... some of the most garish furniture I have ever seen. I was so shocked that I walked past it twice before I thought to photograph it—to share with all of you. You're welcome.

I couldn't imagine anyone putting stuff like this in an actual home. It looked uncomfortable, impractical, and exquisitely ugly.

Here, an orange vinyl end table flanks a red divan shaped like a pair of female lips. Lips!

When I got home, I looked these photos over, wondering how it is I can't comprehend tastes so different from my own. Suddenly an image flashed into my mind—of an ultramodern, hip apartment full of playful furniture and art: Spirals painted on the walls, 3" shag carpets, ameba-shaped glass coffee tables. I could see how this stuff might work.

I'm a Brooks Brothers kind of guy. Living in Mexico has been widening my range of tastes.

Once I called on Yahoo, Inc. during its early days. In the lobby they had placed yellow and violet upholstered wing chairs built so large that sitting in them made one fell like a five-year old. Playful. Perhaps I could accept this vinyl furniture as playful.

Yeah. I can see that.

I peered inside the furniture store. The first thing I saw was a painting of mama and baby giraffes.

An original painting rendered with a certain skill and little substance, I couldn't wrap my mind around what kind of decor it might enhance. A Motel 6 lobby, maybe.

The proprietor came running over, telling me to stop photographing his furniture.

"Why not?"

"Because you'll steal my designs."

With effort, I am able to comprehend—somewhat dimly, perhaps—the esthetics of the vinyl furniture. A big step for me. Tastes that aren't congruent with mine should be valid; a tough concept for an engineer who thinks in terms of right and wrong. The giraffes, though—not them, not ever.

Mexico throws challenges at me. Today I'm in my late sixties, and I feel like I'm just now getting a glimpse of life's real lessons—like the spirituality of vinyl.

And here he is today in his studio alongside Clint (who cannot abide being in the vicinity of an active camera without posing).

Sr. Vásquez is holding a blue pottery dog covered with smiling new moons. Clint is negotiating purchase of the piece. Prices of this work are surprisingly low. An object like this one, made by a Japanese master, would sell for 100 times as much.

Below are some pieces representative of Sr. Vásquez' work. Today's collection seems to feature cats, a favorite motif.

Sr. Vásquez' son Salvador Jr. shares his father's love of the art. Here he is removing pieces from a mesquite-fired kiln.

Looking into the interior of the kiln, we see two recently-fired pieces along with a thick layer of broken pottery, placed there to raise the level of finished work to within easy reach. That Sr. Vásquez achieves such fine results with equipment so crude seems astonishing.

Northern California potters I have known use thermostat-controlled gas-fired kilns capable of maintaining reducing atmospheres or other special conditions. They have motor-driven potting wheels. They buy clay and glazes from specialized suppliers. Sr. Vásquez digs up his own clay out of a riverbank, and makes his own paints from natural vegetable and mineral sources. He grabs a glob of clay, mashes it until it's the right shape, fires it, paints it and fires it again. Potting wheels are for wusses.

I don't think you can call the paints Sr. Vásquez uses glazes. Pieces acquire a matte finish after the second firing, as illustrated by this vase.

To achieve a shiny surface, he burnishes each piece with a chunk of iron pyrite, as he is demonstrating below. He's embedded the fool's gold crystal in a piece of clay to form a handle for his tool.

The result is a muted shine, less glassy than that produced by glazes.

The plate above depicts La Llorona (the crying woman), a mythical figure who searches the world for her lost sons, making spooky crying sounds all the while. It's a scary tale told to children to make them behave. Or to provide a ghost story thrill.

In the studio, mussy tables and shelves hold work in various stages of completion. A group of unpainted vases are carelessly piled up against a finished urn worth thousands of dollars. The artist doesn't care. If it breaks, he'll just make another.

Sr. Vásquez insisted I come into his house to see his "diplomas." He has lots of them. He is known globally, and has pieces in museums and important private collections.

Unaccountably, he manages to show great pride in his accomplishments, and simultaneously, the deep humility of a man whose life is his art. His home is modest: he's uninterested in the material things his notoriety could buy him. His house is open to any visitor who wants to drop by to see great art in the making, or to simply sit in conversation with an interesting old man.

You can't order a grand slam breakfast in a place like this. Or yogurt and fruit. People here work too hard to survive on such light fare. They know that breakfast should consist of meat and something made out of cornmeal. Anything less is simply inadequate.

The reason for my visit is to try a dish that is new to me: enfrijoladas. My order starts out with slices of ropy-looking beef. The meat is broiled over a charcoal fire until nicely browned and infused with a wonderful smoky flavor.

