One of San Miguel's quiet oases is a former convent, now referred to by locals as Bellas Artes, as in "You can buy chamber music festival tickets at Bellas Artes." It's also known as Centro Cultural Ignacio Ramírez or El Nigromante. I lived here a year before I realized that all three names belonged to the same place. It's a branch of the Palacio de Bellas Artes of Mexico City, and provides gallery space, classrooms for art students, a concert hall, and a small cafe, and it features a mural by David Alfaro Siqueiros.

The other day, an installation by Japanese artiest Sae Otomo caught my eye. She titled it Es Necesario lo Innecesario (Necessary or Unnecessary?). It makes a statement about how our consumption affects the environment; in particular, what we do with stuff after we've used it.

The panel below contains items she found while walking along the highway to Querétaro. The objects she found must have taken her all of five minutes to collect. The amount of trash thrown along highways is shocking to visitors from rich countries.

Consisting mostly of discarded containers, the panel contains one that is disturbing:

This bottle once held highly corrosive muriatic acid. Anyone coming in contact with small amounts of residue might suffer severe burns.

Protest art needs to have more impact, in my view, than a collection of common litter glued to a square or muslin. In the panel below, Sae Otomo delivers, in a work called Afterwards, Where Do They Go?

Where do what go? This work consists of used disposable diapers and sanitary napkins, again found along the highway. Repulsive, shocking—who wants to walk into a gallery to be confronted by something like this? But for me, it succeeds in sharply bringing home the message: Collectively we humans are slobs, throwing disgusting wastes anywhere without regard for the health of the planet or for our fellows.

Art with a strong message. I wouldn't hang it in my living room, though.

Do you become a little nervous when you book an unknown hotel or tour online. What if it's less than what you'd hoped it would be?

We're well past the days where we share buses with campesinos toting chickens. I think. But travel in a country where preventative maintenance is often overlooked can lead to unpleasant surprises.

Like the door falling off your bus.

Gothic churches are rare in Mexico. When one appears, it draws my attention. In Zacatecas, I encountered the Templo de Nuestra Señora de Fátima.

A classical gothic structure, this building would be at home in Spain or Germany (except for the pink cantera cladding). I love its soaring vertical lines and the profusion of towers.

The Iglesia Fátima is modeled on the Basílica Fátima, located in the town of the same name in Portugal, the site of an apparition in 1917 of the Virgin to three peasant children. It has since become the object of many pilgrimages.

Here in Zacatecas, construction of the Iglesia Fátima began around 1950 and was completed in the 1990s. To my untrained eye, there exists an impalpable modern feel to the building, whether because of the lack of weathering, or restraint in the use of exterior detail.

Nevertheless Mexican architectural playfulness creeps in here and there. The canales (rain spouts) are carved stone creatures—lions?—with ornamented metal spouts in their mouths.

The stained glass windows seem more colorful than older European examples, and their subjects are rendered in simpler, perhaps cleaner fashion. The window on the right has an almost psychedelic spiral in the background. Peace, man.

In the churches I visit, I frequently find displays depicting development of the human fetus. Their purpose plainly is not to provide biology lessons: that's hardly the mission of the Church. Displays like this are intended to discourage abortion. In them, models of blastulas are accompanied by text to the effect that such are complete human beings possessing souls.

Although not Catholic, I frequently enter churches to pray and meditate. These quiet, dim, sacred places help me find inner peace. Displays like the above are, for me, jarring and intrusive. But then, Iglesia Fátima is not my church. I'm just borrowing it for a little while. So as a good guest, I'll just keep my opinions to myself, and express gratitude for the hospitality offered me.

Clint and I stayed at the full-service, moderately-priced Hotel Don Miguel in Zacatecas. The impression you get from this view of the place, shot from the summit of La Bufa, is accurate. It's a business class hotel, with all of the attendant charm you encounter in such places.

Looks like a factory, doesn't it? Sort of feels like one when you stay there. But rooms are well-appointed and the staff is attentive. Your $80 per night buys you cleanliness and efficiency, but not charm. It does it buy you in-room WiFi which, in my opinion, earns the place a gold star.

For a luxurious, romantic weekend, the plushest place in town is the Quinta Real. (The link connects to a travel agent's website, because the hotel's own website is is slow with all kinds of flash, an annoying idea particularly favored by Mexican web designers.) It'll run you a good $200 a night, but you get the facilities of a full spa, a fancy restaurant and a beautiful setting. You can just make out the hotel building, immediately behind the old aqueduct.

