Parks and gardens can make a great city greater, and Sydney has lots of good ones. We visited two. One, just off Darling Harbour, is the Chinese Garden of Friendship. Designed by Sydney’s sister city, Guangzhou, it underscores the close connection between China and Australia.

Many, many Chinese people live in Sydney.

Except for the unmistakably Chinese buildings, I would have thought this garden was Japanese. On entering I came upon a display of bonsai. A plaque announced that the art of growing miniature trees had been invented in China and adopted later in Japan.

I considered the probable truth of this claim. In fact, Japan drew many arts from China. A couple of years ago, I reported in these posts about how Japanese bamboo basket-making had been imported from China. So on reflection, I shouldn’t have been surprised that these small, exquisite gardens originated there too.

A nice touch: The Chinese Garden of Friendship offers traditional costumes to wear while touring. A young father photographs his daughter, dressed like a Ming Dynasty noble.

An important focal point is the Dragon Wall, the dragons symbolizing the two sister cities separated by the sea.

Animal life fills the garden. Koi teem in the waterways that snake through the plantings.

An Ibis flaps its wings preparatory to flight. These birds are common in Sydney’s parks and gardens.

I was poking my camera through a clump of azaleas when an Aussie voice behind me said “Lizard?”

I responded, “Uh...No. I’m photographing my friend, Laura.”

He said, “Oh. I thought you’d found a lizard.”

I continued on my way, thinking that he was a very strange person. Then I came upon this iguana.

We stopped for tea and scones at the Chinese Tea House. As soon as we were served, some small birds lined themselves up on a railing next to our table, in an obvious bid for a handout.

Rich, buttery scones—I’m going to have a hard time keeping my weight down on this trip. I didn’t give any of mine to the birds. Humpf. Little panhandlers.

—§—

A few hundred meters south of the Chinese Garden of Friendship lie the Royal Botanic Gardens, an incredible stretch of exotic plants set in a number of artificial habitats, including a rain forest. Some specimens are positively startling, like this Queensland Bottle Tree.

Mysteriously exotic inflorescences fascinated us. The plant on the left looks like some kind of agave—but probably isn’t. Laura calls the blossom on the right a chicken flower, because of its yellow beak.

Hundreds of noisy cockatoos inhabit the Royal Botanic Gardens. They seem to be native to Australia, so many of them live throughout Sydney.

This little grass-munching guy brings memories of my lost parrot, Chiapas. I usually become nostalgic whenever I catch sight of one of the psittacines (parrot-like birds).

The gardens are home to a huge colony of grey-headed flying foxes. A friend told me about them so I went looking. A helpful ranger told me where they were, yet I didn’t see them until I looked up—and suddenly they were there. There must have been a thousand of them.

A type of fruit bat, they are the largest bats in the world. They have three-foot wing spans and can weigh a couple of pounds.

Unusual plants, abundant wildlife—always wonderful to encounter anywhere you find it.

But this isn’t some national park. Smack in the middle of a major city, it is mere steps away from the Opera House, the Sydney Harbour Bridge, the high rises of the business center.

I am amazed.

In 1932, Australia celebrated the completion of the Sydney Harbour Bridge by issuing a set of commemorative postage stamps depicting the massive iron structure. I collected those stamps as a boy, although I could never afford the five shilling denomination pictured below.

The bridge connected North Sydney with the city center, a trip that previously could only be made by ferry. It cost so much to build that 60 years were needed to repay the investment.

Maybe I could never own the stamp, but yesterday, I took this photograph of the actual bridge itself—a dream come true.

We are spending the next two months touring Australia. We’ll remain a few days in Sydney, then rent a car and drive up the east coast along all those beautiful (and shark-infested) beaches, perhaps as far as Cairns in the tropical north.

Two months is a long time to be away from San Miguel de Allende, but even at that, we’ll barely scratch the surface of Australia. It’s an entire continent, after all.

In order to afford a trip of this length, we won’t be staying at the Four Seasons. Or even the Holiday Inn Express. Our hotel in Sydney is the Alishan International Guest House. It costs a quarter of what nice hotels charge. And, of course, it offers a quarter of the amenities: We get fresh towels once a week and we make our own bed.

But we get a communal kitchen so we can save time and money on breakfast. And we get a location in a wonderfully funky neighborhood near to all the famous sights.

Sydney reverberates with strong echoes of the British Empire. Looking like an English manor, Government House exemplifies imperial architecture. It says, “We British are here to stay.”

Australia’s principal educational institution, the University of Sydney, is located a few blocks from our hotel. Unaware of its presence, we stumbled across it on an evening walk.

Victorian city design traveled to Sydney from England’s factory towns. These row houses could have been built in Manchester, except for the adoption of balconies made possible by benign climate.

We’re in one of the world’s most multicultural cities. On our street, we have a choice of Lebanese, Korean, Thai, Japanese, Chinese, and Mexican (!) food. We frequently hear people speaking Mandarin.

In contrast with the cozy neighborhoods, the city center is smart, sophisticated and modern. Brilliant skyscraper designs leap up beside stolid nineteenth-century piles of granite.

One of the world’s most recognizable buildings is the Sydney Opera House. Its multiple roofs resemble the triangular sails of the pleasure boats that fill the harbor on weekends.

I didn’t want a guided tour the Opera House; I wanted to use it. So we attended a concert given by the Sydney Symphony Orchestra—Beethoven, Haydn and Bartok—and got a close-up look at this wonderful space. Multiple halls, restaurants and bars, promenades offering breathtaking nighttime city views, make it one of the greatest places to hear music (even if the acoustics are not up to par).

Lucky Sydneysiders live in a most beautiful city. Most of its five million residents live within walking distance of water. They have access to many, many cultural and recreational options. Sydney may be the most remote city in the world, but there’s no sense of isolation. Everything one would ever need is here.

Son John D. just completed his 42nd year on the planet. Laura and I flew out to California to celebrate with him. Our family convened at his sister Samantha’s new home in Ventura, where she threw a party for her brother.

Here, John D. restrains daughter Kiely from plunging her arm into the birthday cake Samantha made for him—a four-layer mixed berry shortcake.

Photo: Laura Josephs

Laura and I landed at LAX and drove an hour and a half north on the Pacific Coast Highway to Ventura. We passed through Malibu, a town of homes costing as much as $30 million—even in this era of economic meltdown. You can’t mortgage a multimillion dollar house, so Malibu homeowners aren’t under water like so many other less fortunate people.

We are staying at the Ojai Retreat, a lovely group of restored cottages set in five acres of rolling grassland studded with live oaks. They still grow oranges in this part of California. The air on our private terrace is scented with jasmine and orange blossoms.

Sometimes I have a hard time remembering why I left this place.

Ojai has attracted spiritual seekers and healers for decades. The New Age is alive and well in this town that is chockablock with spas, retreats, holistic health centers and meditation retreats. Meditation Mount is one such; a particularly beautiful and restful place to visit. Laura and I drove out there to spend a couple of quiet hours.

