It's all about money. In Mexico, there ain't much, and what there is, is controlled by about a dozen families. Only recently have ordinary Mexicans earned enough to be able to buy appliances. Like washing machines. But they can't afford to pay very much, which dictates certain design constraints.



Lupita here (who could cut back on the tortillas if you ask me) is walking away from a couple of washing machines. They look like the ones my mother used in the '40s, except they don't have wringers (the proverbial ones that tits get caught in). These are portable washers, that hook up to your sink. The controls are pure simplicity: Wash hard, wash gentle. Rinse. Drain. Start, stop. That's it.

They cost less than a hundred bucks.

Being portable, they have wheels, but the manufacturer cheaped out. Given that typical floors are unevenly tiled, the dinky wheels on these babies won't roll more than a couple of feet before someone is gonna have to lift the washer. Fortunately, it doesn't weigh much. They skimped on the steel, too.

An important incentive to buy a portable washer is to avoid installation costs. Stone, concrete and brick walls make running utility lines difficult. How it's done is a laborer spends a week with a hammer and chisel, gouging out channels for pipes, drains and wiring. Plumbers and electricians then do their thing, after which someone plasters over the mess and repaints the wall.

All of this costs much less here than in the U. S. But again, money is tight. And just buying the damn washer is asking a lot. After all, hasn't your wife been doing just fine with that galvanized washtub? Maybe she'd settle for a new washboard...

You didn't see any dryers in the photo. That's 'cause there aren't any. Nobody can afford the gas or electricity to run one, and besides, drying clothes is what the roof is for. My neighbors, the Rodriguez sisters, live in a million-dollar house. They hang their laundry on the roof. No sense wasting money.

Meanwhile, Ana Maria uses our dryer all day long. Pure luxury. It's hard to get her out of the laundry room.

Oops.

Somehow I managed to publish these pictures without writing commentary. So I'm reposting them with some explanation of what they're all about.

A Senior Moment. Some of you will understand.

—§—

All day long people walk through San Miguel de Allende selling stuff. Theirs are not lucrative careers. This woman makes and sells dolls. Her entire enterprise—manufacturing, distribution, advertising, selling and finance—operates right here on the street.



She is a fixture; I see her almost every day. She's not happy that I am taking her picture. Her right hand is descending, at the tail end of a "go away" gesture. Beat it, jack.

She is not wearing shoes because she doesn't have any.

This next woman is selling nopales (prickly pear cactus pads) and chamomile. Or begging. Hard to tell which. She has perfected the pitiful look that tears at the hearts of tourists, particularly gringos, who have no actual need for nopales. And so they give her a few pesos and she returns home at the end of the day with most of her inventory intact.



This man is selling raw, warm-from-the-cow milk, door-to-door. The cup in his right hand is a standard measure used by all the milk vendors in town. Some sellers make their rounds in pickup trucks carrying several large cans of milk. This guy doesn't have a truck, but at least he has shoes.



Next we have the peanut vendor—one of my favorite street characters. His two heavy pails are suspended from a wonderfully worn and curved shoulder pole. As he walks, he cries out in a penetrating voice, "¡Elotes! ¡Cacahuates!" (Corn! Peanuts!)

The corn is the doughy, starchy stuff that Mexicans prefer, mixed with mayonnaise, lime juice and chile powder. The peanuts have been boiled in their shells and are mushy: They're what we call "goobers" in the South. He also sells boiled green garbanzo beans in their spiny pods. Think Mexican edamame.

He passes by my house regular as clockwork every afternoon. When I hear him calling "Caca-WAAAAH-tes," I know it is time to get up from my siesta. Or not.



The man below sells drinks: water mixed with flavored syrup. No carbonation. No ice. I suppose its main attraction is its low price.

The vehicle he is using is a heavy-duty tricycle, but one built sort of in reverse: two wheels in front and one in back. It's a common transport in Mexico. I saw them used to unload cargo from the Cozumel ferry. The men riding them wore shirts proclaiming their membership in the Union of "Tricicladeros" (tree-see-clah-DARE-ohs).

In a small Yucatan town, tricicladeros drove machines fitted with a bench seat over the two front tires and an awning overhead. Three-wheeled surreys. Taxis. They were taking chiildren to school: two or three well-scrubbed kids and their stout grandma wearing her spotless huipil (a kind of dress).