A five-star hotel built around a 17th-century bull ring, it's probably a good choice for a honeymoon. That is, if you'd rather honeymoon in Zacatecas than in, say, Bali.

Most interesting, for my money, is the Hostel Villa Colonial. It's colorful, clean and homey. It has private rooms or you can stay in hostel-type lodgings. The staff consists of the owner and a couple of friends: they're pleasant and friendly.

I peeked into a hostel room about 2 PM, where I caught a traveler sleeping. Oh, to be that young again. Out all night and then sleep it off until mid-afternoon.

The Hostel Villa Colonial has a pleasant rooftop terrace. Clint and I ascended for the views of La Bufa and the cathedral. We were waylaid by young women from the university who were making a student documentary. They interviewed us about our impressions of Zacatecas which, we reported, were all positive. The girls were charming. Clint was charming. I stood off in a corner taking photos, cluck-clucking at the inappropriateness of their scandalous charmingness.

Here, I could have run pictures of a rare view of the rear of the cathedral, or of cars dangling from the cables of the Teleférico as they made their way up the Cerro de la Bufa. The Hostel Villa Colonial offers many such vistas; better than those from their pricier competition. But that's not how I roll. What caught my eye was this rooftop:

Someone assembled a collection of TV picture tubes. Don't ask my why. No doubt something to do with the almost visceral reluctance Mexicans have for throwing anything away.

Collecting picture tubes: it's probably something I wouldn't do. But I have to admit I can see the appeal, as I am sure can many of you...

The Hostel Villa Colonial is where it's at. Of the three hotels mentioned here, it's the only one where you can strike up conversations with guests and staff. It's relaxed and has lots of charm. And you can stay there for a week for what the Quinta Real would charge for a single night.

It's where you'll find me the next time I visit Zacatecas.

When visiting a new city, finding a good restaurant can be a crapshoot. Fortunately for me, Clint knew of a great one in Zacatecas: Los Dorados de Villa.

(When it comes to the meaning of that name, my Spanish fails me. The Golden Ones of the Town? Can someone help?)

When you're traveling with Clint, the way restaurants work is: If he has been there and liked it, it's going to be good. So don't bother asking any questions. Just go in and eat.

But things didn't look all that good when we arrived. A young woman was lying on the bench provided out front for restaurant patrons waiting for tables. Sleeping off a drunk?

I approached her and cleared my throat. She sat up and smiled. She smelled of soap, not booze. Her eyes weren't dilated. Why was she lying on the bench?

"I was sleepy. I needed a little siesta."

I said, "Of course. Well—er—we're just going into the restaurant."

"Go right ahead," she said. "You won't bother me."

Los Dorados de Villa is kind of like a speakeasy. We had to knock on the locked door (no bell). Someone opened it a crack and asked what we wanted. Suppressing an urge to ask for a bottle of gin, I said, "We're here for dinner."

Did we have a reservation? We did not. We were told to wait. The door shut.

I looked over at the convenient bench. The sleeping girl had vacated, so I was preparing to rest when the restaurant door suddenly reopened and we were motioned inside.

It's tiny. Probably seats 16. The table for six in the foreground was reserved. Ours was the small table to the left of the couple glaring at me as I took their photograph.

Clint said, "The food's really good here." Uh-huh.

Well, the place was colorful in a funky way. I figured the food would be interesting at least. I asked the waiter for a recommendation. Without hesitation he said, "You want to start with the pozole, followed by the enchiladas in tomato cream sauce." Well all right then. I surely wasn't going to argue with him.

The pozole was the best I'd ever had. This dish is often problematic: usually gristly bits of pork in broth with way too much oregano. Los Dorados' was intense chicken broth, shredded chicken breast and garbanzos, perfectly balanced and savory.

The pozole was a dinner all by itself, but although already stuffed, we soldiered on with the enchiladas. Three of them, cheese, chicken and beef were served in a deep bowl in the smoothest light tomato sauce ever. They were nuanced like French haute cuisine; nothing like the rustic fare that is typical Mexican cooking.

I see this post reads like a restaurant review. I guess that's because it is. I don't usually write them, but this place is so special, I can only say that if you're hungry in Zacatecas—you want to start with Los Dorados de Villa.