Besides a meditation center, Meditation Mount features a peace garden, with wandering paths and breathtaking views of the Santa Ynez Mountains.

A sign at Meditation Mount summarizes the philosophy of many who live in this pristine part of the world: Don’t smoke, don’t throw rubbish on the ground, and turn off your cell phones. The owner of the Ojai Retreat boasts that his lodgings are telephone- and television-free.

Ventura Harbor is home to a small fleet of commercial fishermen and an armada of pleasure craft. My family met at a seafood restaurant here for lunch. It’s always good to buy fish where it’s caught.

On the last day of our long weekend, we drove a half-hour north on the Pacific Coast Highway to that Shangri La of the Americas, Santa Barbara. This view of Mission Santa Barbara, backed by the Santa Ynez Mountains, was taken from the tower of the county courthouse, less than a mile from the beach.

When winter weather conditions are right, sunbathers on the beach can view show-capped peaks just a few minutes’ drive away.

Mission Santa Barbara was founded by Father Junipero Serra. He advanced Spain’s claim to the California Coast by building a string of missions from San Diego all the way past San Francisco to my old wine country home, Sonoma. The missions were spaced about forty miles apart—a day’s ride by horseback.

Father Serra is famous in the Mexican state of Querétaro for founding four missions in the Huasteca Potosina. All four have been lovingly restored and are well worth the six-hour drive from San MIguel de Allende for a visit.

The sanctuary of the Santa Barbara Mission church remains unmistakably Spanish Catholic, but somehow seems more warm and inviting than churches I’ve visited in Mexico. But then again, everything in Santa Barbara seems warm and inviting.

Although we did a little touring, the main reason for this trip was to visit with family. Here, daughter Samantha poses with eight-month-old Henry. He is rapidly making the transition from infant to little boy.

Photo: Laura Josephs

Living in Mexico has many pleasures. But a major disadvantage is traveling distance and the cost of seeing my family. Grandchildren grow faster than seems possible. My kids, now all forty-something parents, were teenagers only yesterday.

Many of my expat retiree friends complain that they miss their grandchildren. Mexico has become home for us. Moving north of the border seems to be out of the question. But we all long for the families we left behind.

The other night, I was waiting for Laura to finish an evening of readings at a poetry workshop. (Laura is a poet). To fill the time, I took out my little Olympus point-and-shoot camera and played with it, to see how well I could capture night scenes.

The poetry readings were being held in the auditorium on the second floor of Bellas Artes, formerly the cloister of the Sisters of the Immaculate Conception, founded in 1754. Today it is a cultural center, a space for all kinds of artistic actvities: painting, sculpture, music and much more.

I stood outside the auditorium. Looking to the south, I saw the two-story arcade topped by an 18th-century bell tower that dominates the view.

To take this image, I steadied the camera against a stone pillar, clamping it in place with my hand. I set the camera’s self timer to open the shutter two seconds after pressing the shutter release, to minimize vibration induced by my trigger finger. Otherwise, I let the camera do the work, setting the focus and exposure. The image took about four seconds to complete.

The results were better than I expected: a little blurring, whether from the autofocus locking on to the tree leaves instead of the arches, or some vibration from my hands getting through, I can’t tell.

A mural depicting artisans at work decorated the wall immediately behind me. An incandescent lamp provided the only lighting.

The colors in this image seem fairly close to the actual colors of the painting, despite illumination only by tungsten light.

I walked around to the south arcade, positioning myself in the second-floor archway. Resting the Olympus on the wall between the columns supporting the arches, I shot across the courtyard to capture the mural from a distance.

The bright lights have blown out—probably unavoidable in a night shot.

From another vantage point on the second-level gallery, I photographed the dome of Los Monjas—that portion of the convent that remains a working church to this day.

The dome is a landmark, second as a San Miguel icon only to the façade of the Parroquia.

A few days after the night photography session, I returned Los Monjas, wandering inside. I wanted to capture how the dome admits light to what would otherwise be just another gloomy Mexican sanctuary. The architect modeled Los Monjas on the design of the Chapel of Les Invalides in Paris, bequeathing San Miguel one of its loveliest buildings. Domes like this were difficult and expensive to build, but how beautiful they are.

The little Olympus point-and-shoot is not really up to this kind of photography. The interior shot isn’t too bad, but the nighttime images contain a lot of noise.

I see that newer high-end cameras like the nikon D300 take noise-free images at ASA 800 and above. When the technology they employ becomes cheaper in a year or two, it’ll be time for me to upgrade, and hand-held shots in natural light will become as easy as daylight snaps.

Back when I lived in a manicured California suburb, spiffy garbage trucks visited weekly. In the evening, I trundled my two specially designed garbage containers out to the street: one for recyclables, the other for everything else. Early next morning, the truck stopped at my house, its robot arm snaked out, picked up each can, and dumped it in the appropriate compartment. The lone operator never left his cab.

In San Miguel de Allende, we can’t do that. There are many reasons why not, most involving money. But we have one particular circumstance that will probably prevent any sort of automated pickup, ever.

Our streets are too narrow.

They’re almost too narrow to admit the dinky trucks that visit three times a week, the trucks where we stand at the curb, boosting our garbage bags up to the guy riding in the bed, knee deep in uckies.

On Aldama Street, the only way the truck can get by is to run the right-hand wheels up onto the sidewalk. The driver does this using a specially designed ramp: a short length of heavy wooden beam with a bevel cut at one end.

Even using the sidewalk, he faces a tight squeeze. The truck here is clearing the wing mirror of a parked car by about four inches.

Once the driver miscalculated and sheared off my side view mirror. The replacement part cost $300. I didn’t bother to seek compensation from the City. Cars parked on the street sooner or later will get dinged. Just part of the cost of living in a colonial-era neighborhood.

Once, an illegally parked Volkswagen beetle left no room for the garbage truck to get by. The driver rounded up a gang of bystanders who helped him pick the bug up and place it on the sidewalk.

San MIguel’s garbage collectors are skilled and resourceful. They always get through, always get their jobs done, albeit sometimes slowly. If you get stuck behind the truck on Aldama, don’t plan on getting to wherever you’re going soon. Might as well drag out that copy of Swann’s Way you’ve been meaning to read since you were in college, turn off your motor, and read about madeleines. You’ll be late for your appointment, but you’ll get in a little self-improvement.

Sanborns. No apostrophe. In Spanish, apostrophes aren’t used to indicate possessives.

I think of Sanborns as the Denny’s of Mexico. A family restaurant serving nondescript breakfasts, lunches and dinners, it was founded more than a century ago by the Sanborn brothers, two entrepreneurial Californian immigrants. Most of Sanborns’ 150 or so restaurants and cafés are housed in strip-mall-ugly storefronts, but in 1919, their most famous store was opened in the 16th-century Casa de los Azulejos (House of Tiles) in the historical center of Mexico City. It is now a popular tourist attraction.

Having been around for so many years, the restaurant figures into the history of the Mexican revolution. This old photograph purportedly was taken of some of Emiliano Zapata’s soldiers breakfasting at Sanborns.

Excuse me, Señor. Could you pass me the sugar?