The ice cream vendor's expression is reminiscent of old Soviet propaganda: The proletariat resolutely facing the future.

Except he's an entrepreneur. The march of the bourgeoisie?



Would you eat anything out of that grimy cart? What's the Bacardi box for? What's the bottle of water tied to the side for? Is it clean? Are his hands clean?

Maintenance is not a priority in this shop. Check out the nose wheel on his landing gear. Check out the grubby hat.

The man with the bicycle (¿bicicladero?) is another San Miguel fixture—he makes and sells hand-woven reed mats. (Sorry, I don't know the spanish name for them).

These people know that gringos are fascinated by them and often want to take their pictures to take home and show their First World friends how backward things are in Mexico. In other words, their images have value, and they're not afraid to ask for money if they see you pointing your camera at them. This man is saying "¡Pague!" (Pay!).

You can't really blame them. They're all dirt poor. Still, I find it annoying when they ask.

We bought mats from this man a couple of times in the past. So I figured I was his buddy. His demand for money kind of hurt me. Which shows that when it comes to relations with my Mexican neighbors, I am totally clueless.



This woman with her wise, serene face, sets up shop in Colonia Guadalupe (one of the neighborhoods outside of the Colonial Center). She's got a pile of aguacates (avocados) to sell, but her main business is selling tortas (sandwiches). The turquoise bucket contains some of her ingredients—chopped onions and peppers.



Some vendors come in from the campo (countryside) on occasion to earn some needed cash. This woman is selling huitlacoche (corn smut) and nopales. She's so obviously destitute that I gave her $10 pesos. She replied that her picture was worth $50 pesos. I refused. Her daughter, sensing that her mother was unhappy with me, glared accusingly.



The huitlacoche trade attracts the bottom of the street merchant pecking order. These children, who should be in school (since it was Monday when I encountered them), are also selling fungus-infected corn kernels. Do they look happy to you?

Tragic. Their futures are being mortgaged. If they belonged to a family temporarily down on its luck, you could almost accept the need for them to work. But these kids proved to be street-wise. When I snapped their photos, the boy marched up to me and said, "¡Dinos algo!" (Give us something!)



Street vendors add color and interest to our town. Tourists are fascinated by them. But they exist only because of grinding poverty.

I get a topic for a post. They get a life of want.

It's not right.

In choosing where to live in Santa Barbara, you're faced with an tough decision. Beach? Or mountain?

The beach offers salt air breezes and recreation possibilities.



There is, however, the problem of privacy. All kinds of riffraff are allowed anywhere, in the water and on the land up to the mean high tide line.



One way to avoid the trespasser problem is to buy a house on a bluff. You want this one? Bring lots of cash. I'm guessing at least $15 million.

Scratch the beach. It's for the nouveau riche anyway. The mountains on the other hand, have a more exclusive cachet. As Matt says, they have the feel of old Pasadena.



The built-up hillside behind the large buildings is called The Riviera.



You'll still need pots of money to live here. Here's a relatively modest Riviera home that shouldn't run too much more than $7 million. What's mind-bending is that there are lots and lots of houses like this one. It's not like it's all that special—for Santa Barbara, that is.

OK. We can't afford the ocean and we can't afford the mountains. Let's look in a lower-priced neighborhood.



Now we be in the ghet-to. This place is a tear-down, and still, it'll go for more than a million when its owner finally decides to cash out.

Meanwhile it's a rental, like most houses in this neighborhood. Illegal immigrants (Oops. Undocumented aliens.), restaurant workers and such live in these places, four people to a room.

This house has maybe three bedrooms and a living room, $300 per month per person, grossing maybe $4,800 per month. Probably not quite enough to carry its present value, but selling it will be complicated by the need to build, say, four condo units on the site, each nice enough to go for $750,000 or so, so it may be awhile before a deal can be set up.

I can't afford even this dump.

So. Not the beach. Not the mountains. Not the barrio. Can you say "Lompoc?"

(Warning: This post may not be as exciting as watching mud dry.)

The adobe brickmaking project at the Santa Barbara Presidio is proceeding nicely. (See September 16th.)



