreme push-up bra like hers, would she? Wouldn't want to be branded a puta by the neighbors. And I don't think many would go for a nose job either.

How about this old guy? I can hear the mandolins tinkling. If ever there were direct descendants of Romulus, this guy is one of them.

His Spanish has an Italian accent. That's no Mexican sombrero on his head. Few Mexicans of his generation would unbutton their shirts two buttons . It's immodest. Unless they had handfuls of gold chains to show off. No, this guy would be perfectly at home sitting on a piazza in Palermo, sipping grappa.

Latin Americans these days have begun looking at their national identities as informed by their indigenous roots. In contrast with Argentineans, few Mexicans have pure European blood. There's a little Indio in all of them. Sometimes a lot. Mexico, after the revolution, turned away from Europe and began to explore what it was to be Mexican. An explosion in Mexican art and writing followed. Mexico has an identity.

Argentineans lack an native character to draw on, so they have to turn to Europe to find their cultural roots. How, then, do they visualize themselves? Are they descendants of Spanish conquistadors? How do you account for the half of the population whose ancestors come from Italy? Also, there's all those ethnic Germans whose grandparents were too low in the Nazi hierarchy to warrant prosecution but too high to escape the wrath of their neighbors. Argentina was, for them, a bolt hole. British? French? They're here. The French are growing fine wines in Mendoza. Recently the Japanese have been arriving, lured by low real estate prices.

We talked with our friend Fabian about his heritage. He's trilingual: Spanish from his father and his native country, Italian from his mother, and English from school so he could get ahead in the world. But even his English is European. His accent is like every Belgian or Norwegian I've ever spoken to, with that unmistakable British public school accent. You'll never hear "Ay, no es my chob, man" in Argentina.

Fabian says to define an Argentinean is complicated, but in one way it's simple: "We are not Latins."

I think he's right.

Cementerio de La Recoleta is the final resting place for many of Argentina's rich, famous and powerful: presidents, authors, military officers and plutocrats among them.

The place is interesting because it is laid out like a small city—passages lined with mausoleums—small buildings, really. Like any city, it has its high-end neighborhoods...

...and it has its slums. Like all real estate, it's about location.

Some mausoleums are little more than ruins. This one contains coffins that have been broken open and is used to store garden tools. Rest in peace, indeed.

Apparently, there's a recent trend for urban renewal; a ladder signals that renovation is underway.

Restoring an angel's wings requires the services of experts.

Statuary abounds. On the left, we see Christ descended from the cross; on the right, Father Time checks his hourglass.

Former presidents and authors often get represented by statues of themselves. A frequent pose is one of enlightening the masses; amazing when you consider that most of these guys were robber barons or tyrants. Nice guys don't often make it into Recoleta.

Below we have the grave of General Juan Lavalle, a national hero and a direct descendant of Hernán Cortés. He is honored with a life-sized cast bronze statue. His sword is drawn but broken, not because of vandals, but because the statue was made that way, to indicate that he died in battle.

Most of Lavalle's body is not interred here. Dying in the northern wilds, his body decomposed. Finally, his soldiers boiled what was left of his remains, returning only his bones to Buenos Aires.

A plaque beside the door of his mausoleum reads:

Grenadier! Sail among your dreams, and if you awaken, note that your native country admires you.

There were plenty of visitors. Most intently studied maps of the cemetery, maps that locate the graves of particularly famous people.

After much note taking and discussion, the crowds set out looking—for the grave of Eva Perón. Nobody else. They ask each other, "Where is Evita's grave?"

What is with people anyway? A third-rate actress presides over the final ruin of what was once the 14th richest country in the world, and she becomes a cult figure, an object of adoration.

We all had a shot at allowing her to sink into obscurity, and then that damn musical came out, and now a whole generation thinks she was some kind of Mother Teresa, caring for poor, downtrodden Argentineans, fighting for the welfare of the poor.

Andrew Lloyd Webber as history professor. Great.

I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes

—Rolling Stones, Paint it Black

—§—

Nights in Buenos Aires are balmy. Young couples walk along streets strung with festive ropes of lights. The girls are so pretty; they make my teeth ache.

I'm remembering when I was a teenager in New Jersey, strolling hand-in hand down the midway at Lake Hopatcong Amusement Park with Alix Acheson. Alix with her long, long hair and pullover sweaters. It was a warm, humid night, filled with the mystery of new love.

I lived in a trouble-free world then. Well, except for my frustrations with Alix's coy reticence. Here in BsAs, evenings in my Recoleta neighborhood revive the old sense of mystery, of possibility.

Cafés, theaters, and bookstores line broad sidewalks. People sit outside eating pizza and drinking coffee. Everything is in motion.

Even the street performers are pretty good. This man is playing from his own hand-written arrangements—a serious musician. Neighborhoods feel safe and wholesome. Young women wear diaphanous dresses. They are catered to by intense young men. The night is for pairing up, for romance.

—§—

We're gonna come around at twelve
With some Puerto Rican girls that are just dyin' to meet you.

—Rolling Stones, Miss You

A ten-minute taxi ride across town, a different kind of love awaits.

She doesn't look like she's actually hoping for a date, does she? She's tired and bored—just going through the motions. Whatever might come from your encounter with her, it'll bear little resemblance to those early dates at Lake Hopatcong. You and she are long past the days of young love. Honestly, you'll experience more intimacy with your barber.

Can you sink any lower? You can. A row of public telephones stretches along pedestrianized Florida Street. Each has a half-dozen business cards stuck to it.

The cards bear the address and phone number of Rocio, who describes herself as a rubia infernal—a blonde hellcat. She doesn't specify the services she's offering, but lest you misunderstand, she includes her photograph, posed on hands and knees in her underwear, her butt facing the camera. Not her best side.

She devotes precious space on her card announcing that her facilities are air conditioned. "Air conditioned! Hey, that does it for me. What are we waiting for?"

I think maybe Rocio could use a marketing consultant.

—§—

It's 2 AM. Dinner is over. We're walking through a mall where a surprising number of businesses are still open, mostly fast food places.

We encounter an old guy with a huge bushy beard. He has hundreds of pieces of silver jewelry spread out on a blanket on the sidewalk. Jean and Judy walk over. Bill and I look at each other. The night's not over yet.

Twenty minutes later, out two girls have made the jeweler's night for him. Those two can shop anywhere, anytime.

It's a sign of how priorities shift with age, that Bill and I patiently stand by while the ladies add to their burgeoning jewelry boxes. Long gone are thoughts of Rocio and the bar lady and the sweet little butterflies that inhabit the Recoleta cafes.

El Establo is one of those places that gives travelers a smug, insider feeling. It's for regulars. It makes no effort to cater to foreigners. The decor is utilitarian.

It reminds me of Original Joe's Restaurant in San Jose, CA, an institution for over 50 years, where most of the waiters have worked for almost that long and none of whom are impressed with you. At El Establo, you get a table for as long as you want it. A waiter of supernatural competence remains at hand for your entire meal, taking orders, making recommendations and serving you flawlessly, without fuss or attitude.

Well, unless you get in his way to take a picture or something. Then he shoos you off to the side. El Establo is for good food, good conversation and good company. It's not a place to bring Tiffani for her 27th birthday, guests posing around the table flashing party picture smiles.

We arrived at dinnertime: 11 PM. Bill and his Mom, familiar with the local cuisine, ordered starters: Riñones and provoleta.

Riñones, the dish with the lemon wedges on top, are grilled kidneys. Now, I've never been a fan of them, owing to an unfortunate childhood incident involving my mother and a plate of kidneys she had failed to "boil the piss out of." But Judy ordered enthusiastically, and having myself consumed, not one month ago, a handful of deep-fried braided pig guts, I went along with the program. Of course, the kidneys were excellent: smoky, savory, lean.

Provoleta is a potato torta: layered potato slices with ham, cheese, roasted red bell peppers, fresh tomatoes and basil. I don't have to tell you how yummy that was.

Bill tried to place orders with the waiter for the entire meal when he ordered the riñones and provoleta. The waiter gently corrected him: No need for hurry here; the whole evening lies ahead; order when you're ready for it.

Argentineans have a refreshingly direct approach to preparing steak: Cow —> Fire —> Plate. No marinades. No sauces. No seasonings. You order it a punto—medium rare. Any other way marks you as a cretin.

It isn't Kobe beef. It isn't corn-fed Kansas City beef. A few days ago it was a half-wild, muddy, burr-encrusted steer somewhere out on the Pampas. An animal of no pedigree, it munched wild grasses and drank silty water until some gaucho caught it. Wouldn't surprise me if he shot it. Apparently, to the gaucho's practiced eye, it wasn't good enough for his own dinner, so he sent it on to Buenos Aires for undiscerning city slickers.

It tasted divine.

At an adjacent table, four friends shared dinner. They were in the restaurant when we arrived at 11. This photo was taken at 1 AM. Still going strong.

They were having a great time, telling jokes, arguing, enjoying the meal and each others' company. They ordered continuously and in no particular order whenever their appetites moved them: a little blood sausage, some arugula salad, a steak, maybe some ribs, coffee, crème caramel, a piece of grilled salmon, a plate of onion rings, some ice cream... where did they put it all? Only two bottles of wine for the four of them, but I've never seen a group enjoy themselves more.

We Americans are less prone to languid meal-taking. There's a school play to get to. We gotta get up at 6 to make it to the morning status meeting on time. Grab a tub of extra-crispy KFC on the way home and sit in front of the tube watching House.

Eat in a restaurant until 1 AM? On a Monday night? What, are you crazy?

As we touched down at Buenos Aires' Ezeiza International Airport, we passed over terrain that looked like the Texas Hill Country in summer: shimmering sun, a little haze, green grass, leafy trees.

The Little Drummer Boy played softly on the aircraft PA system. Surreal.

Early in the last century, Argentina was one of the dozen or so richest countries in the world. Frequent economic collapse has relegated the country to the pack of also-rans, but driving through the countryside, I can see echos of the old wealth, and the huge promise of the country. Roads are good. Everyone has a car. Houses are built to European standards, some with ornately-laid high-fired brick. You can drink the water. Really.

Argentina is no banana republic.

Six months ago, along with some friends of ours, we reserved apartments in an upscale neighborhood. This is our building.

Boring, no? We chose to live in an apartment because we'll be staying for a month, and because I want to experience living here, as opposed to touring.

Here is Jean in our living room, settling details with Cecilia, our rental agent. Cecilia looks like she belongs in middle school. Note that she is perfectly attired for late December in a white tank top.

In addition to a living room, we have one bedroom, an office with a WiFi hot spot, a fully-equipped kitchen, and one and one-half baths, for around $65 per day. It's utilitarian, has little charm, is perfectly located, and very comfortable. It has a concierge.

Our neighborhood is called Recoleta, named after the cemetery where rich and powerful Argentineans are buried; among them, Evita Perón. She's somewhere out there in this view of the cemetery from our balcony.

I read an article: Argentina on Two Steaks a Day. The national diet isn't quite that limited. But beef fed on the grasses of the pampas and grilled over charcoal is the culinary crown jewel. These animals never saw a feedlot, were given neither growth hormones nor antibiotics. It's said to be the best beef in the world.

I'm tired and cranky from the 24-hour journey, and I'm hungry. I intend to put one of these steaks inside of me as soon as I get done with this post, followed by a good night's sleep.

That building is one ugly sucker, isn't it? In a country with such a magnificent architectural heritage and so many fine architects, it's a crime to put up something that looks like this.

But in hospitals, it's what's inside that counts, and in Hospital Los Angeles, you'll get treatment from doctors as good as any you'll find at a north-of-the-border community hospital. Moreover, here you'll get bigger, better rooms, and nursing attention that'll make you think you're at a Four Seasons resort.

"What would you like for breakfast today, Señor?"

"I dunno. Whaddaya got?"

"Maybe you'd like a mesquite-grilled chicken breast sandwich on a roll with some cole slaw. And how about a sliced mango with ice cream for dessert?"

"Will you marry me?"

Everywhere in Mexico, faith and medicine are interwoven. Hospital Los Angeles recognizes this and provides a chapel for the use of visitors. Years ago, this chapel was a source of much comfort to Jean. I had had a heart attack and underwent angioplasty. Jean was alone in a strange country, one where she didn't understand the language. Although not a member of any organized religion, she spent several days in the chapel, communicating with Guadalupe.