Not long ago, Laura and I stopped in here, killing time before a flight out of Mexico City Airport. Our fellow diners that day seemed a darn sight tamer than those Zapatistas. Just a bunch of middle class chilangos enjoying Sunday brunch.

Diners sit under a glass roof in a courtyard three stories high. Antique hanging lamps augment natural sunlight, their beauty only slightly diminished by dangling posters hawking some holiday meal special. Stone columns, dark varnished furniture and a fantasy landscape mural complete the setting.

When it comes to murals, Sanborns has a jewel: a José Clemente Orozco masterpiece called Omnicience. It graces the door leading to the restrooms.

If you are a Mexican woman of a certain age and temperament, you are qualified to wait tables at Sanborns. Men need not apply. The waitresses are unvaryingly courteous, quick, and professional—from their frilly white blouses to their swirling full skirts.

They wear odd wing-like collars, held in place with safety pins. Angels of coffee, maybe.

The menu is unflinchingly Mexican. My breakfast consisted of huevos revueltos (scambled eggs) con frijoles y aguacate. Corn tortillas were included, of course, along with fresh-squeezed orange juice and coffee. The meal cost a little more than a Denny’s Grand Slam breakfast, but delivered more food and better quality.

These pictures from Sanborns’ catering menu give some idea of what many middle-class Mexicans look for at Sanborns. On the left, we have chicharron en salsa verde con habas peladas—fried pork skin in green sauce with shelled broad beans. I myself like the flavor and texture of chicharrones en salsa, but whenever I eat some, I get an uneasy feeling that I’m destroying what’s left of my cardiovascular system.

The candy playing card encrusted thing on the right is a Father’s Day cake, large enough to serve seventy people. That Sanborns would offer such a product in a color catalog speaks to the nature of Mexican families. It’s entirely normal that large extended families frequently get together to celebrate one thing or another, and so might need a festive cake. By contrast, my family is so small and so scattered that we couldn’t get even close to seventy people together for a party.

The Sanborn brothers are long gone. Today, Carlos Slim controls the company that owns the restaurant chain. And Sanborns itself has grown tentacles: it controls the Mexican branches of Tower Records and Sears.

Chain restaurant food is like sit-com television: geared to offend the smallest number of people, avoiding anything that might lend some interest. But to a footsore traveler in an unfamiliar city, the Sanborns logo signals the presence of a familiar and welcome oasis, where there’s scrambled eggs and coffee, and the energy to continue exploring.

Soledad Monastery feeds itself, situated as it is on a large parcel of farmland. Much of the food consumed by the monks and their guests is grown right here.

The principal crop is corn. Many rural Mexicans still subsist on corn they grow themselves. The monks follow their example.

A friend told me how, as a little girl, one of her jobs was to bring a galvanized steel bucket of the family’s corn to the corner store, to have it ground into meal for tortillas.

When I came across this hand-cranked grinder in front of one of the farm buildings, I thought the good fathers of Soledad Monastery manage to avoid even the small expenditure of the miller’s fee.

Later I realized that this tool is used to grind some of the corn into chicken scratch. Scores of chickens live in primitive surroundings; more forest than barnyard.

In the past, any chickens I’ve ever seen lived in coops or ran around in dooryards. But if no one clips their wings, they can and do fly--they’re birds, aren’t they? Many of the monastery’s chickens roost in trees.

Chickens seem exotic when perched in trees; much showier than doves or pigeons. I’ve paid good money to ecotour guides to catch a flash of color high in a tree.

But these are just chickens.

The farmer interplants squash with corn, a New World agricultural technique that predates the arrival of the Spanish by centuries, and one that remains unchanged even in the high-tech Twenty-First Century. I’m sure the monks enjoy winter squash with their dinners, but these are not for them. They have been halved with a machete to feed the chickens.

This adolescent fowl ran across my path, its appearance reminding me of how I looked as an awkward thirteen-year-old nerd.

The farm doesn’t buy carefully sexed chicks in cardboard boxes, chicks bred for high egg production. The flock just reproduces at will, producing all the eggs and chicken soup the monastery needs. I saw birds of all ages: broody hens sitting on chicks, a proud rooster strutting through the flock.

Several pigs occupy pens—future carnitas, perhaps. This little guy peers out through his front door—a gate fashioned from an old bedspring.

I often see bedsprings used as fencing. Not long ago, in a vacant lot near my home, I saw a mattress undergoing conversion into a section of innerspring fencing.

Some things seem so simple in Mexico. Need a fence? Got an old mattress? Just flick your Bic.

Rarely have I seen Mexican farmers convert cornstalks into silage. They shock dried stalks to store them. A lot of nutrients probably get lost that way, but silos are expensive as are machines for chopping stalks, and capital for investing in them is scarce. Cheaper to stack stalks up off the ground so they don’t compost. When animals get hungry enough, they’ll eat them—even if they’re dry and crunchy.

Burros tethered in the cornfield feed on stubble. Their droppings fertilize the field. This farm contains many such small efficiencies. The monastery practices careful conservation of resources.

The harvest is safely in, and it’s not yet time for planting the new crop. During the interlude, the farmer, an employee of the monks, busies himself with roadbuilding. Working alone, he cobbles a half-kilometer-long stretch of driveway. The work will take a long time, but at the monastery, time and cobblestones are resources available in abundance.

Looking out from the cornfield, three crosses form a sort of mini-Calvary, standing on a rise overlooking a copse of huizaches. This is indeed a rural setting, close to nature, close to our roots, and comforting for all that.

Soledad Monastery is a small utopia, supporting itself with little claim on the world’s resources. On this farm, the earth produces food... that feeds men... who spend entire lives praying and meditating. Mule dung enables worship of the dung’s Creator—how perfect is that?

Recently I posted about the Sanctuary at Atotonilco. I’m not Catholic, not associated with any organized religion. But my wanderings seem to take me to religious sites in this most Catholic of countries.

Not far from Atotonilco, a group of Benedictine monks lives in Soledad Monastery, the centerpiece of which is this modern chapel.

The setting is pastoral: grass for feeding the monastery’s mules, corn and squash fields for feeding the monks. Rustic crosses dot the landscape, as do bas-relief carvings. This one depicts San Benito Abad (Saint Benedict, Abbot).

The monks of Soledad (Solitude) Monastery live under vows of silence. Hand-lettered signs advise visitors of proper comportment. This one reads, “A monastery is a house of silence and prayer, of meditation and of peace, a haven where God dwells.” Another says, “Keep silence that you may find God.”

Quiet spaces invite reflection. A palapa roof shades a bench. The monk who fashioned this piece—a natural-edge plank bench with spool back—appears to have been influenced by legendary Japanese furniture designer George Nakashima.

A meditating figure rests upon a stone set in a shady pond, in a posture adopted by both Christians and Buddhists. Everywhere the message of spiritual teachers seems to be the same: Sit, quiet the mind, pray.

Monks spend their days in silent meditation and doing the simple chores needed to run and maintain the monastery. They meet in the chapel seven times daily for services, the first at 4 AM.