The bricks have been tipped up onto their sides to present more surface area to the air. They're much dryer and harder. There's many more of them, too.



They look big. I think maybe 1' X 2' X 4". I wonder if I could lift one. Or if even the Parks Department guys could.

Naah. They'll probably use a forklift. Or a Mexican.

Mercados are collections of small vendors gathered together to create a market. We have several permanent mercados in San Miguel—permanent in that they occupy actual buildings. We also have smaller, more informal mercados that essentially are collections of tents or tarpaulins.



Mercados usually consist of food sellers, although clothing, DVDs, toys, and other things are also sold. Most of the goods on display are typical of what you and I might find in U. S. supermarkets: bananas, tomatoes, eggplant, jicama, chayote, piñatas...



OK. Not all of it is familiar to Norteamericanos. We who have lived in places like California where lots of Mexicans live, too, are accustomed to seeing several varieties of dried chiles in the produce section, along with tomatillos, the little sour green husk tomatoes used in salsa verde.



But we don't get to see handmade chorizo.



The meat that goes into these sausages is way more wholesome than what is listed in the table of ingredients in packaged American-made chorizo. Like beef lips and salivary glands.

Nor does Safeway carry tunas. The fruit of the prickly pear cactus. The texture and taste are similar to watermelon, but tunas contain many small seeds. A good breakfast fruit. Just peel and eat.



Eew. Ick. What's this? Smoked pancreas?

No. These are roasted yams. Very sweet, very good.



Any mercado is gonna have stands where you can get something to eat or drink. Like this juice bar where you can get agua de guayaba with quail eggs.

Alas, the old ways are dying. This woman is relaxing with a coke. Note the returnable bottle. When is the last time you saw one of those?



Distribution is often direct from the farm. Here's a pickup load o' beef. The brown tub contains tripe. There's also something there that's gray and granular-looking. (Shudder.) What is it? Ambergris? Probably best avoided.

You get used to seeing meat in a more natural state. In a Yucatan village I once saw ropy-looking beef heaped on a table in the sun. Looked like a cow butchered with a grenade.



Smaller vendors set up just outside the mercado, their wares laid out on tarps. I like this woman's artfully arranged pyramids of avocados.



Just outside the mercado in Guanajuato, I saw one of these marginal sellers with a galvanized tub full of intestines. I can't imagine anyone buying them, but someone must or he wouldn't bother.

Unappetizing. The original tub o' guts. Put you right off the taco stand next door.

In Santa Barbara, everybody loves the beach. The clean white sand, the shallow warm water, the palms, the spectacular mountain views—it's the perfect place to kick back and get a little sun.



Beachgoers are bent on relaxing, playing, having a good time. So what better place than the beach to remind us that there is a war being fought, one in which American teenagers are dying—teenagers who should be sailing these little boats instead.



A group of Gulf War Vets have built more than 2,000 crosses, each carefully lettered with the name of an American soldier killed in Iraq. They have painstakingly erected the crosses in the sand with names arranged by date of death. A series of signs down one side of the "cemetery" indicate the timeline of the war—a timeline calibrated in deaths.

The first three signs read:

The fall of Baghdad—April 9, 2003
"Major combat operations in Iraq have ended."—May 4, 2003
"Bring 'em on."—July 2, 2003

It all seems so long ago. By the time of "Bring 'em on," fewer than 10% of our casualties had died. We've been at war now for more than three years.

This is a profoundly moving demonstration. The image of all those crosses, of that sandy graveyard, gives the lie to the TV news impression that this is a war of Iraqis bombing one another. We've already lost as many young people as half the freshman class at Stanford University.



You cannot count the number of crosses by scanning them. Too many to easily enumerate. Rows and rows of crosses lead your eye toward infinity.

And to something else. What is that out there?



Aah. Not everyone is mourning the dead. Life does go on. Some are still bent on relaxing, playing, having a good time.

Presumably, the soldiers that these crosses represent, died to make this possible.

God help us if they didn't.

Jean's nephew Matt Fish , cellist and composer, and his wife, Margaret, drove up from Los Angeles to visit and help us consume $150 worth of raw fish. These are two of my favorite people, and it's always a pleasure to eat vast quantities of sushi with them.