The cook chops and rolls the meat into a large, freshly-made corn tortilla. You can see the uncooked beef stacked in front of her chopping block.

The rolled tortilla is bathed (bañado as Mexicans say) in a sauce made of beans. Sounds unexciting, doesn't it. That's what I thought before I tucked in.

Usually when I wrinkle my nose at some Mexican dish, I turn out to be wrong. Enfrijoladas turned out to be one of the tastiest meals I have eaten. Better yet, they'll last you until dinnertime. This is substantial food.

Regulars at this stand who have tired of grilled beef enfrijoladas can opt for other fillings; say, beef tongue or tripe.

I'll stick with the grilled beef, thank you.

Food concessions in mercados consist mostly of kitchens with narrow counters and stools jammed next to each other. They're not the French Laundry by any means, but in my opinion, they're much more fun, and cost approximately 97% less than exclusive Napa Valley restaurants.

Photo: CLint Hough

Mercado food used to frighten me. But I've never had any trouble with it. I've contracted food poisoning and other ailments any number of times in classier, sit-down restaurants in San Miguel de Allende, but never at one of these lunch counters.

A courtyard inside the hotel serves as habitat for a dozen marmosets; perfectly tame creatures, delightful to watch as they scamper on the philodendrons. They like it when you feed them marshmallows.

The hotel is set in a quiet part of town. On a nearby street you'll find a tile replica of Diego Rivera's mural A Dream of a Sunday Afternoon in Alameda Park.

Parking is permitted in front of the tile mural, and a tree has been planted there as well. Apparently the directors of civic art and of streets and sidewalks don't speak to each other.

A kiosk on Tlaquepaque's plaza advertises Systema Apartado. In response to my question, I was told the term refers to a lay-away plan. You put a little money down for something you want to buy, and make additional payments from time to time. When the shopkeeper has collected the full price from you, he gives you the merchandise. Seems cumbersome to me: I doubt anything in the kiosk—cheap sunglasses, pink plastic purses—is priced at more than US $10.

Sitting on benches, we ate lomo and salchichon tostadas from a cart on the plaza. Across from us, a little girl in an avocado dress enjoyed her ice cream. The plaza is a relaxed and safe place.

Tlaquepaque is a quiet sanctuary amid the bustle of Guadalajara. Hotel Casa Campos is the perfect retreat after a day of art and antique shopping.

The large and energetic Kabande family and their friends welcome travelers enthusiastically. Stay here, and you immediately have a circle of good friends. Reasonably priced, with comfortable common rooms and an excellent breakfast of yogurt, fruit, fresh-squeezed orange juice and coffee included, Hotel Casa Campos has become my favorite Guadalajara-area hotel, in my favorite part of town.

Note to beleaguered San MIguel residents: Fireworks are rarely set off in Tlaquepaque.

Captain Max owns the Cobra, a boat outfitted for charter fishing. His work is easier and more lucrative than that of ordinary fishermen: no fishing in the dark, no hauling in heavy nets.

He will throw this inedible needlefish back into the ocean, hoping next time to hook a dorado.

Divers pursue spiny lobsters, a method that seems risky. But lobster brings high prices—US $10 per pound on the beach.

A rusty air compressor mounted in the middle of La Perla Negra supplies air to a diver. Exhaust from the small motor gets sucked into the compressor intake if the wind is right.

The day's catch is sold on the beach in the center of town. Local residents come early to buy today's dinner; everything is sold by 8 or 9 AM.

On offer is whatever was caught early this morning. The fish are not the carefully graded and displayed product I remember from the Sonoma Market in California. But they are much, much fresher, and they don't cost anywhere near $20 a pound.

Nobody's getting rich fishing, but this man is able to afford an early morning cigar as he waits for buyers.

The way you buy your fish, you walk along until you find one you like. Then you pick it up and haggle with the fisherman. Don't expect him to gut it or fillet it for you. He will weigh it if you insist, but most people don't bother.

Huachinango in his right hand, pesos in his left, this man is ready to deal.

No power, no refrigeration. Block ice keeps fish fresh for a few hours before it is cooked and eaten.

Selling fish is hungry work, and in Mexico, where people might be hungry, there's always someone to fill the need.

Maybe you were expecting a plastic bag to take your purchase home. Maybe someone around here has one. Probably not. It's easier just to grab your black tuna by the tail and walk away.

This customer in his Tommy Jeans tee shirt and Crocks presages Zihuatanejo's future. As the developed world crowds in, land prices rise. As in so many Mexican coastal villages, fishermen will be unable to afford to live here on what they can make. The fleet will disappear, to be replaced by jet skis and parasails.

No point in bemoaning progress. As the Mexicans say, it is what it is. Get out there and enjoy it while you can.