During services, vows of silence don’t apply: they chant. They offer a cd of their music. The poster urges, “Listen O son, when the monks pray.”

Outsiders are welcome at services, and are encouraged to sing along. A table in the center aisle is heaped with chant books.

Scores have been laboriously typeset using an old-fashioned typewriter. No catchy rhythms here, no leaping intervals (except maybe for that unseemly fourth between glorioso and Dios). This music is intended to calm rather than to inspire. To me it sounds like Gregorian chant, except more subdued.

The words are in Spanish, not Latin, perhaps for the benefit of villagers who attend services.

Santa Escolastica Convent shares the monastery grounds. A small, nondescript building houses a few elderly women who take occasional meals with the brothers but otherwise keep to themselves.

During my visits, the nuns were more in evidence than the monks. I saw none of the latter outside of services. But the nuns bustle about industriously in their garden, raking, weeding, pruning, planting. Their makeshift greenhouse—sheltering starts in yoghurt containers—hints at slightly fuller lives.

My heart resonates with gardeners.

From time to time, friends of mine come here on retreat. The monks welcome them, housing them in simple rooms like the ones in this building. Guests eat in common with the fathers; they pray and meditate, attending services if they want to. They take long walks through the countryside, enjoying warm sun and the profound quiet.

My friends sometimes say they’re renewed and re-energized after a weekend or a week spent with Los Padres del Monasterio de la Nuestra Señora de la Soledad. Some undergo profound changes in outlook and attitude.

I can appreciate why some people pause, putting everyday life on hold to contemplate redirection onto new paths.

The monks are another matter. Their retreats are permanent. I imagine that for them each year is much like the last. Nothing ever changes. I find the idea little frightening.

Walking down Orizaba in Colonia San Antonio, I noticed a restaurant I hadn’t seen before. It was closed, but I made a note to check in again. I’m always looking for someplace new to eat in San Miguel de Allende. This place intrigued me because of its name.

My translation: “Good Eats.”

Looking at the sunrise through the 24th-story window of my doctor’s office, I see a forest of cranes. Houston is building apace, an economic powerhouse defying economic gravity the way its skyscrapers defy the Newtonian kind. Recession? What recession?

Someone is investing in Houston’s future. In the financial centers, I can see little trace of the Wall Street crash. Houses in River Oaks remain elegant and exquisitely maintained. The Galleria is jammed, the parking valets hopping.

There’s money here. I imagine bankers hunched over piles of mortgages, tucked away in their JPMorgan Chase fortress, their elegant building near the historic center.

Financiers of probity have left marks in Houston. The motto on the State National Building reads,”FRVGALITY IS THE MOTHER OF THE VIRTVES.” Indeed. The kind of sentiment that breeds confidence. Trustworthy hands guide Houston’s economics.

More signs of growth—the old part of town is undergoing a renaissance. Marvelous historic buildings are being renovated, finding new life as restaurants, cafés, and professional offices. Dr. M. M. Henderson, Dentist appears to be the first tenant in this spruced-up space, his 1930s-style sign stenciled on the window.

Look closer, though, and you see cracks beginning to appear. Dr. Henderson won’t be practicing here after all. Looks like the bank—JPMorgan Chase perhaps—has repossessed the place, and they’re hoping to unload it fast.

I saw these things all over town: boarded up storefronts, closed restaurants, homeless hordes riding the MetroRail without paying fares—taking small revenge against financiers who awarded themselves record bonuses while their companies tanked.

I wonder whose IRA contains the securitized loan on Dr. Henderson’s building? Is 1014 Prairie Street one of mine?

It was all done on easy credit. For a while, everyone was tapping their home equity, wearing out their plastic, flipping retirement condos in Arizona.

Not for a minute am I swayed by arguments that no one saw the crash coming. Get real: we all saw it coming. But so many were playing the game, hoping to get off the speeding train just before it hit that sharp, unbanked curve.

Those whose motto should have been “Frvgality is the mother of the virtves” busied themselves mixing toxic loans in with the good ones until no one knew what they were getting.

Stewart Parnell, owner of Peanut Corp. of America, mixed salmonella infected peanuts into his shipments. Stewart declined a request by Congressman Greg Walden of Oregon to eat some of his company's own product. Good move, Stew. And you can bet executives at JPMorgan Chase would decline to take their bonuses in securitized bundled loans if someone asked them to.

The downtown is beginning to look careworn. The smaller developments are feeling the crunch first. But southward along Fannin and Main Streets, high rises still sprout up at a blistering pace. Are they real? Is there actual money behind them, or some kind of tricky derivative? When they’re finished, will they fill up with businesses? Would you bet your IRA on it?

This is what resort development looks like in Tulum.

I hardly can imagine less environmental impact in a resort area. A few palapa roofs peek through the jungle, that’s all.

How is this possible? How did such a desirable stretch of Caribbean coastline avoid construction of mega resorts?

This abandoned power tower tells the tale. Built some 20-30 years ago, it was intended to carry high tension lines along the coastline. But although the towers were built, the lines were never strung. Local residents talk about how disagreements between the government, developers and drug kingpins caused the project to be abandoned. True or not, failure to run power down the coast has protected the area south of Tulum from the ravages of resort builders.

Residents and visitors alike learn to live with limited power. Our host at Jade, Juan, installed this wind generator to provide a small amount of electricity. He uses it to power a handful of extremely low wattage bulbs strung along pathways and inside palapas. We appreciated being able to recharge our laptop computers and cellphones. If you look closely at the first image above, you can just make out three other wind generators erected by Juan’s neighbors.

Wind and solar power often isn’t enough for a hotel. Larger places installed diesel generators in order to provide their guests with the bright lights of the city. Not as green as the alternatives, the cost of running them nevertheless severely limits the amount of power consumed by visitors. Notice how this generator is backed up with a bank of batteries, so it doesn’t have to run continuously. Note also the row of worn-out batteries on the floor to the right. They’re highly toxic and will require careful recycling.

The beach south of Tulum lacks other utilities, like water mains. Most water is trucked in using tankers. Visitors have to learn to conserve.

Sewage is handled similarly. “Honey wagons” are a common sight along the beach road, plying their unpleasant trade, pumping out holding tanks.

Residents embrace green living enthusiastically. Some places compost organic refuse. Handmade signs warn motorists to avoid running over the crabs that for reasons known only to themselves, insist on scuttling across the road.

Not everyone understands how to properly protect the environment. These men are raking up (unsightly) kelp that washed up onto the beach. That wrack provides shelter and food for tiny creatures that are integral parts of the plant and animal community.

People who live here tell us their fear that someday, CFE (the electric company) will succeed in putting the South coast on the grid. They know that if this happens, developers will be right behind. Land prices will skyrocket, owners will sell out, speculators will snap up miles of beach front, and this area will become another Cancún.

No matter how lightly we tread, Laura and I are damaging this fragile place. Multiply our impact by the thousands of visitors who come here, and it’s clear that this section of coast is on its way to becoming the sterile strand that we see along the pacific Ocean in Southern California—even if the power lines don’t come.