In the mid-16th Century, Juan de Tolosa encountered the Zacatecanos, native indians carrying silver artifacts. He extracted from them the location of the vein of silver from which they had obtained the precious metal. In short order, Zacatecas was founded, the indians were enslaved and put to work in the mines, and the city became the largest producer of Spain's New World wealth.

Oh, and the life expectancy of the indians was halved.

Today, a statue honors those long-dead miners. I guess it's nice that they are remembered this way, but I wonder how their descendants feel about it.

Other miners are remembered here, as well. Here we have the Emilia Cafe in downtown Zacatecas.

It's located at the intersection of a major artery and a pedestrian walkway: Callejon del Indio Triste—Sad Indian Alley.

I'm told that the sad indian commemorated in Zacatecas refers to a 16th-century man who was enslaved and put to work in the silver mines. Legend has it that he began to cry, and continued to cry for days and weeks, until a priest, touched by the man's sadness, obtained his release from enslavement. The tragedy was too much for the sad indian, who continued to cry for years until his early death.

Today, a statue of him sits atop the building housing the Emilia Cafe. Some, but not many visitors understand its significance.

I've seen many streets in other cities named Indio Triste. We have one in San MIguel de Allende. But I think they commemorate a different sad indian. This man, a member of a noble indian family living in Mexico City, put himself into the service of the Spanish conquerors, betraying his people. Over time his life fell into ruin and as he contemplated the crimes he had perpetrated against his neighbors, he became depressed, and spent the remainder of his life crouched in the street, downcast in sadness.

Both stories are legendary. I found no authoritative references to either, although both seem to have considerable currency. But one thing is for certain: the original New World inhabitants, and their descendants today, have a lot to be sad about.

Several years ago, I stopped briefly at a hotel on the outskirts of Zacatecas, en route to my first extended stay in San Miguel de Allende. There I enjoyed my first Thanksgiving dinner outside of the United States: a pathetic rib eye steak grilled to pemmican-like chewy toughness at one end while still frozen at the other.

Fresh from harsh treatment at the hands of a corrupt Gomez Palacio traficante, I thoroughly enjoyed my badly-cooked meal and gave thanks I had been able to escape jail or impoundment of my car.

So I've always had a desire to return to the city that was founded on a vein of silver, and when Clint invited me to accompany him while he nosed out hidden retablos, I agreed to come.

The Spanish, and the indigenous Zacatecas before them, couldn't have missed the silver. It was found in a mountaintop rock formation called Cerro de la Bufa, which I guess you could translate as "wheeze hill."

It was so named because of the soughing sound the mountain makes when the wind is strong. The silver mines beneath it have long been exhausted. The place has become a tourist attraction. Part of the mine has been converted into a disco, which may well be as good a use for one as any, if you've ever experienced the disappointment of touring a rough, dark hole in the ground.

You can ride a gondola to the summit of Cerro de la Bufa, for an overhead view of the city.

Historically important as one of the truly significant sources of Spain's 16th- and 17th-century wealth, and with a well-preserved city center (after the silver ran out, nobody could afford to tear the old colonial buildings down), Zacatecas today is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Like so many old Mexican cities, Zacatecas is chock full of monuments, bringing Mexican history alive for someone like me who has difficulty visualizing past events from written descriptions. This fountain commemorates figures prominent in the founding of the city, among them Juan de Tolosa, credited with discovering the massive silver deposits.

In more recent times, efforts have been made to preserve the details that make this place so visually interesting. These wonderful street lamps caught my eye.

Like San Miguel, Guanajuato and other colonial cities, Zacatecas has narrow pedestrian-only callejónes leading off who-knows-where, lending interest and a sense of mystery.

The city is a tourist magnet. The vast majority of visitors are Mexicans enjoying a beautiful place and soaking up their heritage. With tourists come unfortunate contrivances like this genuine San Francisco cable car.

For an elegant stay, it's hard to top the Quinta Real, built on the site of an old plaza de toreros (bullfight ring), here being set up for a wedding reception. About $200 a night ought to get it: expensive, but not for the top hotel in a significant city anymore. (Clint and I stayed in a cheaper place, lest you get the wrong idea.)

The arches in the background belong to Del Cubo, an ancient aqueduct.

When I think of Zacatecas, though, one image stands out: Zacatecas Cathedral.

Construction started in 1610, but the Mexican Churrigueresque-style exterior was completed in the mid-18th Century. The façade is one of the most ornamented I have seen. Fronted as it is by a busy street, contemplation of the decorations on this beautiful building is problematical—glimpses captured between passing buses and trucks.