The chapel is more than just a quiet place for contemplation and prayer. Transactions are made here; for instance, for thanksgiving. A figure of Christ occupies a niche, bedecked with rosaries and hospital id tags given in thanks for someone's recovery.

It's a place to ask for help. An image of the virgin bears scores of written requests for intervention.

Even the Pope receives petitions.

More often than not, patients get better. Their recoveries are frequently viewed as miracles, which are sometimes commemorated in homemade scenes painted onto pieces of tin or embroidered onto cloth.

These images are called milagros, and to contemplate one is itself a minor miracle. Milagros are windows into the hearts of people expressing humility and gratitude for someone's health or for their cure: a moving expression of simple faith.

—Willie Dixon

When Valeria's special quinceañera mass was over, it was time to boogie. We all went over to the party site—a warehouse co-opted for the purpose. It only being five o'clock, we uninformed gringos went in and sat down, unaware that we wouldn't be seeing any food until maybe seven, and the dancing wouldn't start till after nine.

Valeria arrived with her four attendants, all dressed all in black, looking sharp in neckties and perfect hair. They all took off in the beribboned car for more photos.

I think there were almost 200 guests. Most trickled in when the food was likely to be ready—experienced fiesta-goers all.

We were served barbacoa, which in the State of Guanajuato at least, consists of sheep cooked on top of maguey leaves in a pit full of charcoal and heated stones.

Feeding the crowd required five large sheep—whole sheep—all parts of the sheep. Beginning at the upper left of the photo, in front of our friend Aurora, there's a dish of roasted and steamed sheep (not lamb): mostly foreleg and ribs on that particular plate. In the bowl to the right, Patty is dipping her tortilla into consomme, a soup prepared from sheep drippings and juices.

Immediately in front of Patty is a plate of montalayo: sheep's stomach stuffed with various ovine organ meats, tongue, eyeballs (really) and spices, steamed. Think haggis, without the oatmeal.

And in front of the montalayo is moranga: sheep's blood sausage, cooked with onions and tomatoes. Lest you conclude that Mexicans are savages who will eat anything, I'll note that elegant British aristocrats eat black pudding, another sausage made from animal blood.

The plate above my bowl of consomme contains steamed rice and above that, a bowl of traditional garnish, chopped raw onion and cilantro.

All of it was delicious. Not only did I stuff myself with everything that was set in front of us, Jean did too. Even the montalayo and the moranga, while knowing full well what she was eating.

Valeria's extended family served all the guests, running back and forth for hours. Even though she was the guest of honor, Valeria chose not to sit regally at the head table as was her right. Instead she welcomed guests, served them drinks, and carried small children from place to place as needed—a perfect hostess.

It took about two hours to get everyone fed. For children it was a long wait. But an opportunistic balloon and ball vendor showed up, sneaking in past Cousin Edgar, who was guarding the door against party crashers. Soon, the dance floor was filled with small children playing soccer and tossing balloons.

At last, the main event got underway. It has become a custom that the quinceañera (the term applies to the young woman as well as the whole party) and her attendants do a sort of production number. Here we see Valeria trying to get all the participants lined up.

Hmmm. Who's missing? Carlos. Over here, Carlos!

Aahgghh! Won't anyone do anything right? Mom? Mom!

Ceremonies began with a slide show: pictures of Valeria growing up. Lots of cheers and applause. What I great idea. I'm going to do it for my 70th birthday. (Except I won't look as cute.)

Next, Valeria and her attendants, the four boys taking themselves very seriously, performed a well-rehearsed procession and dance.

Several times, they lifted her high into the air. This was a serious performance.

Electrically controlled Roman candles had been set out on the floor and ignited from time to time. I worried that one might go off under Valeria's billowing skirt, but that's just insecure, overprotective father instincts working overtime.

Following the production number was traditional ballroom dancing: Valeria two-stepping with the important men in her life. A score of males, including a couple of little boys, took turns cutting in, but she was the only woman dancing. This was clearly her night—hers alone.

She received some gifts. Here cousin Teresa is helping with a huge stuffed animal. Valeria may be entering womanhood, but she still takes great pleasure in the things of childhood, as do all young ladies her age.

Smoke from the Roman candles became intense. Nobody cared. This image was taken at the height of the smokiness. I'm darned if I can see what's going on here.

The hour was approaching ten o'clock. The party was well underway, but it had a long was to go. Jean and I usually fade around ten or eleven, so we said our goodbyes. It took us a half hour to leave because everyone come up to give us a small parting gift and a hug and a kiss.

This kind of love, this kind of friendship is the real magic of Mexico.

Tonight we need no rest,
We really gonna throw a mess.
We gonna to break out all of the windows.
We gonna kick down all the doors.
We gonna pitch a wang dang doodle
All night long.

Last Saturday she celebrated her fifteenth birthday. In these parts, this is a significant milestone in a girl's life, and it's marked with a celebration called a quinceañera, signaling a girl's passage into womanhood. These days, most quinceañeras consist of a misa (mass) followed by a fiesta.

Valeria sent us an ornate invitation via her grandmother. Jean and I were touched and honored to be included.

The misa is arguably the most important part of the quinceañera, although you'd have to forgive foreign visitors for thinking the fiesta was the primary event, given the latter's cost, duration and attendance. I'll cover Valeria's fiesta in a subsequent post.

The thanksgiving mass is said with Valeria specially seated at the front of the church, flanked on her right by her parents and on her left by her godparents.

In addition to the traditional elements of the mass, the priest directs particular remarks to Valeria. He reminds her to be thankful for her gifts as a young woman and warns her that, with the gift of adulthood comes responsibilities. I don't know about Valeria, but if it had been me sitting there, I'd be mentally urging him to get it over with. Priests, teachers, parents... all with that responsibility thing. Sheesh! I got a party to go to.

After the service, it's time for a gazillion photos. Here Valeria is graciously enduring posing with two old ladies.

Valeria's cousin, sweet little Teresa, is attending in her own gown. In six more years, it'll be time for her own quinceañera. She'll be a heart-stopping beauty just like Valeria. Grandma Rosario carries big-time sweetheart genes.

Today is the most important event in Valeria's young life. Surely she has been dreaming about this day for a long time.

I've heard gringo criticism of the quinceañera. Some say that these celebrations mean financial strain for families, that the quinceañera is a cause of, or a sign of Mexico's focus on the wrong priorities, that Mexico will never make it into the rich world so long as so many resources are diverted for what amounts to a party.

I don't know. Up north, we've been known to spend some serious bucks on parties. Prom night often costs more than $1,000. The average wedding in the US costs $20,000. Some moments in life are special. Many feel that the costs of these occasions is secondary.

Maybe you think this country would better off if the quinceañera were discontinued. Well, if you do, look back at the last photo, at the stars in little Teresa's eyes. Nobody is gonna deny that kid her moment in the sun.

So how much are these guys being paid? By law, the minimum wage is around $50 pesos per day ($4.50 US), but it's unlikely anybody works for that. You certainly couldn't live on so little, even if your family had several wage earners.

The workers in the photo are probably being paid $130-$150 pesos per day ($12-$14 US). You can't live on that either, but these are among the highest-paid laborers in Mexico. By contrast, the minimum wage in the US is almost $47 for an eight-hour day, more than ten times that of Mexico. Nobody works for that either; at least not in California, where the state-mandated eight-hour minimum wage is $60, and especially not in San Francisco, where it's $76.

I find it hard to imagine that any fence could deter migration to the north, given that huge pay differential.

If nobody in Mexico works at the minimum wage, why does the government legislate it? Well, certain taxes are based on the minimum wage, which is increased every year for inflation. That way, when the minimum wage goes up, the social security tax goes up automatically.

But of course, there's a loophole. For example, you may pay your laborer $150 pesos per day, but when you pay social security taxes, you'll claim you're paying him the minimum wage, $50 pesos. Unless you're really honest. Or really stupid. Everybody knows you're not paying minimum wage, but everybody goes along with the fiction that you are. So your actual social security tax payments are only a third of what the law says they should be.

It gets better. Policymakers know full well what's going on, so they set the social security tax rate to account for the cheating. That way, there's enough money to fund the social security system, keeping the administrators happy, and everybody else figures they're getting away with something, making them happy.

The minimum wage affects fines: for traffic violations, building code violations, urinating in public, whatever. Fines are figured in salarios minimos (minimum daily salaries). A friend was fined approximately six salarios minimos for failing to wear her seat belt. Another fine, for speeding, was a whopping 20 salarios minimos —$952 pesos.

You probably see that something something is seriously wrong here. How could even relatively high-paid workers afford to pay a speeding ticket?

The answer is they can't. Utterly can't. Not a chance. So they offer the cop a bribe. The cop doesn't solicit the bribe; he doesn't have to ask. The stupid fine system does the asking for him. So from time to time we are treated to the sight of a State cop standing beside his highyway cruiser emblazoned with the words "No más mordida" (no more bribery), pocketing a proffered $100 peso note. Solo dos salarios minimos.

Anamaria lives in a condominium complex called Rincon del Cielo (Corner of Heaven). As a single woman living alone, she likes the security of a gated community, of 24-hour doorman services.

Considerable thought was put into features that add a touch of elegance to the community: an impressive gate, beautiful landscaping, a modern fountain and decorative pool in the entryway. For some reason, the fountain hasn't run for months. Whether it's part of a water conservation policy or simply a relaxed attitude toward maintenance, I can't tell.

Rincon del Cielo is a warm, comfortable, pristine community. Rows of townhouses are arranged beside wide lawns and a swimming pool. Individual residences all have front porches designed for living and entertaining. Children are welcome here and add a sense of energy and fun to the ambience.

All of the utilities are underground. Outdoor lighting makes the common areas welcome places to hang out after dark. Cable keeps residents hooked into the outside world; many have installed WiFi hotspots. Except for the palm trees, this could be St. Cloud, Minnesota. Well, except for the palms and the climate. The low in St. Cloud was 15º last night.

I don't want to encourage too many of you northerners to swell the population of San Miguel de Allende. Nevertheless I can't restrain myself from mentioning that even though real estate prices here have skyrocketed, you can buy a two-bedroom home in Rincon del Cielo for about $120,000 US. Besides being a painter, Anamaria is a real estate agent, and she'd be happy to sell you one. (That plug ought to be worth another lunch.)

She is also a superb cook. Here she is in her modern kitchen preparing lunch. Tile counters, drop-in range, blonde cabinets, a microwave and a fancy coffeemaker. Art hangs on the walls, pictures of her grandchildren are taped to the refrigerator. How is Anamaria any different from her sisters in Sunnyvale, California?

Lunch is a treat: machacado con huevo (dried beef with eggs). Similar to beef jerky, machacado is, according to Anamaria, a specialty of Monterrey, her home town. Elsewhere in Mexico, machacado is called machaca, but whatever it's called, she assures me the best comes from Monterrey. If Anamaria says it, it must be true. It's sometimes eaten out of hand, like we do with jerky, but most commonly, it's incorporated into other dishes.

The beef used in machacado is not cooked. The raw beef is cut along the grain into thin sheets and hung on lines to dry. The finished product is tough and chewy, so for use in dishes like machacado con huevo, it has been pounded while dry to soften it. You can buy it already pounded.

We sat down to eat at a table perfectly set for luncheon. Our meal consisted of machacado con huevo, frijoles negros, tortillas, aguacate, salsa verde, y uvas. It was delicious and utterly delightful.

—§—

In the United States, the middle class emerged after the Second World War and changed the country. Class distinctions were diminished, authorities were held accountable, sheeplike acceptance of corruption and privilege turned to skepticism, intolerance, and outrage.

Anamaria, her children and her friends, and millions of Mexicans like her are beginning a similar transformation of this country. Middle-class Mexicans are less willing to accept extortion. They value punctuality and competence. They demand respect from their leaders and service providers. They abhor corruption.

A few years ago, a Telmex manager, answering a reporter's question about why he didn't restore service to thousands of telephones that had failed due to flooding, responded that he hadn't noticed because, you know, people were always complaining. He was fired.

Now, if they'd only fix the fountain at Rincon del Cielo...

Of course there's a better way to do this. Bob did the obvious. He bought a simple lawn sprinkler for José to attach to the end of the hose, so that he could place it on the lawn and let it run while training the bougainvillea to climb the bedroom wall.