Better see it while it lasts...

If you visit Tulum, there are some exceptional restaurants, like El Tábano! (The Horse Fly). Operated by a young couple who settled here looking for an alternative lifestyle, the place manages to be informal, artistic and sophisticated all at the same time.

The menu at El Tábano! more than compensates for its location on the wrong side of the road—the side away from the beach. Dishes that change from day to day are posted on the chalkboard beside a Dali-esque clock. Laura and I shared the cold tomato and papaya soup. She tried the vegetable lasagna made with tortillas instead of pasta; I enjoyed the mero (grouper) stuffed with tangerine segments. To drink, we were given fresh pineapple and pear juice blended with fresh ginger.

Food doesn’t get much more creative than that.

El Tábano! has the same laid-back, friendly feel of most places along the Tulum coast. Owner Laura engaged us in conversation during much of our meal, while tending her eighteen-month-old son. A homey touch: the Veracruzana cook, working in her open air kitchen, performed frequent taste tests of her sauces by dripping her ladle into her palm and licking it—her palm, that is.

A couple of other places worth noting: OM Tulum Hotel Cabanas and Beach Club contains a fine restaurant, where I consumed a delicious Greek octopus salad and Laura raved about her crab taquitos. Owned by a son of Laura’s San Miguel friend, Beatriz, Om is geared more toward young party-goers, but all is serene during lunchtime and the deck right on the beach makes a spectacular setting for some excellent dining.

Finally, Posada Margherita, another hotel, offers a superb Italian restaurant. This place is definitely not your typical red-’n’-dead Italian restaurant. You can’t get pizza here, either. You don’t even get a menu.

On arrival, we were seated in a lounge area and served a huge tray of antipasti (Niçoise olives, pistachio nuts, slices of Parmigiano Reggiano and three kinds of focaccia), while the restaurant owner sat with us to discuss what we might consider for our dinners. Laura chose homemade pasta in shrimp sauce. When I say homemade, I mean the owner asked the kitchen to begin mixing the flour and water and rolling out the pasta dough as soon as she had ordered.

I ordered the unbelievably fresh huachinango (red snapper) poached in sea water, served in a sauce of large tomato chunks and capers. My serving was large enough for two, but I ate it all anyway, following it with the creamiest tiramisu I’d ever tasted.

These restaurants are a little on the expensive side, but they’re worth every peso. For us, they took our beach vacation into the realm of the exquisite.

Visitors to Tulum do not get the option of staying in a high rise hotel: there aren’t any. But if you want to live in a palapa—well—there’s lots of those. We’re staying at Jade (reminder to gringos—that’s pronounced HAH-day), where we sleep under palm thatch roofs. What could be more romantic?

Our room is tucked under the highest roof visible in this photo, with an open deck affording sweeping views of the ocean.

Jade offers just seven rooms. We feel less like customers, more like personal friends of the owners, Juan and Marta. Between outings, we stop in the kitchen when one or the other is working. There, we’re offered a coffee or a slice of cake, and conversation with two interesting and accomplished people.

Marta is a graphic designer educated at Monterrey Tech. Juan is a professional diver. Some of his old gear is on display in one of the common areas.

Built of natural materials, our room has an organic feel. Rough-hewn floorboards, posts made from peeled poles, and a thick layer of palm thatch to keep out rain make a unique space. Soft breezes blow into the seaward-facing windows and out the ones that overlook the jungle.

I’ve always thought palapa builders cut palm thatch from nearby jungle as needed, and perhaps in some places, they still do. But the uniformity of the fronds from which our roof is formed suggest that thatch is a standardized building material, sold perhaps by the square meter.

And so it is. Down the beach, we saw bundles awaiting incorporation into a roof. This thatch is of some other natural material than palm. (Juan’s dog, Chile, accompanies us on our beach walks. Here, he inspects the bundles.)

Palapa construction is rudimentary by McMansion standards. A tinaco—a water tank—is precariously stowed in the peak of our roof. Rooftop tinacos are common fixtures in San Miguel de Allende. But seeing one resting on rafters, held in place with ropes, makes me a little nervous. All of the plumbing in our room is exposed. The nature of thatch prohibits hiding them inside the walls.

Most everything in our place hangs from rafters, like this chair that Laura is relaxing in. Canvas bags stuffed between rafters serve as our wardrobe. Windows consist of plastic sheeting tacked to poles; we drag them open or closed as needed.

People accustomed to wall-to-wall carpeting and mirrored bathrooms might not be comfortable in a room like ours. In some ways, life in a palapa is more like camping out than staying in a hotel. But we like the ocean breezes, the sound of surf, the faint sway and creaking of our room, the sound of geckos chittering somewhere in the fronds that shelter us.

Stress from preparing tax returns, moving house for the fifth time in twelve months, and way too many medical visits to Houston took its toll on us. For relief, Laura and I took a short trip to Mexico’s Caribbean coast, hoping sun, sand, and surf would soak the tension away.

We drove south on the road from Cancún, passing all the big resorts springing up along the highway, avoiding the rampant growth at Playa del Carmen. We reached the last real town on the Quintana Roo coast, Tulum. There, where the coast highway turns inland, we took a seaward fork through the jungle, hugging the shore, to within a couple of kilometers from where the pavement gives out. The red arrow marks our destination.

The main draw for visitors to Tulum—mainly day trippers from Cancún and Playa del Carmen—is a small Mayan ruin perched on a bluff overlooking the sea. It’s choked with tour buses and the crowds they brought. We didn’t go there.

We were looking instead for solitude and relaxation, and that’s what we found.

The beach this far south is remarkably uncrowded. Imagine—undeveloped Caribbean coast! We walked for hours, encountering but a handful of other beach goers.

No mega resorts spoil views or blare music. What lodgings are here tend to be modest. This small palapa house exemplifies the best of the road south of Tulum.

Nature is our architect. In Cancún, a bent palm tree might be removed as unsightly, perhaps replaced by a perfect tree torn out of the jungle. Here, we are permitted to marvel at the tenacity of growing things.

Crews of janitors remove unsightly driftwood that washes onto the beach at Akumal. South of Tulum, it’s left in place, allowing us to admire the texture of a mollusk-encrusted log.

We sometimes found nature’s artistry incorporated into human art; here, a pair of palm tree roots that had grown together. Someone had cut away the trunks and inverted them. They resemble prehistoric dolphins.

Farther on, we found a post decorated with some of the sea fans that regularly wash onto the beach. Years ago, I saw impromptu artwork incorporating objects from nature when as a young man I prowled the Mendocino Coast in Northern California. The Tulum coastline brings back the playful feeling of that time.

Some visitors prefer active pastimes. A kiteboarding school satisfies their needs.

Absent from the menu of offered activities: party boats, parasailers, jet skis, banana boat rides. There are no noisy motors to interfere with the sound of breaking surf.

At one time, it was necessary to reserve certain portions of the beach for topless sunbathing—pretty much frowned on in conservative Mexico.