The battered truck crouched ominously. Like something out of Mad Max, it had seen many highway battles. Paul pointed out the Grim Reaper decal obscuring the windshield.

Believe me, you see this in your rear view mirror, you'll get out of the way.

It was parked in front of a vulcanizadora for tire repairs. If anything, the tire place looked more marginal than the truck.

An apparent believer in minimizing start-up costs, the proprietor had pressed a claw foot bathtub into service for locating punctures.

The truck had major tire issues. Several had chunks missing from treads. Others were virtually bald. The trucker had managed to squeeze every last kilometer out of the life of these tires.

Photo: Paul Latoures

A bottle jack supporting an axle of the fully loaded truck leaned precariously. I doubt there's a hydraulic rack capable of lifting this vehicle anywhere in San Miguel. Why buy a pricey machine when a $50 hand tool and a block of wood will do the same job?

I wondered if the truck could fall off the tiny jack. Well of course it could. But resourceful mechanics would see such a happenstance as a minor setback at worst.

A closer look at the truck revealed other signs of heavy use and repairs. The frame supporting the box had been welded where it had cracked. The box itself was supported on new-looking pine blocks—surely a stopgap repair.

The battery hold-down was long gone, replaced by a knotted rope.

The box was deteriorating. Paul, amused, points out broken slats. The load doesn't look any too stable either.

This truck would not be permitted to operate north of the border. I doubt it could even be restored to operational standards. But such matters are not taken so seriously here. I often find myself following vehicles like this as they labor up some grade, ghastly clouds of black smoke issuing from their stacks.

But today, vehicle safety standards are becoming part of drivers' lives. After losing a couple of rigs descending the long grade on the Carretera a Querétaro, a truck inspection checkpoint was established at the top. That this beast would be allowed through is dubious.

But I have to say I like this truck. It has the quality of a much-used and worn hand tool. You don't throw stuff out here. Not if there's any way of fixing it. I bet the owner figures there's lots more life left in this baby.

Henry Harper is the offspring of my daughter, Samantha, and her husband Kip, whose wedding I posted about 21 months ago. He looks placid in this photo, but I just know he's gonna be trouble. On account of I know my daughter. I'm still recovering from the trauma of raising her.

I flew to Santa Barbara to meet Henry. I have to say that like all sub-two-week-olds, he doesn't do much. Eats, poops, sleeps. That's about it. But his family has instantly fallen in love with him.

He produces a wide range of facial expressions, most of which don't appear to be connected to any form of cognition.

But it won't be long before he connects his brain to his face, and the resulting flood of communication is gonna sink his parents.

I accompanied Henry on one of his first outings. Here, his big sister (Kip's daughter, Cassie) propels him down an oceanside path.

In America, we appear to be undergoing another baby boom. Cassie has to yield to an oncoming phalanx of four young mothers piloting their offspring in identical double-wide strollers. Baby-walking congestion.

Henry will probably grow up to be a surfer dude; a fate impossible to avoid when you grow up in Santa Barbara. Those are wetsuits hung out to dry on the side of the white Explorer. Henry doesn't know about wetsuits yet, but when he does, watch out.

He'll be riding his bike down to the beach when his mother isn't looking. Checking the wave action. Buying tins of Sex Wax.

Here he is in his baby cassette, catching some rays, developing his toe tanning skills. A true native Californian.

Grandpa is delighted to meet Henry, but I'm not sure the feeling is mutual. Yet.

But I have lots of spoiling to do. He'll be plenty glad to see me in a couple of years. Bet on it, Sam.

Grandkids are wonderful. As a friend of mine once said, "You can love 'em and give 'em back."

A couple of months ago I found that the lake bed was dry, and that substantial mounds were being built on the margins of the original islands. The old reservoir had been drained for maintenance.

That this kind of work is being done is unsurprising: the preserve is managed sensitively and imaginatively. Every year, El Charco becomes richer, an relic of the original environment before population growth pressured wildlife and native plant populations.

What is unusual, though, is the scale of the work. Recently, I've noticed more and more heavy machinery being used on construction and road building projects in our part of Mexico. Here in the El Charco lakebed, I was surprised to find some heavy equipment doing the work, instead of the usual gang of shovel-wielding laborers.

The big Komatsu shovel looks almost new. Somehow, funding for El Charco must be sufficient to enable rental of gear like this; a miracle in itself.

A bulldozer shapes the margins of one of the islands, spewing clouds of black smoke as it scrapes the earth.

In other circumstances, such pollution would horrify me. But population density in our part of Mexico is low, and few smokestack industries feed components of smog into the air. At least locally, the atmosphere seems to be able to absorb what we humans put into it.