But when you can see it, what a sight! We're looking at bas-relief images of the apostles, tucked in between those fantastically carved columns.

Like too many important Mexican churches, the interior of this one was looted during the Civil War and the Revolution. Today, the interior is plain and unremarkable. But the Cathedral remains the landmark of Zacatecas, one of the jewels of Mexico.

Retablos are small paintings of religious subjects. Most were painted on tin, dating from the 19th Century, but rare ones as much as 300 years old exist; the old ones usually painted on copper or wood. Subjects can be divided into three categories: 1) Jesus Christ, 2) The Virgin in her various manifestations, and 3) a wide variety of saints, angels, and other holy figures. On the left, a retablo bears a rendering of the patron saint of my town, St. Michael.

Their style owes much to 17th-century Spain. Concerned by the rapid spread of New World settlements that were springing up faster than churches could be built, the Spanish Catholic Church sent painters overseas to teach indigenous artists how to make paintings for use in home chapels. Since then, countless thousands of them have been created.

The term retablo means "behind the altar," after the location where they were displayed.

Although retablos have roots in classical Spanish painting, they clearly are Mexican folk art: charming, colorful, and eminently collectable. Demand has increased rapidly in recent years, and therein lies an opportunity for my friend and noted international merchant, Clint. Here he is in an antique store in Zacatecas, checking out a selection of retablos in an effort to build his stock.

Visitors can't just wander about the countryside visiting ruined haciendas and making offers for antiques anymore. Mexican dealers are experiencing booming demand, and they scour the country for pieces that have survived. The likes of us don't have a chance. Clint looks for retablos in retail antique shops, but for him there still are substantial margins, because he resells them to collectors in the states. They are willing to pay much higher prices than retablos can command in Mexico.

Clint has a unique style of networking. Stopping two mariachis on the street, he asked them something like, "Hey. Know where I can buy some retablos?" I dunno—I probably wouldn't have tried that approach. But for him it worked. They steered him to this imposing building.

A former mercado where meat and vegetables were sold, it has now been converted into an elegant shopping mall.

The high, paneled ceiling, the cast-iron columns, the tiled floors have all been retained and restored. Individual stores have been constructed as free-standing glass enclosures. For my money, the architect gets an A for this building. It's so fine that it looked a little rich for our blood.

But most antique shops have a way of being cluttered, eclectic places with flexible pricing, and the one in the mercado was no exception. Clint hit pay dirt here: three fine retablos at good prices.

Back in San Miguel, Clint shows off one of his trophies: a charming Madonna and Child in an ornate frame. It's easy to see why demand for these objects is so high.

I wonder if Clint will actually manage to part with this one. He has several nice ones hanging in his home, and I suspect he loves them primarily for their appeal, and not so much for their potential profits.

The biggest fair in all of Mexico is held every year during May in Aguascalientes. Clint and I headed over there to check it out. Called Feria Nacional de San Marcos, people attend from all over Mexico and many visit from other Latin American countries as well. It's a deeply traditional event; the 2008 fair was the 180th.

Clint and I envisioned a large mercado with traditionally dressed indigenous people—a showcase of Mexico's best. We'd heard it had a spicy side, too: bullfights, cockfights, gambling—an aspect of Mexico I'd not seen. We were thinking quaint, rustic, but big. We were wrong.

Feria Nacional de San Marcos is a big deal, similar in many ways to the California State Fair. While the fair indeed features many cultural events, like the California event it's strong on bread and circuses. Daily agendas feature long lists of entertainers. Most visitors come to play at this junior grade Las Vegas. I suspect a minority actually are interested in culture.

Unfortunately we'd failed to do our homework, investing a long drive to visit something totally unlike what we had imagined. Arriving in Aguascalientes around 10 AM, Clint paid $150 pesos to park, and we walked out into the area where the fair was held. Oops. It was closed! Wouldn't open until that evening. The fair is a nighttime affair. A quick check of the website would have saved us a lot of time and effort.

So what we got to see was a cleaning crew hosing the place down after last night's festivities. Don't want to think about that too much.

We got to see two policemen trying to subdue a leftover drunk at the request of a restaurant manager.

And we had a quick look at an intriguing boite. I've been trying to imagine to whom this place would appeal.