A few days later, Bob walked out into the yard. There he found José holding the hose with the new sprinkler attached, waving it over the lawn. No amount of explanation, cajoling or pleading has convinced José to do it any other way.

Some good has come out of this situation: Type "A" Bob is learning acceptance.

Pedro Moreno

Good thing, too, because Hidalgo and three other leaders of the insurgency were captured and executed less than a year later, their heads hung in iron cages hung from a granery in Guanajuato as an example. Others, like Moreno, took up leadership of the cause.

Pedro Moreno died in the fighting seven years later. Today he ranks as one of the fathers of independent Mexico. In recognition of his contribution, Villa de Santa Maria de los Lagos was renamed Lagos de Moreno. I bet the civil authorities had a hell of a fight with the ecclesiastics over dumping Santa Maria for an insurgent who fought against the interests of the Church; at the time firmly in the royalist camp.

—§—

Found in a Wickipedia article:

Lagos de Moreno is called by Mexicans, with some hyperbole, the "Athens of Jalisco" because of the numerous writers and poets who were born there.

The Mayor is clueless, ignorant of human nature, given to ill-thought out actions. One of De Alba's short stories deals with construction of a bridge over the river running beside the city, facilitating traffic on the highway from Guanajuato to Lagos during the rainy season, when the river is dangerous to cross. In an attempt to pay the bridge's cost, the Mayor imposes a toll.

Travelers along the road have long crossed the river without benefit of a bridge, because for most of the year, little rain falls and the riverbed is dry. And when the river is full, they just take their chances or they wait. It's been this way for decades. They're certainly not going to begin paying a toll to use the bridge when they can walk down into the riverbed alongside the spanking new bridge, its paving stones unmarked by the passage of feet, and cross the river in the time-honored and toll-free way.

The Mayor affixes a plaque to the bridge that says:

ESTE PUENTE SE HIZO EN LAGOS
Y SE PASA POR ARRIBA

It says "This bridge was built in Lagos." Which settles the question of whether it was erected in place or if it was manufactured in, say, Guanajuato, and towed to its present location.

The second line, I would translate as "You cross it by going on top." Always nice to have instructions for those who can't figure things out for themselves. Or maybe, the Mayor hoped that people would take the hint and actually use the bridge instead of taking the riskier river crossing below. Fat chance.

The story doesn't say how the bridge was eventually paid for. But it still stands today, toll-free, a monument to the inflated egos of the alcaldes of Lagos.

El Puente de Lagos

El Alcalde de Lagos also takes aim at the city's rather elegant parish church, noting that it is larger and more ornate than some cathedrals, despite no bishop having his seat there.

La Parroquia de Lagos

Lagos is a crossroads between Zacatecas, Guanajuato and Guadalajara; long-haul truckers make their way through. It's an important agricultural center. It is important historically and has many monuments, making it an interesting town for tourists to visit.

But few do. No crowds. No tacky tourist shops. Just a genuine city full of regular people living productive lives; a comfortable town. A nice place to visit.

Ice cream vendors often are little old men, working well past retirement age. There's virtually no Social Security retirement benefits here, so in old age, you depend on the support of your children, and maybe you go push an ice cream cart.

This old guy is neatly dressed in wool slacks, a long-sleeved shirt and a wool pullover sweater. It's only in the mid-70s, so it's best he wears a sweater to keep the chill off.

—§—

I love weird combination businesses: Dry Cleaning and Stereo Repair, Jewelry and Real Estate. Here we have a gymnasium and paint store.

"Where ya going Carlos?"

"I'm going to do my workout."

"Hey, as long as you're going, would ya pick up a couple of gallons of Navajo White for the dining room?"

—§—

Below, we have Tacos "Correr de los Caminos," (Roadrunner Tacos).

Doesn't look like it's been open for awhile, and with that flat tire, things don't seem all that promising. Maybe the graphics are discouraging potential customers. Are they offering actual roadrunner tacos? Roadrunner al pastor? Wouldn't they be kind of stringy? I don't know about you, but I'd try one.

These businesses are way more charming than anything you'll find in a mall north of the border.

You know you're nearing a Mexican cemetery when you run across a stand selling jalapeño cans, the preferred vase for graveyard flowers.

Only this one stand was operating two days after Day of the Dead, but it's more or less permanent. Someone is always coming by to visit a departed loved one, and these ladies fill a need for visitors who come during the rest of the year.

Above the entrance to the panteón, a poster urges neighbors to reduce the spread of dengue by eliminating standing water where mosquitos can breed. It's an interesting choice of places to hang it.

(I see public health notices everywhere, addressing cholera, dysentery, pre-natal care, nutrition. I guess neither the education system or the press fills the need for health information well enough.)

The flowers will fade soon enough, but they can be enjoyed today. Images of Guadalupe, angels and suffering Christs will last longer. I used to think Mexican cemeteries looked garish. Today I think those in the US look drab.

On the right you can make out an open bottle of Coke—the gift of a favorite drink for the spirit lingering nearby.

You plan ahead for a space in the panteón. Buy now, use later. Señora Luz Maria Baltazar has posted her claim to the site on the right, with a sign warning others against sneaking in and burying someone else there.

Many graves are quite large. They have faux marble vases and bible-like books on which are inscribed religious sayings or the names of the dead interred there. Cast aluminum crucifixes and plaques grace the stonework, along with odd rings bearing bas-relief images of Christ's face.

The rings flip up, becoming handles to facilitate removing the capstone when another person joins her forebears in the crypt.

The panteón is at once happy, peaceful, pragmatic. I got a warm feeling as Patty and I walked through it on this sunny day. We came to a wall of small graves that I assumed were for cremated remains.

But they don't cremate people here. At least not often. I read the inscriptions on a few plaques. The small graves are not for ashes; they are for infants. So many of them.

The upper grave is for Baby Miguel Angel Olmeda, who lived for six days after his birth in August 1978. The lower is for Valerio Ramos, who was stillborn.

I can accept the end of a long life well lived, and I find comfort in visiting the resting place of one who lived that way. I can sort of handle the death of a young adult victim of a fatal accident, someone who at least got to enjoy growing up. But it was all I could do not to lose it when I realized I was looking at the graves of scores of babies who never got their chance.

Comforting, though, is the thought that these kids are remembered, even thirty years after passing, by their parents, by their siblings; still loved as eternal members of their families.

The main church, with its elegant arches, towers and tiled dome, dominates the skyline. On Sunday, when we were visiting Unión, an overflow crowd was attending services.

The bell towers look like a mashup of Moorish and Russian Orthodox architecture.

A mansion on the edge of town incorporates onion domes into its architecture.

The story goes that the owner visited Russia and returned to Unión with a vision. I love it.

Patty's relatives on her father's side, all 283 of them, live here. There must be only two degrees of separation between people here: they're either related to Patty, or they're friends with someone who is. Every third person we encountered stopped to talk.

Our main purpose in coming was for breakfast at her Uncle Jesús's carnitas place. He used to call it Carnitas Lupita, a wonderful name, but he may have renamed it since. It was here, in this unassuming storefront, that I abandoned all my misgivings about Mexican cuisine.

Carnitas Lupita redefines the meaning of casual dining. No tables, no chairs, but not exactly takeout either. Many people buy their food and eat it standing there. At one doorway, you can order carnitas tacos and other ready-to-eat meals. The near counter is intended for people buying carnitas by the kilo.

Customers so inclined are allowed to pick through trays of cooked pork, selecting morsels that take their fancy. This man spent a half hour, picking up every piece on the counter, examining each one from different angles. Some he put in his plastic bag. A few, he ate right away. The rest he threw back.

A van load of us approached Jesús's. Patty's mom and sisters immediately thrust their hands into the pans of carnitas, fishing out the more delectable pieces to hand to me.

Everyone should try eating chunks of greasy pork while taking photographs. Or maybe not. I spent about an hour the next day, cleaning fat out of tiny buttons and dials.

Uncle Jesús has been selling carnitas for many years. He raises his own pigs: his is a vertically integrated enterprise. Here he is holding a length of braided intestines. I've posted photographs of uncooked ones hanging in carnicerias a couple of times now, for the gross-out value and on account of the morbid fascination they evoke. This is the first time I've seen them in their cooked state, ready to eat.

Patty broke off a short length of gut and said, "Try them. They're delicious." I did, and they were. They were probably the tastiest pieces of carnitas I've ever eaten. Except for costillas (ribs). As long as I didn't let myself think about what I was eating, I was OK.

Once I got the intestines down, I was off to the races. Stomach (below, left)? No problem. Bladder? I hesitated; then I went for it. Chewy.

Now, enthusiastically rooting through trays of pork, there was no stopping me. Not, that is, until I picked up a pig's nose (above, right). Then I almost lost it. Guts, urinary systems, organs, ears—all that was manageable. But that cute little nose. It broke my heart, that pathetic little thing sitting there.

I'm closing in on having consumed all parts of a pig. I think it would be in poor taste for me to list the items I have to eat to complete my quest. Oh the hell with it: eyeballs, pancreas, lungs, testes, and the hardest of all, a cute little nose. A few more months should get it.

Jesús cooks carnitas in large copper (or stainless steel) pots set into a purpose-built gas ring. The process renders a lot of lard which he cools and sells. You ever wonder why those empanadas taste so good? The cook bought his shortening from places like Carnitas Lupita.

If you're worried about cleanliness, check out the stainless tubs in the background. At closing time, the whole kitchen looked the way they do—sparkling.

In all the posts where I mentioned carnitas, I've never put up a photo of someone eating it. Making up for that lapse, here we have sister Porfi enjoying a leg.

So that was breakfast: deep-fried pork. We had a package of tortillas fresh from the tortilleria, but they were as much for wiping grease off our fingers as for food. Somebody bought cokes at a tiendita. There was a five-gallon plastic bucket full of homemade salsa on the floor that you could dip your pork into before eating. No chairs or tables or plates, glasses or tableware.

It was delicious and satisfying. After we pigged out (sorry), Porfi took us around the corner to a paleteria, a place that sells frozen fruit pulp on a stick. These are not the usual boring strawberry or orange popsicles of our childhoods: Michoacán Paleteria offered maybe fifty varieties, all made locally, many exotic. You buy little ones so you can try several different kinds. I tasted several, including mamey, sapote and mango with chile.

In sixty years of living in the north, I became fastidious about food. As a kid, I helped my mother pluck and clean chickens. By the time we decided to move to Mexico, I was buying free-range boneless, skinless chicken breasts in styrofoam trays imprinted with warnings about proper food handling. I guess we're all safer that way, but chewing on a bone at Jesús's, I couldn't help thinking we've lost our connection with our food, that some of the heart has gone out of eating.

Cristy tries to run a number on her caretakers

She's a gutsy kid, and she can hold her own in a family altercation. Here she's facing down her mother (right) and Aunt Maru (left). Cristy's cause is doomed and she knows it, but that doesn't stop her from putting a full court press on her elders.

Cristy is taking point. Safely behind her, Cousin JJ nervously scratches his head while just visible between Cristy and Maru, two other cousins wait for a verdict.

"WHAT? Are you CRAZY? You're sick! You're NOT going ANYWHERE."

(I'm reconstructing the gist of what Maru is telling Cristy. Note that Patty is relaxing while Maru leads the defense. Sometimes big sisters come in handy.)

Voices are raised. Behind Maru, a half-dozen people are watching futbol. Someone scores a goal. The TV roars. Cristy shouts an emotional counteroffer. Everything is chaos.

Everything is exactly the way it is supposed to be.

—§—

When you're grounded, how do you fill the hours between 9 PM and your bedtime at, say, 3 AM? One possibility is to watch some DVDs. Somebody went out and got a half dozen new ones.

$8 worth of movies

They weren't rented from Blockbuster. Blockbuster movies, at $3 per rental, are too darn expensive. Besides, you have to return them. Also, Blockbuster doesn't have the latest films—ones that haven't yet been released to DVD.

Blockbuster is a bad deal.

Kids know they're better off to buy their movies from a street stalls. Those vendors have got films that aren't even in theaters yet. $15 pesos each, no más.

Of course, sometimes the image is blurry, a little out-of-focus. The audio sounds like it was funneled through the microphone of a small camcorder. Occasionally the silhouette of someone's head drifts across the screen—a theater patron taking a bathroom break. No matter. If you're watching The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning, you're not gonna notice these things.