Someone will probably point out that the carbon footprint of these machines is huge, and of course she would be right. It's hard to know which might be better for the planet: huge diesel engines or gangs of manual laborers.

I'm ashamed to admit that I have a childhood affection for big machines belching black smoke. When I was ten, my father would take me on the steam train to New York City. We'd cross the Hudson River on a coal-burning ferryboat, past huge brick smokestacks throwing dark clouds into the sky. I understand the horrific impact that kind of industry had on us all. But my old-fashioned engineer's heart unaccountably still loves the look and smell of black smoke, the signature of what we thought of as progress at the middle of the last century.

In the case of El Charco, an investment of a couple hundred pounds of carbon results in a sanctuary for native wildlife of the Bahio. How can we tell if the environmental cost is balanced by the benefit? We're driving the egrets out of the city center (post). If we want to avoid their disappearance altogether, shouldn't we provide some sort of home for them?

At fiesta time, streets are festooned with papeles picados (pierced paper banners). Traditionally, these are made by stacking hundreds of sheets of tissue paper and hammering chisels through the pile to make cutout patterns. Recently vinyl has replaced tissue paper and automatic presses have replaced chisels; another dubious leap into the First World. Vinyl banners last longer, but ultimately they break and become indestructible litter. Tissues conveniently melt away in the rain.

No other neighborhood achieves the ebullience of Valle de Maiz, neither in festive appearance nor in quantity and impact of fireworks. Street processions on the Salida de Querétaro snarl traffic for hours. Tempers flair. Cops stand around helplessly.

The people of Valle de Maiz don't care.

Thunderous explosions rattle my house and send Rosie (my Boston Terrier) scurrying into my bed. In between blasts, church bells clang frantically. Music—amplified as only Mexicans can amplify—knifes through my windows.

Of course, after you've lived here for awhile, you get used to noise. Or you leave Mexico. One or the other. 'Cause it ain't gonna get quiet here anytime soon.

A frustrated newcomer wrote a letter to our English-language newspaper, Atención, complaining about noise. A bad move—his concerns failed to reach sympathetic ears. Next issue, a tidal wave of responses accused him of being chauvinist and mean-spirited.

Nicer letters to the editor suggested he might be happier in Flint, MI. Nastier ones suggested maybe we'd be happier if he lived there.

—§—

Between fiestas, the decorations remain, but the neighborhood becomes placid. The day I walked through, camera in hand, the only noise came from a man hammering a chisel, the ubiquitous sound of all Mexican abañiles (construction workers) and do-it-yourself homeowners.

A five-gallon plastic bucket serves as a stepladder. We're in the country of make-do. Stuff designed for one use finds new life in another. Almost nothing gets thrown away.

For example, this Valle de Maiz entrepreneur rents used wood. That's right. The top line of his sign reads: "Wood for Rent."

Wood is scarce and expensive in Mexico. Posts and beams are used to support masonry during construction. Planks get used to make forms for concrete. Afterward, all that wood is recycled for use in another project. If you need more wood than you have on hand, you can rent some from this guy.

I don't think his is a booming business. His delivery truck has a couple of flat tires that look like they've been there for awhile. Should he get lucky and get an order, he'll probably pump them up. Otherwise he'll just leave them they way they are.

In this country, deferred maintenance is the watchword. You know when something needs attention when it breaks. Even then, you leave it broken until you really need it. Only then do you get out the duct tape, an old coat hanger, and a sawn-in-half plastic Coke bottle, and effect repairs.

Every barrio has its own church. The one in Valle de Maiz is named Santa Cruz Peregrina. It's architecturally uninteristing—looks more like a blockhouse than a church. One interesting detail—the entry is framed in old carved cantera that was recycled from another building.

Along one side of the church, two benches have been formed from a large tree trunk sawn in half lengthwise. Stubs of the branches form some of the legs, rocks were used for others.

Walk into any modest Mexican neighborhood, and you'll see this dichotomy: an economy of materials reused, recycled and adapted to various needs, and a profligacy of fiestas and celebrations. For my money, the residents of Valle de Maiz have got their priorities right.

Another priority is community pride. The residents of a good barrio pull together. They find their sense of identity with their neighbors. Some neighborhoods are more like tribes than neighbors.

A mural depicts Iglesia Santa Cruz Peregrina with a row of corn planted in front. There hasn't been a cornstalk grown in Valle de Maiz in years, but that's not important. The people here identify themselves as living in the valley that used to grow corn, and they have built an entire culture and community around that idea.

In a week or so I'll hear a banda blatting away. That'll be the citizens of Valle de Maiz letting us all know who they are, one more time. I've learned to sleep through it. I wish Rosie could.