No longer. We’re in clothing-optional country today. We could walk to a place where we were not in front of someone’s palapa hotel, shuck our swimsuits, and splash in the surf unencumbered by confining fabric.

This place is like Eden: plenty of jungle, sand, and water, It’s easy to find a mile or so for your own exclusive use. A warm place, a nurturing place, where with gentle breezes playing on our skins, we leave behind the cares of everyday life.

A couple of posts ago I mentioned some Mexicans’ propensity for decorating vehicles with religious images. Shortly after writing, I happened upon this motorcycle.

Displayed on the windscreen: a pair of images that serves both as a demonstration of faith—and an embodiment of an expletive I used when I was a young and irreverent smartass.

I guess I still am. A smartass, that is.

Out on the Calzada de la Estación—the Train Station Road—there hangs a sign advertising the best roast chicken in San Miguel de Allende.

This is an example of those modest businesses that give Mexico much of its character; the kind of humble place I love. Housed in a sturdy wooden shack, it squats next to a weed filled vacant lot. In a nod to modernity, a quasi-professionally designed banner has been strung across the front. It’s ugly, but these things are cheap—important in a low-volume business.

A boy sits in front of the building, awaiting infrequent customers.

The yellow cinderblock structure is a fire pit. Inside, mesquite coals line a trench, giving off intense heat. Ribs and flattened chickens impaled on wooden stakes cook slowly, taking on beautiful color and smokey flavor. The aroma is enticing.

This truly is slow food, expertly prepared. The method is ancient. The first ever cooked food probably was roasted on sticks over an open fire much like this. Ovens, cast-iron pots, and Teflon sauté pans came much later.

The place has no name, called only by what it serves: Pollo al Pastor—Shepherd’s Chicken.

We look out the main door of the Santuario de Atotonilco, past a 250-year-old threshold worn down by generations of feet. The wooden plank is deeply scalloped between the harder knots, signalling great age.

Outside, an old woman leans against a pillar. She’s begging. She sits in the spot where she laid her claim long ago. Her spot. Squatter’s rights. No one challenges her right to it.

To the right of the Santuario door, a welcoming entrance leads to a gift shop and restaurant run by nuns from the local convent—a good place for a light lunch.

Paul (El Guapo) Latoures places our snack order with one of the sisters: carrot and potato taquitos and big glasses of fresh squeezed orange juice. Lunch for two: 80 pesos.

Paul addresses the nun as Madre, not Sister.

If 80 pesos is too expensive, a woman across the street will make you a gordita for ten. This morning, as every morning, she gathers fallen branches for her fire. She pats out gorditas by hand and cooks them on her simple comal—a circular piece of sheet metal.

The young man in a wheelchair is another Atotonilco fixture. His profound developmental disablement causes me to look away, unable to face a life so cruel. His mother wheels him out in front of the Santuario every day. She supports herself and her son on donations from passers-by.

The boy’s posture never changes. The abonizing arch in his back appears to be permanent. He lies in his chair, looking at the sky, making sudden inhuman cries.

Hundreds of thousands of perigrinos—pilgrims—visit Atotonilco every year. They arrive in smokey old chartered buses or in rusty pickup trucks. Some come on foot, walking for days to get here. They sleep in dormitories. They buy religious souvenirs from the vendors who have sprung up to serve them.

For sale here: icons, statuettes, printed prayers, sketches of Christ and Our Lady of Guadalupe. A vendor sits patiently behind hundreds of rosaries.

Among the rosaries hang flails. Pilgrims flagellate themselves. Some wear hair shirts. Others tie prickly pear pads to their chests so cactus spines will score their flesh. Still others crawl the last few miles to the Santurario on their knees.

These flails look too festive to be used for mortification of the flesh. Do pilgrims actually buy and use them? Or are they purchased by tourists in search of gruesome souvenirs?

Atotonilco is a center of great faith, and to my naïve Protestant outlook, a chilling morbidity. A decal on the door of an employee’s truck bears an image of Christ in agony; not the pleasant figure recalled from my childhood Sunday school. I’m unable to grasp the level of devotion that would motivate someone to display a face like this one on his car. I don’t understand a person submitting to real, bloody scourgings as does the man who plays Christ on Good Friday here. I can’t comprehend how parents can hold wailing, terrified toddlers aloft to witness the young man being whipped that day.

Yet I find the people who worship here to be kind, friendly, common people. Not a hint of fanaticism or psychosis on their faces. Gentle people. People generous with neighbors and strangers alike, comfortable with God.

They come here and make their devotions. Then they wander across the street to a stall to buy a naranjada. They sit in the sun, enjoying their drinks.

Life in Atotonilco is slow and peaceful. I don’t see hateful or angry people here: no impatient drivers, no pouting teenagers.

How can a place so focused on pain and suffering exude such tranquility? Does the one cause the other? Or is Atotonilco just another sleepy Mexican town, albeit one that somehow manages to absorb the torments of penitents?

Atotonilco (the village) is dominated by a church, El Santuario de Atotonilco, one of the more extraordinary places in Mexico. In 1740, Father Luis Felipe Neri de Alfaro undertook to build it: a monument to the life of Christ.

As an example of colonial architecture, the exterior of the Church of Jesus the Nazarene, as it is sometimes called, isn’t significant. It’s what’s inside that counts.

The walls are covered with incredible murals created by a local painter, Miguel Antonio Martínez Pocasangre—like this one, visible above the main altar.

The church contains more art than one could imagine. This chapel is hung with gilt frames holding exquisite glass paintings of scenes from the life of Christ. The images focus on violence, blood and pain.

Guanajuato woodcarvers contributed many sculptures, including this unidentified figure with hands outstretched in benediction.

The most famous of Atotonlico’s treasured carvings is called El Señor de la Columna, a tortured depiction of scourged Christ.

Every year at the beginning of Holy Week, Our Lord of the Column is carried in a torchlit procession from its niche at Atotonilco to San Miguel de Allende, where it remains until after Easter.

Over the years, El Santuario de Atotonilco fell into neglect. Parts of the edifice crumbled, the roof developed leaks, and frescoes deteriorated. Portions of this ceiling have become completely obliterated.

Some murals have become so washed out that their subjects are now lost.

In 1996, funds were raised for conservation and restoration. Parts of the church were repaired and some of the frescoes renovated. But the work was underfunded and progressed slowly.

Last year, UNESCO recognized El Santuario de Atotonilco as a World Heritage Site, and everything changed. Suddenly the sanctuary has become filled with scaffolds bearing restoration experts. Crumbling stonework is being patched and plastered. White-suited conservationists painstakingly repair murals.

The ceiling shown below was restored during the 1986 effort. The transformation is astounding. Subject matter retains its original grimness, but bright color dispels some of the gloom.

Tourists have begun arriving. No longer can I sit in one of the old pews on a Tuesday morning, the sole occupant of this place. Milling crowds from Mexico City and San Luis Potosi wield cameras, ignoring signs asking them not to use flashes.

Restoration of the exterior awaits. The head of the Virgin here has eroded away completely. But given UNESCO recognition, funding for such work at last is assured.