Maria Torres, Spanish Teacher

Maria is one of the common people, with modest circumstances and a big heart. She effects masculine dress and crude mannerisms. During our conversation, she spit over her shoulder and adjusted her crotch like a major league batter. Her Spanish is earthy and genuine.

For example, if I were to ask someone to stop lying to me, I might say something like: "No me mientas." (Don't lie to me.) In the same situation, Maria would probably say "No me jales." It transliterates to "Don't pull me", but that's not what it means. A closer translation might be "Don't jerk me around." But neither translation conveys the real sense: "Don't pull my (here insert slang word for penis).

You can't get this stuff at Berlitz.

I'll share just one more, and it's a honey. "Nos van a dar una torcida de la riata." (Literally: We're going to give another twist to the lariat.) It might be used in a discussion between a team selling real estate, in reference to negotiating strategy. And consistent with Mexican propensity for circumlocution, it indeed really means what you think it does (see example above).

Erika is another Spanish teacher, my principal teacher. I have been studying with her for several years.

Erika Corral, Profesora de Español

Intellectual, cultured and artistic, Erika couldn't be more different from Maria. I have clumsy conversations with her about Mexican poets and listen to her recount her latest trek in Tibet.

Erika pushed me through conjugations—all fourteen tenses—and drove me through again. She led me through the trackless wilderness of pronouns. She had me write out translations of Juan Rulfo and compose essays.

But she isn't limited to academy Spanish. I share with her expressions I hear on the street. She fine tunes my understanding of what I pick up and adds a few juicy ones of her own. For example, an alternative to "No me jales," might be "No mames." (Mamar—to suck). Patty tells me this expression used to be common with uneducated people, but that today's teenagers have picked it up and use it a lot.

Worse, there's "No jodas," which is absolutely vulgar. I'm not going to explain further here except to say the translations of mamar and joder rhyme.

Not all the expressions I'm learning are coarse. Nor are they particularly entertaining, at least to my twisted mind. But they're the essence of any language. No me jales is proper Spanish, even though you won't understand it by consulting the official dictionary of the Royal Academy.

I'm grateful that Erika, Patty, Maria and so many others are in my life and are willing to put up with my questions. They are helping me make the transition from a student of Spanish to a speaker of it, and I love them for it.

Limón grass from the herbolario

I usually feel better after drinking one of her concoctions. But I'm enough of a skeptic to question whether these plants actually have medicinal properties, or if I'm just responding to the mothering and the hot drink.

In Lagos de Morena, Patty and I ran across a woman selling piojos del burro, shown below.

Piojos del burro

Piojos del burro. Means donkey lice. They're seed pods, burrs that hook onto cloth or fur and won't let go. An annoying plant.

We asked what it was used for. The woman told us it was for curing kidney stones. You boil three pods in a couple quarts of water and drink the resulting tea for nine days. Voilà. No more kidney stones.

Years ago, I passed two kidney stones. I have two more I'm saving for a rainy day. They're huge, the size of my thumb, so they're never going to descend. They're not growing and they're not causing any problems, so my urologist recommends just leaving them in place. OK, but at my weigh-ins with my internist, I've been asking for an allowance for the stones.

I think I'm going to pass on the piojos del burro. I can't imagine any mechanism by which they would help. And somehow, I don't think a poor country woman sitting in a doorway in Lagos de Moreno is a good source of medical advice. Most importantly, Dra Rosario isn't buying it.

Judging from the pile of chewed detritus by her feet, she had been standing there for a while.

She has a red sweater tied around her waist. At that moment, the temperature was in the 80s, but I imagine that when she left the house, it was only in the 70s. Much too cold to be running around in a blouse, so Mamá made sure she wore her sweater. (We northerners have no idea how to manage temperature.)

—§—

Patty, sister Sandy and I strolled around some civic buildings in the city center, Geraldo in tow.

He seems dwarfed by the architecture, even awed by it. But don't let that fool you. He gave the building the one glance before he was off, checking something else out—a four-year-old dynamo.

—§—

Go by any major church on a Saturday, and there's sure to be a wedding. I've been an informal guest at several.

Seems to me that Mexican brides and wedding party members wear more traditional gowns than up north. At my daughter Samantha's wedding, ladies and girls had bright orange and green outfits—a reversal of the Mexican tendency toward more exuberant use of color. The—whatchacallum—train bearer (?) shown here was one of three identically dressed little girls.

[Note to bloggers: When you don't know what to post, you can always fall back on kid pictures.]

I was ... [reading] Walpole, and I suddenly came over all peckish ... I thought to myself, 'a little fermented curd will do the trick'. So I curtailed my Walpoling activities, sallied forth, and infiltrated your place of purveyance to negotiate the vending of some cheesy comestibles.

John Cleese, Monty Python's Flying Circus

Calle Pedro Moreno runs through the centro historico of Lagos de Moreno, both street and town named for an insurgent general who fought the Spanish for Mexican Independence. We were strolling in the neighborhood nearby when Patty pointed out a nondescript building. She told me that if I wanted really good cheese, this was the place to go.

Lacteos Thomsen

The building gave no clue that it housed a business. No signs, no displays, no open door. It didn't look any too promising.

Mexico isn't known for its artesanal cheeses anyway. Arguably, Manchego is the most common variety available, and much of it is made in huge factories. If they ask you, "You want cheese on that?", you're probably going to get Manchego, a bland semi-soft cheese that's definitely better than that "cheese food product" called American, but not by much.

Imports of European varieties are on the increase, as are knockoffs. You can find passable Brie, Roquefort (well, blue at least), Gouda, Feta (not Greek), Parmesan, Mozzarella, and a couple of others.

But like John Cleese's character, Mr. Mousebender, you'll be frustrated if you're looking for: Red Leicester, Tilsit, Caerphilly, Bel Paese, Red Windsor, Stilton, Emmental, Gruyère, Norwegian Jarlsberg, Liptauer, Lancashire, White Stilton, Danish Blue, Double Gloucester, Cheshire, Dorset Blue Vinney, Pont l'Evêque, Port Salut, Savoyard, Saint-Paulin, Carré de l'Est, Bresse-Bleu, Boursin, Camembert, Edam, Caithness, Smoked Austrian, Sage Derby, Wensleydale, Gorgonzola, Pipo Crème, Danish Fynbo, Czech sheep's milk, Cheddar, Ilchester, or Limburger.

So it was without high expectations that I walked with Patty up to the door and knocked. After a wait it opened, and a young woman wearing a snood admitted us to... a garage. We sidled around a Nissan parked there and sighted a table supporting a commercial scale.

The placed seemed "uncontaminated by cheese," though. I felt like I was in a British television comedy bit.

The woman asked us what we wanted.

Picture this. I'm leaning against an automobile fender. A couple of bicycles are parked against a wall. There's a worn tire, a couple of corrugated cardboard boxes containing household items. Someone is asking what I want. And I'm going to have to answer, "Well, I'd like some cheese..."

Thomsen's retail outlet, in its entirety

Our clerk seemed a little surprised at our request. "You want cheese?" Recovering quickly, she scuttled through a doorway and returned with samples. Thomsen, a fixture in Lagos for generations, makes four types of cheeses. Two are called by European names: Tilsit and Gouda. The samples did indeed taste vaguely like their European models.

More interesting, though, are two other varieties, unique to Mexico. A young cheese, Adobera, has a fresh taste and slightly crumbly texture. An aged semi-soft cheese, named Lagos, is pale yellow and buttery smooth. Both have robust fermented scents and flavor. Real cheeses.

Two kilos of cheese: Adobera and Lagos

I bought the two local varieties to bring home to Jean. Four-and-a-half pounds is an awful lot of cheese for a couple, one member of which is struggling to keep weight and cholesterol levels under control. But Thomsen sells whole cheeses, not cut ones. It's all or nothing. I'm going to have to throw a couple of parties to use it all up.

I spent $180 pesos, which works out to around $3.60 US per pound. I think that's a little expensive for Mexico, but then, these aren't Manchego cheese food product. Artisanal cheeses cost more, and few are available elsewhere for less.

I was tempted to ask the attendant if she had any "Venezuelan Beaver Cheese," but I'm finding my attempts at humor tend to fall flat on Mexican ears, and besides, at that moment, I didn't know the Spanish word for "beaver". (It's el castor.)

Lacteos Thomsen is a hidden treasure, one of those delightful discoveries encountered when least expected, and which make the bother and expense of traveling so rewarding.

Left to right: Patty, Patricia (Mom), nephew JJ, and brother Harold.

I told Patty I wanted to try everything. She looked at me dubiously. I said, "Really. Everything."

Our waitress came over and initiated negotiations.

[In Mexico, we have meseras (waitresses), not servers. There's no word in Spanish for "server" as a gender-neutral noun meaning person who brings you food. None. So don't be getting on me about sexist language.]

[Sorry. A little confidence crisis there.]

Most of the discussion with the mesera was about "what was left." Apparently, the good stuff sells out early. Like maybe bufa (lung)? We had arrived a little late, so some entrees weren't available. Eventually the list of "what was left" was mastered, our orders were placed, and our food arrived.

John's breakfast.

Here's what was in my bowl:

• Biftek (thin slices of chewy beef)
• Chicharron (pieces of deep-fried pork skin in tomato sauce
• Mitote (a spicy stew of heart, liver and kidney
• Frijoles (beans)
• Moronga (blood sausage)
• Chilequiles (tortilla chips in sauce)
• Juevo con chile (eggs)

Washed down with a couple cups of café de olla, this meal fortified me for the entire day.

Jaime's is a popular restaurant, usually jammed with people. During the late morning, the mesera was shouting out what foods were still available, in case anyone wanted more. Patrons talked loudly trying to reach one another. The waitress yelled. Kids ran around. Delightful bedlam.

By the time I took the picture below, many people had left.

Left foreground: Patty's daughter Cristy; with two of her cousins, Pati and Susan. Our mesera on the right.

Jaime's is a class act: clean, friendly, delicious. Many of the chairs are upholstered just like those in any fine Mexican dining room. Actually, the restaurant occupies part of a private home. It's hard to see where the restaurant leaves off and the house begins.

Like any good Mexican business, the Church gets a mention. Two posters, one of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, the other of Leonardo da Vinci's Last Supper, hang on the walls. At least Jaime spared us having to gaze at an agonized, bloody figure nailed to a cross—while we chewed our moronga.

If my meal were described to me the way I'm writing about it here, I would be revolted. Too much weird stuff. But in truth, the food was wonderful: savory, full of flavor and spice. It helped that I was never really sure what I was getting in each bite. Separating sensibility from sense of taste is difficult for me. But with food as delicious as Jaime's, relaxing and enjoying the meal was easy. And, they have the best made-to-order tortillas.

—§—

Jaime's Restaurant
Downtown Lagos de Moreno

Food: *****
Wine: *
Service: ***½
Ambience: ***
Price: $

Highly recommended. Reservations not required. No credit cards.

Check it out.

Patty's mother, Patricia, is Irish and was studying at a convent in Detroit where she met Patty's father, José, a Mexican man who was studying for the priesthood.

From Dad's photo, you can tell that 1) He was not cut out to be a priest, and 2) Patty's mom didn't have a chance. Just look at his handsome face, that smoldering expression.

[Already my left brain is short-circuiting. Here are two people living ascetic lives, suddenly derailed by passion. I can barely restrain myself from trying to calculate the tradeoffs.]

Freed from vows of chastity, they managed to produce eight children, six of them girls who are shown here. Patty is being held by her dad.

Patty's father is deceased. Most of the rest of the family was at Mom's house. Not for any special reason, but because that's just what they do: gather. Coming together is so important to the family that Mom is building a huge house with eight bedrooms, each with its own bath: one for each child and his or her family.

I renewed my acquaintances with Patty's sisters and their husbands and children, and with her brother, Harold. I met scores of relatives. Every one of them greeted me warmly and welcomed me. I have never been hugged and kissed by so many people, even at a wedding. They swept me into their family as if I were a once-missing member of it.

I can hardly describe this warm experience. Probably because I wouldn't know a feeling if it hit me over the head. All I can do is relate a few events from my visit and hope to convey some idea of what it was like to be taken in by these giving people.