Due to poor planning, we were unable to stay until evening. We returned to San Miguel, singularly unimpressed with Aguascalientes. This is unfair, however. Belated research shows that Aguascalientes is a vibrant town, developing real economic muscle, its heart a storehouse of colonial architecture of some note.

I'll be back to explore the city properly. But I think I'll skip the fair, for the same reason I have avoided the California State Fair. Elvis impersonators are just not my thing.

Mexico is a thirsty country, especially this time of year. We are nearing the end of the dry season (thankfully) but days are hot and we breathe a lot of dust. We dry out quickly in the thin air of San Miguel de Allende, Alt. 6,600'. So we need lots to drink, and plenty of people make a living providing fluids.

Some people like licuados—drinks made from fruits whirled in a blender with water and sugar, sometimes with a quail egg or two added for protein. Here a young family buys refreshing bebidas—drinks—at one of the ubiquitous kiosks that service the needs of thirsty people.

Tourists prefer to sit on the central plaza under arches. Costs a little more to drink here, but the chairs have backs and the drinks have alcohol. These ladies appear to be enjoying—what—bloody marys? What is it that's served in a tall glass, is red, and has salt on the rim?

Nobody goes thirsty in this country. Wherever you go, there's a bar or restaurant or drink stand or in a pinch, a tiendita that'll sell you a bottle of water—just a few steps away.

Last month an unseasonable thunderstorm dumped rain and hail on us while we were lunching at Casa de Aves out near Atotonilco. The incongruity of a couple inches of frozen precipitation covering ground underneath cactus and mesquite inspired me to stop and shoot a few frames.

We had been dining on a terrace beside a lovely pond when the hail started. Sudden gusty winds blew rain under the sun umbrellas. Diners sprinted for the hotel a couple hundred meters away where, after some delay, the kitchen staff set us up to continue our meals.

The drive home afforded us views of—what? Not exactly a winter wonderland, but white vistas reminiscent of snow days where as children we were excused from school.

Darned if I know how this cow managed to cover its head with wet straw. Was it trying to dampen the impact of hailstones?

Of course not. Mexican farmers don't de-horn cows like those in the States do. So when foraging, cows sometimes get tangled up in long grasses.

From my home in California, I always thought of Mexico as a land of cactus and deserts and haciendas with bougainvillea dripping over stone walls. That there can be hail and snow and ice opens my mind to the incredible diversity of this land.

When I was a lowly technician working part-time to finance my college education, I wired a lot of equipment. My boss, a bull of a man named Ira Zeeman, looked at my early work disdainfully and said, "Wood, that sh*t looks like a rats nest!" He then showed me how to "dress" wires; that is, after connecting them to their terminals, to arrange their paths so they look neat and orderly.

Properly Dressed Wires

Ira's criticism stuck with me . Forty-five years later, I still react to poor wiring. No wonder this lamp post jumped out at me when I was walking through Parque Juárez the other day.

A Rat's Nest

The mussy appearance of this rig is extreme even for Mexican wiring, which I have observed rarely rises to North American or European standards.

A closer look reveals more than appearance problems. Check the splice between the white heavy-gauge wire and the three orange ones. No insulation, not to mention that the twisted connection is likely to fail over time as the wires move in the wind. Other splices on the same pole have been protected with black electrical tape. Not good: that stuff won't last a year in the hot sun and the rain.

Safety isn't as big a concern in Mexico as other places. Here in San Miguel de Allende a couple of years ago, a little girl was electrocuted during a rainstorm when wiring like this failed.

Once I watched an electrician lean out over Aldama street from a rooftop, reaching for overhead wiring. He licked his fingers to improve conductivity and touched the wires to see if they were live! OK. Those of us who did electrical work for a living sometimes did that kind of thing when we were young and foolish. But today I find it hard to watch.

—§—

Safety issues aren't confined to outdoor wiring. Consider this heater, provided in my room in an expensive hotel.

For some reason, the power cord had been cut and spliced, then insulated with that unreliable black electrical tape.

The tape is coming unstuck with use. This story will end some cold winter night in a shower of sparks and the smell of burning insulation. If the guest to whom this happens is not some uptight safety-obsessed gringo, he'll probably just calmly call housekeeping and ask for another heater. No big deal.

Up north, hazards like this were more common up when I was a little boy. Today Norteamericanos live more secure lives. But sometimes I think we've all become a little paranoid, as in the case of the elementary school administration that prohibited children from bringing flowers to school—because some child might have an allergic reaction to them.