Atotonilco is being saved in the nick of time. I don’t think it would have lasted another ten years without intervention.

Its salvation is a blessing, but it may also be a curse. The sanctuary will be preserved for generations of pilgrims and visitors, but it is being transformed into a tourist destination. The paintings have been saved, but I’m afraid the sleepy country church placidly baking in the sun may be lost.

Near San Miguel de Allende, in the sleepy little community of Atotonilco, a sign on a wall advertises land for sale.

The huge lot is covered with picturesque ruins. Broken arches reach skyward, hope and doom carried in the same stones.

Stone ruins are prized in faux colonial architecture. Mexican hotels sometimes feature newly built arches, artfully truncated, phony as those fake Tara columns that adorn McMansions.

These, though, are the real thing. They draw the eye of the passer-by, redolent of sunny decay as a Frederick Catherwood lithograph.

A few arched ceilings remain, opportunistic plants growing on top. Roots, some of Nature’s most powerful stoneworking tools, do their slow, inexorable work. In a year—or in a decade—this roof will fall.

Iconic cacti perch on stone walls. Sight of one says “Mexico” to me, perhaps more than any other image.

The water tank is a more recent ruin, but it too is abandoned and will fall eventually. The shape looks alien—like a landing machine of the Pod People.

For all the crumbling stonework, this land is desirable because it possesses the sine qua non of real estate: location. The adjacent building, seen here behind your (apparently narcoleptic) correspondent, is the Santuario de Atotonilco, an extraordinary church, the objective of thousands of pilgrims, an especially holy place.

Photo: Paul (El Guapo) Latoures. (Next time, Paul, take an insurance shot.)

Last year, Atotonilco was added to the roster of UNESCO World Heritage Sites. That bodes well for real estate values in these parts.

Reader Nancy, in a comment to the previous post, asks: “What brought you [to Salvatierra]?”

Good question. I assume she means, “What was I thinking?”

I read somewhere that Salvatierra was considered to be the “other” colonial city of the State of Guanajuato, and having not visited there, I was curious. How come everyone knows about Dolores Hidalgo and San Miguel de Allende and Guanajuato, but nothing about Salvatierra? What could be wrong with the place?

Moreover I wanted to assess for myself, the mayor’s assertion that Salvatierra would be an ideal city to which the Sanmiguelada could be relocated. As far as I’m concerned, His Honor is welcome to an invasion of 100,000 drunk kids. But I wanted to visit the locale where there’d be mobs puking, eliminating and fornicating—right in the Plaza las Armas.

Another reason I wanted to explore was because of something I saw when I first drove through town a couple of years ago, while taking an alternative route between San Miguel and Michoacán. The highway offered little to attract me, but one building did stand out: This temple.

At the time, I couldn’t investigate. But over the following weeks, I wasn’t able to get the place out of my mind. I don’t know why it made such an impression on me. It’s not beautiful. The apple green tiled dome is nice, but the multicolored geometrical figures covering the exterior are not. I imagine the architect was someone’s unemployed nephew.

Flanking the arched door are six concrete angels. Their classical forms seem out of step with the rest of the building.

Absence of pews suggest this is a temple, not a working church. The littered floor indicates infrequent occupancy. On the wall hang two images of the Virgin of Guadalupe. A painted statue of a biblical figure carrying a child rests on a simple altar. But there’s no crucifix—an odd omission in a country where such hang in cantinas.

The domed ceiling though—it is a marvel: a starry night with Saturn in near-conjunction with a textured moon. Dim outlines of what may be the Milky Way lend a convincing sky-ness to the image; abstraction enhancing reality.

Most folk art draws charm from fertile imaginations unfettered by convention, and from forms repeatedly worked until they become “right.” This temple is almost a work of folk art; surprising, sometimes jarring. Its design is collaborative and unexpected. But it’s a one-off, unpracticed. The dome, inside and out, works. The rest doesn’t.

The place doesn’t warrant a special trip to investigate. But as a stop on the way to someplace else, it yielded a small surprise.

Maybe, Nancy, the possibility of small surprises is what brings me to out-of-the-way places.

To get to Salvatierra from San Miguel de Allende, drive about 75 kilometers south through Celaya. You’ll run right into it. Couldn’t be simpler, except maybe for the part where you get lost in Celaya. If you’re planning a trip to Michoacán or Pátzcuaro, you could stop off for an hour or two on your way.

Salvatierra is a great walking town. Vehicular traffic is light and there’s a lot to see within walking distance from the Plaza las Armas.

The city has any number of venerable churches. This one, the Templo y Convento de San Buenaventura, is also known as the Templo de San Francisco, and is as fine an example of Eighteenth-Century church architecture as you could want to see. A visitor could spend an entire weekend just investigating all the colonial churches in town.

The low wall in front of the San Francisco Temple guards an old irrigation canal named Gugorrones. Maybe its waters, drawn from the Rio Lerma, give the city its green leafy ambiance.

Salvatierra boasts a sweet little jail smack in the historical center. The guard looks fierce but he’s friendly—you can talk to him.

Through double doors, we see a young mother and her daughter speaking with the jailer through a barred window. Maybe dad drank a little too much pulque last night; got into a fight. Mom’s responsibility to see he’s properly fed, and to maintain his affairs in the outside world until he’s released.

The prisoner’s incarceration is nothing to be ashamed of. His friends may well see it as an achievement, a reaffirmation of his machismo.

Attractive façades flank downtown streets. Why do they seem so welcoming? Unlike San MIguel de Allende’s, the walls of Salvatierra’s buildings are pierced by many large windows, presenting an open, friendly aspect.

A closer look at the first building reveals what I think of as “Happy Tooth” dentist advertising. Images like Dra. Sandra J. Vera’s are common in Mexico. They’re of a piece with “Happy Chicken” pollorias and “Happy Pig” carnitas joints. Once you catch on to the idiom, you’ll see “Happy Teeth” everywhere.

The Plaza las Armas is ringed with businesses shaded by arched galleries. Prosperity not having caught up with Salvatierra, the arcades house modest businesses—here the offices of Dr. Aguirre, and Sr. Rangel, CPA, and what we used to call a Turkish Bath. Give the place another decade, these will be displaced by chi-chi restaurants and art galleries.

Nearby, a decidedly non-chi-chi eatery—Neveria Susana—offers seating for Paul (El Guapo) Latoures.

Susana’s schtick is ice cream, but she’ll serve you a serviceable lunch for not much money. Her breaded pork cutlet sandwich costs 20 pesos—about $1.40 as of this writing.

Salvatierra is kept spotless by squads of street sweepers. In recent years, many Mexican cities have tackled litter. Towns once abysmally dirty have become pleasant places to walk, views unmarred by styrofoam cups and beer bottles.

The street sweeper is passing in front of the Hotel Isabel. I like the feel of this inn, with its courtyard restaurant sheltered by a spectacular stained glass roof. I can’t recall the prices, but I do remember thinking any US traveler would rank this place as inexpensive. One word of warning, though. The Hotel Isabel hosts wedding receptions and family reunions. You will not want to stay here when one of those is happening unless you are a party animal. Incredibly loud music into the wee hours will eliminate any chance of sleeping, so check carefully.