—§—

In this post, I'll introduce you to just a couple of them. Below, we have sister Maru's husband, Juan. He is a wrangler by trade, more at ease in a corral or a cantina than in his mother-in-law's living room. We were all standing around in the kitchen when Juan roared in, gave me one of those complicated Mexican handshakes and a great bear hug. "¡Ay Amigo! ¿Como estabas?"

I had never met the man before.

I thought, "Mexican people sure are friendly, right from the get-go."

Minutes later, Juan realized he had mistaken me for Patty's ex-husband. He was hugely embarrassed, even more so after I insisted on taking his picture. I wanted to share with you this apparition: the Charro outfit, the broad mustache, the infectious grin.

After his enthusiastic greeting, there was nothing for it but to become bosom buddies.

The youngest member of the family is Geraldo, sister Sandy's boy. He quickly latched onto me, giving me besos, and calling me Señor John. Geraldo insisted on having his picture taken. In my notebook, he drew a picture of a Mexican eagle standing on a cactus, a snake in its beak, as well as an anatomically correct Tyrannosaurus rex. Where do kids pick up these things?

Pretty soon, most everyone was calling me Señor John. It became a game. You know that when they start teasing you, you're being accepted.

We drove out to the nearby pueblo of Cuarenta, where sister Sandy Lola and her husband Isaac own a truck stop. By now, you should be getting getting a message: Irish mom, Israeli husband son-in-law. Exactly what is a typical Mexican family?

The truck stop is called Base Cuarenta, because it houses a CB radio base station. You can just make out the antenna to the right of the building.

It is everything you'd expect a truck stop to be, except for selling fuel. That's monopolized by Pemex, the government-owned petroleum company.

Base Cuarenta has everything else a trucker might need: food, wine and booze, repair shop for CB radios, magazines, CDs, bathrooms, showers...

Little Geraldo went inside, got himself a canvas shopping bag and began filling it from the mini-store shelves with shampoo, toothpaste, candy, toys and balloons, all under the indulgent eyes of his mother and aunts. I don't think anybody paid for any of it.

We pushed four tables together and sat in the restaurant. From time to time one sister or another got up and helped herself to some food or got a soft drink out of the cooler. Isaac drank something he called a digestif, except it was non-alcoholic and taken before his meal. I insisted on trying it: Incredibly bitter. It tasted so bad, it had to be good for me.

Dinner conversation was as easy as a warm day, picking up from wherever it left off the last time everyone was there a couple of weeks ago. I was included, my opinion sought, my jokes laughed at. Geraldo spilled his coke. An aunt said "No pasó nada" (No problem); another mopped up the liquid. Geraldo spilled his big bag of candy. We helped him pick it up while the conversation flowed on uninterrupted, everyone having a good time, nada mucho pasando.

Hours after the sun set, it was time to go back to Lagos and to bed. Harold negotiated his van along the dark, shoulderless highway while the sisters sang childhood songs for Geraldo—and for themselves.

Back at Mom's house, we all said good night. Lots of hugs and kisses all around. Patty showed me my room. I lay back and listened to a lively tuba playing in a band at the social center next door, safe in my own bed, a contented engineer at home with his family.

He's very handsome and he knows it. Which does nothing for his attitude.

Apparently, parrots bond with just one person. At my house, that would be me. He's cuddly and affectionate. He smooshes his cheek against mine and talks to me in a cooing voice. He does something I call the Chiapas dance on my chest, where he hops from one foot to the other and pants. (Don't go there...)

The downside is that he gets jealous. When other people approach him (Oh say, Jean), he goes into full-bore attack mode: puffed up feathers, wings spread, beak open, low guttural growls. If I happen to be holding him at the time, he bites the hell out of me. This is tough on me and the furniture because I take anti-coagulants and blood thinners, so it takes awhile to stop the bleeding.

It's also a strain on my marriage to have a hostile creature with a strong, sharp beak between me and my soulmate.

Still, he's so darn cute. He's sitting on my lap as I write this, my companion and muse.

What passes for winter weather arrived in San Miguel de Allende around October 15. Our houses, uninsulated brick and stone without central heating, feel like wine cellars. Too cold for parrots. I put Chiapas's cage in my little office with a thermostat-controlled ceramic heater. Keeps him toasty warm. On cold mornings, Jean, Rosita the Boston Terrier and I join Chiapas in the only comfortable room in the house. Am I overdoing something here?

Parrots can be so sweet, I'm considering getting one of my own. Apparently if you raise one from a chick, and if everyone in the house handles him, he's less likely to be hostile toward others. (Jean's not buying it, though.)

Potential future Wood household member.

I read somewhere that parrots need to bathe. Sprinkling them with water on a warm day is one suggestion: simulates tropical rain. The obvious approach then is to take him into the shower with me.

He loves it. He flaps his wings and gets sort of wet, all the while talking furiously: "Buenos dias, it's OK Chiapas, (whistle), I love you, perico, (chucklechucklechuckle), hasta luego, (something about niños), hello, (insane laugh), oh baby oh baby oh baby..."

The "oh baby" phrase startled me. I hadn't heard that one before. I'd never said that around him, and the people who raised him speak no English. So where did he learn it? Under what circumstances? Hmmm?

The only other English speaker in his life is his owner. I'm going to have to ask him about this.

Chiapas is (please forgive the expression) a chick magnet. He rides on my shoulder as I walk around town. Few men give him a second look. But women! I get to meet so many. They come up and ask his name and whether he talks. If I had only known this in college...

Once Clint was carrying him when a gaggle of women called out from the other side of the street, "Oh look! There's the parrot. With that tall guy." Reduced just like that to a prop for a bird.

Chiapas is well known in San Miguel. Many people greet him by name. He's welcome in some restaurants, where the waiters bring him tortillas. He likes toast and coffee for breakfast.

He's not aggressive to others if he meets them outside of his tree (my house). He tolerates strangers unless they poke at him. Tourists ask if they can take his (and my) picture; I always let them.

Parrots like to be on top of things. I guess they feel safer, or at least more comfortable, from a high vantage point.

So they like to climb on your head. I have to wear an old ratty baseball cap while sitting at my desk because I don't have a whole lot of hair, and Chiapas likes to groom me aggressively, snipping off spots and moles. Better he grooms the hat.

You can't tell a parrot's gender just by looking. At least most of us can't. I once met a man who was a Chicken Sexer by trade. He would pick up baby chicks two at a time, one in each hand and look, tossing them into either chicken or rooster boxes. He was fast, sexing more than 1,000 in an hour.

Where is he when I need him? I've decided I have to find out about Chiapas. Especially with that Chiapas dance thing.

Apparently there's two ways of doing this: surgically (that's out) or by DNA testing. So I sent off for a DNA collection kit from a lab. I figured it would be easy. After all, they collect human DNA by wiping a Q-tip on the inside of the mouth.

The kit arrived. They need a sample of either blood or feathers. Blood you get by clipping a talon short enough so it bleeds. No way.

Feathers ought to be simple. Chiapas sheds lots of them. Mussy little guy. But of course it isn't going to be that easy. Molt feathers won't work Gotta be fresh ones. The instructions read:

Once you have gained control of your bird, pluck the appropriate amount of chest or breast feathers using your thumb and index fingers.

I've run into three Parrot Taco places so far. I've never once been concerned that the restaurant name might refer to a type of taco filling. Too expensive.

But there have been times, like when Chiapas snips a hole in a favorite shirt, that I've had fleeting thoughts about it.

Jose Guadalupe Posada. (1852-1913)

Last year I wrote a long post about Day of the Dead in San Miguel. My perspective was that of a commentator observing foreign customs. I'm afraid I was pushy and obnoxious, stomping around the cemetery, shoving my camera into peoples' faces, intruding on families' visits with their forebears. The disturbance I created was amplified by 50 other gringos all doing the same thing.

I was particularly proud of a film clip I made of a family playing guitars and singing favorite songs to the deceased. The patriarch saw me filming and solemnly waggled his finger at me: "No. Don't do this." I felt like a voyeur.

I made a decision not to interfere with the Mexicans' family reunions this year. Then, a month ago, my friend Michael died after a long illness. He was buried in the Panteón, San Miguel's main cemetery. This morning, on my way home from the gym, I saw many people walking toward the Panteón carrying bunches of flowers and vases and candles and tools for sprucing up graves. The thought came into my mind that I would really enjoy taking an hour to visit with Michael's spirit, and maybe spruce up his grave a little.

I walked down the street that runs to the Panteón, through the rows of vendors selling food, drink and flowers.

I bought some marigolds and an empty jalapeño can to put them in. Inside the Panteón I looked for his grave, but I couldn't remember where it was. Eventually Michael's friend Carlos saw me and we spent a few minutes talking beside Michael's resting place while I trimmed the flowers so they would fit into the can.

Michael's grave looked forlorn: loose dirt scattered, no headstone yet, a steel marker for a Mexican child's grave misplaced on his mound. Somehow, I'm sure that all of us who were his friends will sort all of that out in the not distant future.

Carlos left. I sat on somebody else's grave and silently held a conversation with Michael. The sunshine warmed my shoulders, and I felt the contentment of spending time with a good friend. Around me, others sat beside the graves of their dead. Some were enjoying picnics. Others were singing. One woman was reading a favorite novel out loud, so the spirit at her feet could hear it. We all sat there—me and my community—visiting our dead.

You might think Christians live here because of the cross on one end of the structure, nestled between the dozens of green frogs perched along the roof line.

At the other end, a sybaritic figure strikes a vaguely obscene pose. He creates a sort of moral tension along the length of the building: an analog of the tension in Mexican men who are expected to be both steadfast husbands and dissolute rakes.

The name of the place is Las Ranas (The Frogs). The only visible clue as to what goes on here is the huge tequila bottle over the front door.

People in the know will tell you that Los Ranas is a disreputable house. Patrons are almost entirely males who drink at a bar where women get undressed.

The aged father of a friend suffers from mild senile dementia, so a couple of young men are employed to see to his needs and provide him with companionship. Eventually the boys discovered that Dad has an interest in the esthetics of the female form. To indulge him, they began bringing him to Las Ranas. Dad's bar bills mounted, and worse, he fell in love with one of the "hostesses".

Finally, my friend told her father that a disaster had occurred. A man had been shot at the bar, and the place had been shut down by the police. Everyone who knew Dad was asked to maintain this fiction, thus enabling him to rediscover the paths of righteousness, and to live once again within his income.

Who knew such temptations lurked in this most religious country?

Farther out on the Dolores Highway, there's this garishly-painted building, the Fiesta Charra.

A large poster visible through the front gate identifies it as a night club featuring scantily-clad women. Recently I met one of the principals of this enterprise. He described it as a "table dance" club.

Bilingual Mexicans use this expression, "table dance", to mean what is called in Spanish, a baile privado, an expression that transliterates to "private dance". When I asked my friend, what exactly did a baile privado consist of, he described the act known up north as a "lap dance".

This knowledge cleared up for me the reason for the rules posted by the door; namely, that people wearing shorts or sweatpants, or who are drunk will not be admitted. The management wants to avoid the consequences of loose clothing or loose inhibitions.

Aficionados of such places would consider the two I've described so far to be "classy". If you can grasp such a concept. For those with modest means, San Miguel has some downscale joints. Alter Ego is located on the periférico next to a flooring retailer, near the Red Cross building.

Looks like a warehouse. That's because it is a warehouse.

At least it's not right next to a school.

Then there's Eros, the only place with evidence of design talent in its logo. The red kissy lips forming the center of the letter O make a mildly clever touch. But beyond the sign, appearances are not high on the owners' priority list. Let's face it. Eros is not much more than a utility, offering a commodity. Like gasoline.

"Fill 'er up, Bud. And check the oil."

La Cabaña styles itself a night club. The silhouette of a pole dancer gives the game away. Note: More kissy lips on the right.

I'm told that La Cabaña is a full-service club. Hot snacks are offered from 4-8 PM. Some nights you can get two-for-one beers. So patrons can fortify themselves with food and drink before the action starts.

Around 9 PM, taxicabs from Léon arrive at La Cabaña, full of young women whose clothing achieves levels of seductiveness that can only be dreamed of by gringas. I mean, gringas who are so inclined, of course. The ladies strut into the joint, knowing all eyes are on them, that they are the reason everyone is there.

Officially, so far as the club and the police are concerned, these women are B-girls. Their job is to get the patrons to buy them drinks. They ask the patrons, "Want some company?" The men order: tequila for themselves, a small glass of soda for the B-girls. Small to reduce bathroom downtime.

Personally, I have only had one experience with B-girls, on a business trip to Bangkok. In an exotic southeast asian bar named the Silver Spur (think about it), small women in bathing suits crowded around, parroting "Buy me cola?" Probably the only English words they knew. "Cola" turned out to be a tiny glass containing three ounces of orange soda which they would gulp down and then repeat, "Buy me cola?" $5 a pop. The game got old very quickly.

The girls at La Cabaña are called ficheras, because for each drink bought for them, they earn a ficha (chip). They also dance with patrons, for a fee. Each dance earns them a ficha. At the end of the evening, they cash in their fichas, earning their income for the night's work.

All good clean fun. Except the B-girls aren't willing to settle for the chicken feed they earn from fichas. And their patrons want more than a turn around the dance floor.

Two parties, each of whom has something the other wants. A market is created!

Negotiations take place. Potential services are explored. Prices are discussed. An agreement is reached, but before the deal can be sealed, a third party must be satisfied. La Cabaña stands to lose the services of one of its girls, a girl who would otherwise be drinking cola or selling dances. The client must compensate the club for loss of revenue. In Bangkok, this is called "buying her contract". Twenty bucks to the bartender, and you're on your way.

There are other nuances worth knowing about. Customers often are hard-pressed to come up with the price of the services they want. Some hope to befuddle the girl with booze, to their advantage. So they insist that the girls drink tequila, not cola.

The girls are pros. They've seen this ploy hundreds of times. They agree to drink shots of tequila, but they insist on a glass of Sprite to use as a chaser. Their drinks arrive. They slam the shot. They raise the glass of chaser, carefully prepared with lots of headroom by the complicit bartender, to their lips. And they spit the tequila back into the glasses of Sprite.

The client buys more drinks, matching her shot for shot, certain he is gaining the upper hand. Soon he's ready. Ready for the girl extract all of his money with minimum effort on her part.

Most of these places make rooms available for clients who are too tired or woozy to go home, or otherwise need a little horizontal time. Apparently, though, La Cabaña generates enough overflow that the adjacent Autohotel has sprung up to fill a niche.

Weary travelers don't stay here. Believe me, it isn't a place you'd want to bring your kids. Or your wife. Or even your neighbor's wife. But the teibolaras (table dancers) at La Cabaña find it perfectly suits their purposes.

I think I've covered all of the clubs. I'd rank them for quality, but I haven't actually patronized them, so you'll have to go on appearances. But at least you'll know what to tell the taxi driver.

[Oh God. That last sentence reminds me of a joke. A businessman arriving in Boston for a convention found that his first evening was free, and he decided to go find a good seafood restaurant that served scrod, a Massachusetts specialty. Getting into a taxi, he asked the cab driver, "Do you know where I can get scrod around here?" "Sure," said the cabdriver. "I know a few places... but I can tell you it's not often I hear someone use the third-person pluperfect indicative anymore."]

It says, "This home is Catholic. We don't accept protestant propaganda nor [that of] other sects."

Calls from door-to-door salesmen are annoying. No, I don't want your $500 vacuum cleaner. I don't want aluminum siding. My roof looks fine to me; I really think you're exaggerating the need for replacement. Gee, I was just thinking about the state of my soul when you rang my bell; come on in and talk to me about salvation.

Some Mexican families have found a solution. Put up a sign. Somos Católocos. We're Catholics. Don't bother calling here. Go away.

Such signs may offer some relief from unwanted visitors, but all kinds of people you haven't been introduced to ring your bell anyway: the Gas truck driver, the Santorini water guy, the lady selling figs or nopales, the woman carrying a sick child and a prescription for medicine she says she can't pay for.

I can't complain. Rosario answers our door, running interference. She buys flores de calabazas (squash blossoms) from the young mother toting a five-gallon paint bucket full of produce, trailed by two preschool kids. She sends missionaries away, instead increasing her chances of salvation by giving a few pesos to the man with the bandaged arm.

Doesn't look like much, does it? I must have driven by it dozens of times and not given it a second look.

It appears to be a converted private home, it has simply awful graphics in its sign, nor does the standard-issue Corona sign help. And they really need to lose the orange and green fence.

Patty parks her red pickup truck out in front. We seat ourselves at the lone table under the front porch roof and order starters.

What we have on the left here is queso fundido. In places like New York where they're trying to regulate fats in restaurant food, queso fundido simply won't do. It's melted cheese. You scoop up a glob of it with the wooden paddle and smear it on a tortilla. Add some incandescent salsa and scarf it on down. Then listen to your heart laboring. But Oh! Is it good.

On the right, we have repollo con oregano (we'd call it cole slaw) and cebollas flamadas (onion dyed with mild red vinegar). Added to our cheesy tortillas, they make the queso fuindido experience a little less unhealthy-feeling.

Next up comes an order of cecina: thin sliced salted beef grilled until crunchy.

You crumble it with a fork (with good friends you use your fingers) and put it in a tortilla along with beans, guacamole, repollo con oregano, cebollas flamadas, and salsa in any combination that suits you.

Our main course was chicken grilled over mesquite. I should have photographed it as well, but by the time it came, I was so into eating all that wonderful food that I just plain forgot. It's a small loss: grilled chicken pretty much looks like grilled chicken. But it was possibly the best tasting grilled chicken I've ever eaten: juicy, smoky, flavored with a perfect marinade.

I forbore including a photo of Patty with her tortilla in her mouth, to avoid embarrassing her and most importantly, so she'll invite me to lunch again.

Note that she has no fork or plate in front of her. Real Mexicans don' need no plates. They've got tortillas, which is all you'll ever need to get food from the serving plate to your mouth.

It also contains the Cultural Center, at the top of the switchbacks of a steep street.

This late 19th-Century building houses an organization that promotes and teaches traditional arts to San Miguel residents. Here people practice dance, piano, and guitar. Or they paint or sculpt or attend lectures.

Throughout the day, I hear the sound of the center's unusual clock bell announcing the quarter-hour. Clank-clunk; the sound is inelegant but comfortably familiar.

Many terraces cascade down the hillside. The traditional image of Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe is rendered in cantera in this pocket garden. A statue of Juan Diego, his tilma filled with Castilian roses, kneels nearby.

No important public place is without its image of Guadalupe.

I visited the Cultural Center because my friend Anamaria's paintings were to be included in a juried show here. Part of the gallery is accessible only by passing beneath a very low arch. I had to bend double to get through.

Rocks protruding through the floor and walls are part of the stony cliff on which the center was built. Much Mexican architecture has a charming ad-hoc quality.

Anamaria's paintings, shown here, won no awards. But this was her first-ever showing. For the most part, her competitors in the judging were professional painters.

I've written before about the Disneyfication of Mexico. This entry shows that the phenomenon is creeping into what is supposed to be serious art.

What the center is really about is providing a place for people to work, to do projects relating to local culture. Here some boys are rolling a Day of the Dead image for transportation. It will probably be hung on the iron fence in front of the Parroquoia next week.

Meanwhile, a girl puts finishing touches on a Katrina, taking advantage of one of the center's many terraces to spread out. The center provides the materials for these activities.

Mostly middle- and upper- class young people use this place. The enrichment they receive here would benefit the poorer kids in the barrios at least as much, but the latter probably would feel unwelcome here, if they even knew about the center. Instead, they satisfy their artistic urges with spray paint on walls.

The west-facing arcade provides a warm, sunny place to work on a cool afternoon. Guitar music drifts outside through the auditorium doors on the right.

When I walked by the Cultural Center for the first time some years ago, I heard a scratchy recording playing 1940s-era Mexican big band music. Couples in period costume were dancing on one of the patios. It was magic.

It is one of San Miguel's jewels, part of the rich experience of living here.

In the photo, you can just make out a tray of pork brains, to the right of the attractively braided intestines, beneath the hanging pigs' heads.

What is it about "variety meats" that give so many of us gringos feelings of revulsion? My Mexican friends think they're delicious. Tacos de cabeza (head)? Menudo (tripe stew)? These are treats!

I hear that asian people find cheese revolting. I see these same people shopping in an American-Chinese supermarket where you can buy a plastic-wrapped styrofoam tray of fleshy pink rings with a label that reads "Pig Bung." I'm not making that up.

Clearly there's come cultural thing going on here. But what?

This morning at breakfast I asked Jean if she felt OK. "No stomach upset?"

"No. I'm feeling good. Why?"

I asked her, "Well, you know those quesadillas we ate yesterday?"

"Yeah. They were pretty good."

"Well, the filling was pig brains."

"Eeewww! If i had known that, I wouldn't have eaten them!"

Exactly.

I bought the story, hook, line and sinker. But it left me intimidated. I could never be that honest. So I just gave up. Learned to lie like a politician.

At the unpatriotic University of California, as an assignment in History 17A—American History, I read Charles A. Beard's An Economic Interpretation of the Constitution of the United States. That right smartly put paid to any belief in the altruism of our Founding Fathers. Gee, they're ordinary, flawed people, just like me.

Don Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla is regarded as the Father of Mexican Independence, having called for insurrection against Spain on September 16, 1810 from his parish in the town of Delores. Another founding legend.

The Catholic Church at the time didn't see his utterances as patriotic; not as we do today. Father Hidalgo was excommunicated a few days after issuing El Grito, the cry for independence.

He didn't live to see Mexican Independence. Captured by Spanish forces, he was executed by firing squad on July 30, 1811.

And herein lies a problem. Because everyone assumed for all this time that he died unshriven and not a part of the Church. You'd think that Church leaders in Mexico would be disturbed by this—their national hero not being a Catholic in good standing.

We're only a few years away from the 200th anniversary of the beginning of the independence movement, and some Mexican legislators thought that Hidalgo's status was a little awkward. So they spoke to Church officials: Might something be done about it?

What they're looking for is another cherry tree.

Well, in politics, anything is possible. In this week's news, we hear that careful investigation has turned up evidence that Miguel Hidalgo made confession just prior to his execution, thus voiding the order of excommunication. Great news indeed! Now we can all go into the bicentennial celebrations with this ugly stain removed from a Founding Father's reputation.

I never cease to be amazed at the power of modern historical investigations. Presumably the Church and the Mexican Government have spent the last 200 years trying to lift this blot on Hidalgo's character, frustrated in all their attempts to uncover evidence everyone knew must be there—that he died a holy man. And now, just in time for the bicentennial, no doubt as a result of an ingenious application of some technology breakthrough, that essential evidence has been uncovered!

Just what the evidence is has not been disclosed. Neither the Church or the Mexican Government can be called a paragon of transparency. But in a matter of this importance, I think we can all place our faith in the integrity of the investigators, their sponsors, and the evidence itself (whatever it may be).

Another defrocked priest, José María Morelos, led the independence struggle after Hidalgo's execution and is another Father of our country.

Also excommunicated, he presents similar difficulties. But an investigation is underway here as well, and my money says they're going to find that he died within the Church, too.

Once the officials and the academics get history revised, it gets packaged and fed it to our kids.

Hidalgo Disneyfied.

So, is Father Hidalgo's rehabilitation factual? Or is it no more than mutual back-scratching between the Church and the Government? "Hey. Forgive our guy and we'll rename some Mexican City after a saint."

(Not as far-fetched as you might think: A Church-sponsored attempt to rename Celaya after a saint was recently beaten back by secularists.)

Finally, does any of this matter? Are legends good for society? Do they do any harm?

There's no denying that shopping is easier and often cheaper at Mega. Hundreds of campesinos (peasants) can't be wrong. They arrive in droves in their smoking, beat-up cars to stock up on Coca-Cola and white bread, at half the prices they pay at their local tienditas.

Coming in second in the supermarket race was the new Gigante Supermercado, the anchor store at San Miguel's first true shopping mall, La Luciernaga. It was built to replace the old, smelly Gigante referred to above. Consistent with Gigante's management practices, on opening day, they moved the whole reeking pile of composting fish over from the old store to the new one. Waste not, want not. The new store is remarkable for its lack of customers, all of whom are down at the Mega, buying fresh fish.

The Gigante chain has performed poorly financially, apparently due to their insistence on cleaving to the old Mexico business model where customers come last. They're getting whipped by Wal-Mart. But over the long run, the Gigante Supermercado may win the competitive race in San Miguel, located as it is in a mall where there are a number of small specialty stores, cafes, a multiplex theater, and a second anchor tenant, Liverpool, a high-end department store, here shown under construction.