This is a real Mexican town, where real Mexicans live typical lives. Nobody here will try to sell you a timeshare. You won’t find two-for-one margaritas. You’ll run into few beggars, if any, since Mexican nationals aren’t as likely to hand out a few coins as gringos.

But it’s a place full of history and flavor and photo ops for any traveller willing to venture off the beaten track, well worth the modest effort needed to visit.

Tourists trek through our colonial towns: Guanajuato, Dolores Hidalgo, San Miguel de Allende, Querétaro. All were founded within 60 years of Columbus reaching the New World—truly ancient and historical places. Overlooked on the tourist circuit—at least among Norteamericanos—is Salvatierra, a significant municipality of more than 100,000 inhabitants. Founded in 1664, it solidly qualifies as a colonial city, although San Miguel and the others started a century earlier. But none of those became significant until the mid-17th century, so all of their significant historical buildings date from the same epoch as Salvatierra’s. Moreover, the latter was the first municipality in the State of Guanajuato to be officially recognized as a city. In its heyday, it was a big deal.

Salvatierra came to my attention when the government of San Miguel de Allende decided to discontinue the Sanmiguelada, the annual running of the bulls that had become uncontrollably disruptive and dangerous. Soon afterward, the President of Salvatierra announced his intention to host the event. Thankfully for his peaceful constituency, that intention went unfulfilled.

Salvatierra is one of the most comfortable cities in Mexico, full of friendly people and pleasant spaces. At its center lies a gorgeous leafy plaza, the largest in the State of Guanajuato. The view above looks across the Plaza las Armas toward the Santuario Diocesano de Nuestra Señora de la Luz, commonly known as the Parroquia.

Centuries-old trees shade the entire plaza, their canopies severely sheared into geometric shapes in the manner of most Mexican plaza trees. They shelter broad walks that become intimate spaces under their branches.

The large plaza has space for many different activities. On weekends, an entrepreneur operates a homemade tram drawn by a riding lawn mower. It’s always full of kids.

Strangely absent: the high chairs of shoeshine vendors. Instead, those so employed have to carry a bucket and stool to pursue their trade. Personally, I like the tall iron chairs in other plazas, but they do tend to create little fiefdoms. Perhaps their absence here levels the playing field for all who make their livings this way.

On the day I visited, some organization had organized art classes for youngsters, with tables, easels, stools and instructors. The plaza, absent milling hordes of tourists often encountered in other towns, demonstrates the potential of a good public space—a place where residents can engage in quiet activities and gentle enjoyment of their city.

No Mexican plaza is complete without one or more ice cream vendors. The Lopez family fills the bill in Salvatierra, with the perfect model of a low-impact shop.

Their enterprise consists of no more than an awning and a bunch of ice cream containers on small tables. The whole thing gets taken down every night and carted away in the back of a pickup truck.

Typically, Mexican park vendors serve straight from the cream cans they made the ice cream in. Small batches ensure freshness and a bewildering variety of flavors: camote, corn, tequila. Cream cans remain nestled wooden tubs filled with salted ice and insulated with burlap or other coarse fabric. That way the ice cream remains frozen throughout the length of a hot day.

You don’t need freezers, electricity, counters or chairs to operate an ice cream shop in Mexico. The carbon footprint of the Familia Lopez operation is negligible.

Plazas are good for romance. Most homes here are small and full of relatives, so you can’t really get together with your sweetie in one. That’s why you see so many couples on benches, limbs intertwined, intensely chaste, exquisitely romantic. I saw dozens in the Plaza las Armas.

Famous places like San Miguel de Allende attract anxious throngs bent on absorbing everything in one short visit. An excessive number of businesses prey on them, vigorously competing for tourist dollars. The atmosphere often seems nervous, sometimes bordering on hysterical. So Salvatierra is a remarkable discovery: a city of significant historical and cultural interest, somehow retaining a laid-back, small-town feel. I’ve never felt warmer or more at ease in any Mexican town.

I didn’t see a single American or European here.

For me, 2008 began in Argentina and ended in India, the realization of a lifelong dream of traveling, traveling, traveling. I probably won’t live long enough to completely satisfy my curiosity about the fantastic world we all share, but I hope that when the last trip ends, it’ll be in a village with the Hmong or a locomotive factory in Mongolia. Someplace interesting.

Between visiting South America and Asia, I visited lots (and yet not enough) of Mexico: Tepoztlán and Manzanillo for example. A holy place and a hedonistic one. I learned to ride Mexico’s wonderful long-distances buses, thereby avoiding tolls, topes, and transitos. I learned to live out of a backpack again. It weighs about thirty pounds—more than half of that in cameras and laptop.

I’ll be all over Mexico in 2009, riding buses and taking taxis and wondering why I’m keeping up the insurance on the Ford Explorer that today is just sitting in the carport depreciating. I’ll wash out underwear and socks in the lavatory, using hotel shampoo when it’s available. (I don’t really have any other use for shampoo.) I’ll stay in grubby hotels because they’re where you meet people. I’ll eat disgusting things. I can hardly wait.

Last year held some endings. I reported earlier that Jean and I divorced. My heart attack recovery dog—Rosie the Boston Terrier—stayed with Jean. Chiapas, my beloved Amazon yellow head parrot flew off one day to a new life. I hope he found the girlfriend I knew he wanted. Chiapas loved me; he clearly loved freedom more. I’ll never keep a caged bird again.

I moved into a new house, one overlooking San Miguel de Allende, where on a clear day I watch early morning balloons ascend over Presa Allende.

I took up playing guitar and singing folk and country songs after an interruption of thirty years, in the process learning not all endings have to be permanent.

Photo: Paul “El Guapo” Latoures

Henry Lockwood, my first grandson arrived at midyear.

Photo: Laura Josephs

So now I have four grandchildren: Shayla, Kiely, Cassie and Henry, and a new year’s resolution to visit them more often. I hooked up with them this Thanksgiving at Lone Pine, a small town in the Owens Valley of Eastern California, sandwiched between Mount Whitney and Death Valley. Pictured below are two granddaughters, Kiely and Cassie.

Photo: Laura Josephs

Good health, the pleasure of writing stuff for you to read, the love of children and grandchildren, music I once again make myself, travel on three continents—I could have not asked for more gifts from this past year. But 2008 had one more very special one. Laura came into my life this year. I couldn’t be happier.

She and I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas visiting first my family and then hers. So I guess that means our relationship is officially serious. This photo was taken at the Wood family Thanksgiving. We had driven to 9,000’ on the Whitney Portal Road, past the ROAD CLOSED sign, to a point where the first snowfall of the season blocked further ascent.

Laura and I each have houses that overlook San Miguel. Together we watch the year-end sunset over the city, signaling the end of one era and the beginning of a new one.

To all of you who have shown the kindness, patience, and interest to read these posts, thank you for your support. I offer you my wishes that the new year will be for you as wonderful as the last one was for me.