(Unlike the painters in yesterday's post, these workers are applying paint with rollers, not brushes. The rollers have handles long enough so the scary 30' extension ladders are unnecessary. Painters still haven't graduated to scaffolds and sprayers, but at Liverpool, they're using latex, not cal. We won't have the wonderful streaky look of the old limestone paint, but latex will have a chance of lasting more than a couple of years.)

The Office Depot chain is operated by Gigante in Mexico, so it's a natural for them to include one in La Luciernaga complex. They don't have many customers, but it's early days yet.

Here, Paul (El Guapo) emerges from Office Depot, having entered just to use the bathroom. He approached me, sputtering about seeing the store's eight employees gathered in a knot, chatting, while three customers wanting help stood there fuming. Fortunately, Paul didn't need any assistance.

The concept of customer service is just beginning to arrive in this country.

Business is slow in this new center. Here, four sales clerks, each from a different specialty shop, relax in the sun while waiting for some customers to appear.

Paul is standing in front of a no-name shop. The sign in the window is advertising 50% off on everything, so I guess they're going out of business. Probably a good thing too, because I don't think the owner really had any idea of what his business was. The offerings in the store were unclassifiable.

At this shop, Paul did buy some dangly strings of plastic disk thingies. I don't know what for. Paul sees possibilities not apparent to the rest of us.

(Incidentally, Paul appears more often than usual in this post. This is because a security guard told me I couldn't photograph the mall, although it would be OK if I was just photographing my friend. All right then.)

The restaurants and cafés seem to be doing reasonably well. This woman is eating a carrot dipped in chile sauce. It's from a franchise outlet called Pica Limón. El sano antojo (The healthy snack). Think this would catch on in Cleveland?

Note that she is not your typical campesino. A vigorous middle class is emerging in Mexico, of which she, with her stylish clothes and sunglasses, is a member.

Traffic is not being helped by thoughtless practices. The man in the baseball hat is brushing something containing harsh solvents onto a post right where people are eating. Check out the expression on the customer's face.

This shot was taken with a telephoto lens. Even 100' away, the paint was making my eyes water.

Then there's what seem to me to be missteps in advertising. Look closely at this image from the Holandia ice cream place.

The model has a tongue stud.

Is it just me? Have I become an old fuddy-duddy? One thing for sure: This image isn't reaching me.

We have our first-ever McDonald's. A nice place. Same crappy food, but you can take it to an airy upstairs terrace and sit under canvas umbrellas.

But what are all the green stickers?

They are announcing a closure. What? They're closing McDonald's?

But it's not closed. An employee is schlepping the usual stale hamburgers. Typical law enforcement: You're closed... but you're not. It reminds me of how we handle building permits.

Here is where Paul earns his keep. I'm reluctant to ask the clerk what the story is, not wanting to put her in an awkward position. Not Paul. Mr. "No boundaries." He marches right up to her and asks her what's with the stickers.

Well, it seems that McDonald's signs are illuminated. A no-no. The law in San Miguel says that, being as we are trying to retain the city's colonial look, illuminated signs are illegal.

Please! Even in a modern shopping mall on the outskirts of town, well away from any colonial structures, they're illegal? People complain about corruption in Mexican government. Mindless bureaucratic rule enforcement is almost as bad.

Tonight Jean and I drove up to the La Luciernaga mall to see a movie. First we stopped in at California Sushi for some truly wretched California rolls. We sat outside and listened to Kenny G playing over the mall sound system. The music didn't improve the food. Then we bought tickets for the movie we wanted to see, only to discover that it would be screened two hours later than advertised. So we got our money back (unusual for Mexico) and went home.

We just love the convenience of having our own shopping center at last.

Up north, aren't scaffolds required for this kind of work? Safety belts? Hard hats?

How about barriers to prevent passers-by from bumping into the ladders? Or from having buckets of paint dropped on them?

Actually, I think this approach to work is refreshing. The idea seems to be, "Hey. You're responsible for your own safety. Don't depend on the government to look out for your butt."

The factory is more than just a workplace. It's an entire community. About a hundred years ago, the owners built housing for their workers.

Laurels planted when the town was built have grown large, making shady tunnels.

Scores of houses run down the streets. All share an identical design: Window to the left of the door, power meter to the right, a single lamp over each door.

These are houses, not barracks, but they're as uniform and neat as an army base.

This hamlet is called Soria, after the factory. Like any good Mexican community, it has a shrine to Guadalupe.

Colored light bulbs and fresh-ish flowers lend an upbeat look to this usually solemn image.

The 243 houses were built to exacting specifications, but over the years, make-do ingenuity has left its mark.

A milk can shields a lamp; another hangs from zip cord looped over a shelf rack, black electrician's tape slowly loosening over the splices.

The factory owners saw to the workers' spiritual needs. As churches go, it's pretty modest, but it's well-maintained and clearly receives a lot of use.

In front of the church, a young mother looks after four children. Surely they're not all hers.

Someone thought of everything: even a soccer field.

You old Mexico hands, at least those of you in central and northern Mexico, will notice something unusual about this soccer field.

It's green.

Except for those played on by professional teams, I've never seen a grassy soccer field in Mexico. They're always dirt. Always dusty. Or muddy.

During our factory tour, I asked the general manager, Sr. Cordova, about the field. He told me that the factory treated all the water used in dying yarns and then used it to irrigate the town's gardens and trees, as well as the soccer field.

The factory owns all of the houses. Residents pay weekly rent. According to this notice, they are to pay on Mondays between 9 AM and 12 PM.

Herein lies the mystery I alluded to in my previous post. If, due to automation, the factory now employs fewer than 50 workers, then who lives in the workers' housing?

The answer is: Former workers. Or descendants of former workers. And the factory is trying to get them out.

Negociación Fabril de Soria S. A. de C. V. has filed suit against most of the town's residents, demanding their eviction. The residents counter that their families have lived in these houses for a hundred years, and they should be allowed to stay. They've marched with banners and signs down the highway to Celaya. They've occupied the Presidencia, blocking public access. As of today, the dispute remains unresolved.

There's more than meets the eye in this little utopia. The shady streets are peaceful and serene, but hearts are not.

PANTS SALE
FACTORY DIRECT

Rusting and long-neglected, its invitation doesn't look any too promising. But I'm learning that things aren't often what they seem in Mexico. Just because a sign is a little amateurish, a little run-down doesn't mean it isn't announcing something of interest.

Paul and I decided to investigate. At the end of the side road we came to a small plaza on which fronted an impressive 19th-century gate.

The gates are made of heavy sheet iron. The plastered brick archway is topped by cantera statues of two unidentified heroic figures and a flagpole carrying the Mexican flag. Intimidating.

In for a dime, in for a dollar. We knock. Ten minutes later, a face appears at a security window. What do we want?

We explain we're there to by some pants, factory direct.

This of course is a blatant lie. We're there to explore, and if we find something interesting, we're gonna take photographs. Moreover I fully intend to publish my findings on the internet, probably something I wouldn't get permission to do were I to ask.

A security guard admits us and asks us to wait. We are not to wander about the factory; we will need an escort. Here we see Paul waiting ever so patiently, while a pickup truck carrying an enormous bobbin of white wool yarn exits.

Many of you ask why I bring Paul with me on these excursions. "Doesn't he embarrass you?" you ask. A fair question and one that deserves an answer.

The truth is that nobody is better at striking up a conversation with strangers than Paul. His fluent Spanish coupled with his utter lack of self-consciousness enables him to extract a great deal of information from people—more, perhaps, than they might have been prepared to give out had they been able to gather their thoughts before Paul braced them. It probably helps that Paul's mien, while not exactly threatening, nonetheless is somewhat intimidating, looming as he does over his interviewees.

And while Paul is extracting trade secrets from the security guard, I'm taking advantage of the distraction to take photographs inside the factory unsupervised, something no factory manager in his right mind would allow.

Photographs like this one, looking inward from the front gate. The scene is like no factory I've ever visited. More like a tropical park than a manufacturing facility.

Paul finds out that we are visiting Negociación Fabril de Soria S. A. de C. V., a small privately-held company that makes fine wool and wool-blend fabrics and clothing. It was founded early in the 1870s and is still held by the founding family who are citizens of France.

The Solunet-Infomex website gives the number of Soria's employees as 250-500 which looks about right, and their annual sales as $50,000 USD. That should set off your bullshit alarm. Let's see: sales of $200 per year per employee, which, if the company achieves breakeven, means that today's employees receive considerably less than 10¢ per hour.

Gee. Do you think there's any possibility they're underreporting income? Maybe for tax purposes?

Eventually, a man picks us up. I figure he's the salesman; not much of a job if you ask me, given that hardly anybody comes this way. He can't be very busy.

He leads us back to a storeroom where a surprisingly large selection of pants, sport coats and suits hangs on industrial pipe racks. There are no changing rooms but hey—we're all just a bunch of guys here, so we make a great show of trying on clothes. They turn out to be quite attractive, high quality and style. After an hour of this, the salesman offers to take us on a plant tour. Wow! Way more than I expected.

Paul loves factories, and this one does not disappoint. Large tin buildings with mysterious dark interiors house hulking machines arranged for batch processing.

Our salesman-guide chatters away about Australian wool, Thai silk and German polyester. When he starts explaining the workings of a computer-controlled spinning machine, Paul comments that he seems very knowledgeable. At this point our host introduces himself: Ing. Enrique Cordova Plata, General Manager.

I was impressed and touched. A couple of badly-dressed and disreputable-looking gringos show up at his gate, and the Boss sets aside two hours of his day to escort us around. He is patient, courteous and informative. He never gave us the impression he had better things to do. That's him in the image below, showing Paul spools of dyed yarn.

Many of the machines in this factory are modern high-tech spinning and weaving gear. Investment is in the millions. Clearly it generates many millions of dollars a year in sales; not $50,000. Not at all what I expected to find at the end of a dusty road in the middle of nowhere.

Oh, and I didn't see any 250 employees. The place is too automated for that many. I didn't even see 50. Maybe 100 years ago this place provided a lot of jobs, but not today.

About the pants ploy: I broke down and bought two pairs of slacks. Given the way Sr. Cordova treated us, how could I not? Moreover, they were great clothes. I bought two wool-polyester blend tropical-weight dress slacks for our projected trip to Buenos Aires this December. Blue jeans won't cut it in that dressy city.

The prices were terrific. These slacks would probably go for the equivalent of $120 in that Mexican high-fashion store, Sears. At the factory, they cost $38 each.

Checkout was more involved than at Sears, though. A hand-lettered bill of sale had to be drawn up and then given three signatures and a stamp. I walked the 20 feet from the accounting office to the front gate where I gave a yellow copy of my bill of sale to the security guard, whereupon he handed me my pants.

On the way out, we spotted a mansion in the middle of the park on the factory grounds: the owners' house. They stay there during occasional visits from France. Way better than the business travel I used to endure. Your own mansion beats the Radisson every time.

I don't know about you, but visiting a place like this is more interesting to me than going to see one more Churrigueresque cathedral. The adventure is in not knowing what's behind the wall, whether I'll be welcomed or not, the surprise of meeting someone like the gracious Sr. Cordova.

There's more. There's a mystery here. Something about this low-key, hidden factory isn't what it seems to be, and I'll discuss that in my next post.

Girasol (Turns-to-the-sun: sunflower)

In a rainy year like this one, great swathes of flowers carpet the land, rivaling anything depicted in Arizona Highways Magazine.

Girasol con polilla (moth)

On narrow roads where the verges have not been cut, sunflowers tower over the car.

Riparian plants bloom at Parque Landeta.

Foreground: Cinco llagas (Five wounds: marigold)
Background: Matapulga? (Flea killer: pinkweed)

Looking closely reveals charming, isolated blooms.

White: Estrella (Mexican star)
Red: Mal de ojo (Illness of eye: Peruvian zinnia)
Yellow: Ojo de pollo (Chicken's Eye: Mexican creeping zinnia)

I love the contrast of marigolds with ripe tunas de nopal (prickly pear fruit).

Vacant lots in the city center yield intense color.

Manto (Cloak: Morning glory)

Rosita poses in front of a wild field of cosmos, knowing it makes her look good.

Mirasol (Looks-at-the-sun: Cosmos)

September is perhaps our finest month. Violent afternoon thundershowers, puffy clouds in an impossible blue sky, pleasant temperatures, and millions of wildflowers to walk through and enjoy.

Summer vacations are over. Tourists are back to work or school, and we lucky few have all this beauty to ourselves.

[The wildflowers were identified with the aid of Richard Cretcher's excellent illustrated guide, Flores Sylvestres de San Miguel de Allende, which unfortunately is available only in San Miguel. Any errors in identification are mine.]

Sueño de una tarde dominical en la Alameda Central (detail)—Diego Rivera

So passed my first glimpse of how Mexicans use parks: they use them a lot, and they use them well. They use them for entertainment, for socialization, for family time. Multi-generation groups spread out on the grass, picnicking. Children are carried; hence, no fussing and crying. Lovers test the limits of public display of affection. Pairs of girls walk along, arms linked. Groups of boys lean against walls, mumbling ineffective come-ons to the girls.

Mexico City, that I had been so sternly warned about, seemed to me to be the friendliest, safest place I had ever been that afternoon.

Jean and I are fortunate to live one door up Aldama Street from Parque Juárez, a green space in San Miguel de Allende that gets heavy use by residents and visitors alike.

As part of a recent renovation project, a gazebo was built near the entrance closest to our house. It probably should receive more use than it does, but we get enough loud music and other celebratory noises at our house. I'm certainly not complaining about infrequent use of the bandstand.

Mature trees provide welcome shade, under which swathes of flowers bloom.

One important function of Parque Juárez is to provide space for exercise. Our narrow, cobblestone, traffic-choked streets are unpleasant and unsafe for joggers, so every morning, scores show up to chuff around the walking paths.

Others engage in apparently less strenuous exercises. This group seems to be doing the Hokey Pokey. "You put your left arm in/You put your left arm out/You put your left arm in and you shake it all about..." (Sorry.)

This young woman, is she practicing Tai Chi? She looks very determined.

The park's basketball courts receive heavy use. Scores of intracity teams practice and compete here.

An aerobics class meets every Saturday morning. I know it's every week because ear-splitting music knifes into my patio. There was a time when I would have ranted and raved about the inability of the city to control noise pollution. Nowadays, it's sort of comforting to know that 200 women are toning up, combating Mexico's obesity epidemic, second only to America's. And anyway, sound doesn't bother me near as much as it used to.

Any park worth its salt posts rules and regulations. Parque Juárez has at least XVIII of them.

I've observed that Mexico is a country of laws and regulations; it has perhaps more of them than anywhere else. And everyone knows that they're enforced, shall we say, unevenly. Among the park's 18 regulations: You're not allowed to make noise that bothers other people, consume alcohol or drugs or be under the influence of alcohol or "stupefactants," or to play futbal in the walking paths.

Yeah. Right. It's faintly amusing to watch policemen walk by while all of these regulations are being openly flaunted.

At one point, a cop did tell me I had to put our Boston Terrier, Rosie, on a leash. But when I explained to him that she considered the park to be her yard, and would simply not submit to being leashed, he relented. Who says Mexican police are tough?

An old saying is that nobody goes hungry in Mexico, and the park provides snack stand concessions so that nobody in fact does.

A baggie of deep-fried styrofoam with hot sauce and a sugary soft drink will quiet any stomach.

On Sundays, there's an Art Walk at the eastern end of the park.

Here my friend Anamaria is "selling" some of her work. Or re-reading Proust. Or greeting a passing neighbor.

She lives the good life.

On weekends the children's playground fills up. A gringo couple donated the money to renovate the facility, and it receives constant use. It's perhaps one of the best public works in the city, in terms of the amount of benefit it provides.

No one is too young to find diversion in the park. A girl helps her baby sister see what's going on in the gazebo.

On holidays, the permanent snack stands can't handle the demand, so vendor carts show up. The soft drink man on the left reminds me of Tim Conway's shuffling old man on the Carol Burnett Show. It took him about an hour and the help of several bystanders to get his cart from the park entrance to his stakeout.

The ice cream vendor on the right sold out after an hour. The hot flavor of the day was "blue".

You know it's a holiday when schoolgirls wear their uniforms to the park. They probably marched in a parade somewhere.

The girl in the middle might want to hook up with the aerobics class.

Just about every day at any time, something is going on in Parque Juárez. The whole community uses it: gringos walking their poodles, lovers clinched on hidden benches, toddlers trying to climb ladders, poor families from outlying colonias who took the bus in for their day off. As parks go, I've seen better facilities. But I've never seen any park better used.

The stands are operated by growers. Yes, here you can buy your farm-fresh jicama; from the field to your table on the same day.

Some of the growers who operate these stands seem to live marginal lives. Not a lot of money in jicama, I guess. These children have the puzzled, almost outraged expressions I sometimes see on the faces of the poor.

When they grow up, these kids probably will vote PRD, and if they lose another close election, they may well revolt.

Paul (El Guapo) and I stopped to sample some of the new crop, along the way meeting this pleasant farmer's daughter. Her stand was marked by a hand-lettered sign that read "Jicama de Agwa (sic)."

Many of you are familiar with this vegetable. Especially if you live (or once lived) on the West Coast where it was introduced to Norteamericano diets. And many of you share my indifference toward jicama. It doesn't taste like much, and it doesn't seem to blend well with other vegetables.

For some reason, it's often found in the prepared salads you buy at places like Whole Foods. It has been accorded a healthy, organic reputation, favored by people who put flax seed on their cereal.

(Boy, I know I'm gonna hear about that crack.)

For my money, jicama doesn't taste any better than flax seed: insipid, dry, mealy. Of course, that usually means it really is good for you.

The friendly farmer's daughter explained to us that our dissatisfaction probably stemmed from our having eaten only Jicama de Leche. This term refers to Jicama that has been stored over the course of the year, when it becomes tough and fibrous and loses much of its moisture. She offered us each a slice of Jicama de Agua, harvested just yesterday.

What a difference! Juicy, complexly flavored—barely recognizable as the forgettable substance I'd been fed in California.

Paul is holding a ten-peso baggie of prepared jicama, seasoned with lime juice, salt, and chiles that the farmer's daughter had hand ground on her metate that morning. From his expression, you can see he can hardly contain himself, waiting for me to finish taking the photo before he digs in.

OK, Jicama is never gonna replace avocado or watermelon in my top ten. But it's no longer on my "avoid if possible" list—at least in Mexico and at this time of year.

Rosario makes a delicious salad of jicama, cucumber and mango, with the universal Mexican seasoning of lime, salt and chile powder. We'll be enjoying it for only a couple of weeks more, when mango season ends and the jicama de agua ages, transmuting itself into less-satisfying jicama de leche.

He's a fixture. I see him tapping along, working his way from one spot to another. He seems to know the streets well, moving with a sureness born of years of experience.

You could say he's a professional panhandler, in that he's out there every day. Donations may be the only income he has. His profession seems to be a lonely one. I never see people stopping to talk with him.

The woman below is another familiar face. At first glance, her situation seems more pathetic, because her child (or grandchild) sits on the street with her: a terrible circumstance to grow up in.

But things here may not be what they seem. Some street beggars are known to rent preschool children for the day, the better to play on the sympathy of potential donors. This is not to say that women like her are necessarily undeserving, that somehow they are scamming the public. But it's appalling to me that children are exploited, that parents are driven to feel they must use their children like this.

One of my Mexicana friends told me that some street beggars are part of a family enterprise. The Señor drives a cab, a sister sells her embroidery, and grandma panhandles. Tragically, another told me some women are beaten if they fail to collect enough money. Maybe my donation is saving someone from terror and pain.

In cities, I often encounter one or two older women staked out at entrances to major churches.

They have a proprietary air. Their faces don't reflect the desolation I see on others.

These are the true pros. They have the best locations. God only knows how they won the rights to their places, but they're there every day and no one else seems to challenge them.

One day I was watching them at their posts when lunchtime came around. They moved over to a more comfy spot, opened their bags and brought out the tupperware. They sat, eating their meals like a couple of secretaries on lunch break, chatting companionably. A half hour later, they were back in position, hands extended.

Once, walking the streets late at night in Bangkok, two six-year-old girls came up to me with Walter and Margaret Keane eyes. They held up some flowers and asked, "Baht? Baht?" I declined. Immediately they trotted off down the street, chattering happily to each other, ready to pull the pathetic waif act on the next farang who came along.

How much panhandling is an act? And when panhandlers are acting, does it really matter? After all, every panhandler is a salesperson. They're selling their need. They're offering you an opportunity to feel like a Good Samaritan.

I don't often give money to panhandlers. Other people are more generous. Who's right?

They will never be in the mainstream; not in the way Kiwi fruit evolved from a novelty to something found on every caterer's platter. The flesh is minimal, the skin is tough and the fruit is almost all pit.

Rosario wants nothing more than to please El Señor. That would be me. She proudly showed me her bowl of Ciruellas Amarillas, her shoulders back, an expectant smile on her face.

There's nothing for it but to gobble them up and smack my lips, gratifying Rosario and ensuring I'll get even more of them next week.

It's hard to say why it appeals so. Maybe the wonderful orange and yellow paint. Or the deeply carved doors with the eyebrow above, or the carriage lamp.

The house number flanked by two bas-relief doves conveys a tranquil domesticity. I imagine someone there lives a quiet life.

All this is to say that I have no right to complain about housing developments.

The sign was put up at the southeast edge of San Miguel de Allende, the town Jean and I picked to retire in partly because of its 18th-Century ambience: the cobblestone streets, the colonial houses and churches.

We all knew development was coming. Last year permits for 600 new housing units were issued. Still, I was startled to see the tall crane towering over the Caracol. Of course, they're commonplace in the 21st Century, but I somehow didn't expect to ever see one in San Miguel.

It's not that I come up this hill for the view. This site is on a busy, winding highway with narrow shoulders, so you can't pull over and gaze. But if you peer through the girders, you can see the San Antonio Church.

You better go look at it now, and kiss it goodbye, 'cause when the skin goes on this condominium tower, all you're gonna see is stucco.

The north end of town hasn't been spared the development pressure. This sign announces a gated community that makes the condo tower look puny. Note that the sign is in English! This undoubtedly is to convey a classy cachet to bilingual middle-class Mexicans looking for vacation homes.

I mean, the developer couldn't be pandering to retiring Norteamericano baby boomers, could he?

No expense is being spared in this architect-designed community: golf course, clubhouse, community center, huge hand-laid stone wall.

So what the hell is this thing? Looks like part of a nuclear power plant.

Clint, the distinguished owner of Chiapas the Parrot, says he heard it's gonna be a huge golf ball sitting on a tee. Classy.

Just for laughs, he painted the name of his tiendita in mirror writing on one corner of the building. I don't know why he calls it "The Four Cornfields." I didn't think to ask him until now.

Two figures in a cornfield make up his logo.

They wear huaraches and those white, pajama-like pantalones and camisas common in Diego Rivera's day. (Does anyone know what this type of clothing is called?) The mustachioed Señor stands idly by while his wife works, trimming ears of corn, the way God intended her to. In Mexico anyway. I think the Señor is supervising...

—§—

I'm moved to remark on the street sign. First that it is there at all. Mexican cities treat street signs as highly optional, making navigation more a matter of luck than anything.

The sign tells us we're on Barranca (gully) Street. It also tells us the street previously was known as either Reboceros (street of the shawl makers) or maybe as Chorrillo. Chorrillo means either "little spring" or "diarrhea". Something about gushing forth, anyway.

As if that's not already way too much information, we're told we're at the corner of Block 65 of section 6 and that our Zip Code is 37700.

What the street sign doesn't tell us is that over the course of six blocks, this street bears five names. That's right, from north to south they are: Calzada de la Presa, Nuñez, Murillo, Barranca, and El Chorro.

You'd think that by eliminating all that writing about what the street was called in 1760 and 1632, they could use the space to tell us that Barranca is Murillo on the other side of the cross street.

No wonder people get lost in Mexican cities. I usually have at least one meltdown while driving through a new town. Nothing gives me more satisfaction, though, than when a new Lexus with Mexico City plates stops in front of me, and a harried driver asks how to find his way out of town.

Hey. It's your country, buddy. You built it this way. We foreigners are supposed to get lost. You're not.