Matt and I stayed up until midnight, monopolizing the conversation and paying shamefully little attention to Margaret and Jean. The next morning, we walked over to the Santa Barbara County Courthouse.



This utterly gorgeous building was built in the 1920s in the Mission Revival Style—a hallmark of Santa Barbara.



The courthouse surrounds a grassy courtyard that appears to be a favorate locale for weddings. Two ceremonies were simultaneously in progress while we were there. Dueling weddings.

A tile mural decorated an entry passageway. Here we have the noble Ortega discovering San Francisco Bay, surrounded by some goofy-looking Indians. (Oops. Indigeneros.)



Actually, it looks to me like the Native American is showing Ortega the Bay, rather than Ortega discovering it.

"Hey! What are you looking at? Over here, dummy! The Bay is over here! (White jerk. Stupid Wetback.)"

This is one of those embarrassing memorials that presents modern officials with a dilemma. The mural has historical value. But the subect is grossly patronizing toward the natives. What to do? Keep it or scrap it? Fortunately, this requires a decision on the part of government officials. They'll never manage to arrive at one. So perforce the mural will survive for the edification of future generations.

The courthouse interior is stunning. They just don't make 'em like this anymore.



Looking for the men's room, I ran across the bottom of the stairway that leads up the bell tower.



The device on the floor behind the columns is not a hexagram (Jewish) and not a pentagram (Satanic). It's an octagram, no doubt a symbol of some Southern California sun-worshipping cult. The eight points represent rays of sunlight, as in "Hey Dude. Let's catch some rays."

The courthouse is way too elegant to be wasted on trying scumbags and lowlifes. I say set up a tent in Goleta in front of Albertsons for trials. Use the courthouse building as a museum or a helluva B&B.

Here's three great people in front of the courthouse entrance.



I dunno about that shirt, Matt.

Can you even call it "Handicapped Parking" anymore? I've been away from American culture so long, that out of ignorance, I'll call it Handicapped Parking, hoping you'll forgive me if I'm using a term now considered offensive.

The Park Service appears to be making a concerted effort to provide facilities for the handicapped. At Sequoia National Park, several parking lots once available to all are now reserved for handicapped persons only. Here's a photo of the lot near the General Sherman Tree. It's huge.

Non-handicapped persons use a new lot a mile farther up the road and have to walk back on a trail that has a 200-step climb to get to the tree, so you have to be in fairly good shape to even get there. Definitely not for the handicapped. Sorry, bud. Take a hike. (Oops.)



The lot has maybe 10-12 parking spots. Seems like a lot to me. But who knows, maybe 10-12 handicapped persons, their attendants and families, sometimes arrive simultaneously, and God forbid they should have to wait a little until a spot opens up.

Leading from the parking lot is a paved, wide trail, so people in wheelchairs or PMDs (personal mobility devices—don't get me started) can get over to the tree.

It's easy to be critical, but all you can do is comment on the scale of the facility. You may think there should be more. Or less. But basically, this arrangement permits access to great scenic and natural places that might otherwise be denied to some people.

It ain't workin' that way.



I caught this 50-something couple walking briskly form the tree site to their car. They have one of those blue handicapped cards hanging from their rearview mirror. They're in better shape than I am. So how come they have a handicapped parking pass?

The other two cars occupying some of the 10-12 spaces also had temporary cards. I saw the couple from one of them park and fairly leap from their car in their eagerness to jog up to the tree and snap a couple of photos. Frickin' gazelles.

So, what the hell is going on, here?

1) These people talk their doctors into giving them cards, when they get bunions or something.
2) These people borrow Grandma's card, who is in a nursing home with a feeding tube and will never in her life ride in a car again.
3) These people are scumbag doctors who authorize their own cards.
4) These people make color photocopies of other people's cards.
5) These people download handicapped symbols and photoshop phony cards.

Whatever it is, this is a good idea that has gone terribly wrong.

Incidentally, a dozen other cars also parked in the Handicapped Reserved parking lot. They parked on crosshatched "No Parking" areas so they would be in compliance with the law prohibiting unauthorized use of handicapped spaces.

Lower fine that way, you see.

The Visitors' Center at Grand Canyon National Park is a mob scene, consisting of intense Europeans with walking sticks plummeting down the Bright Angel Trail, Japanese tour groups posing in front of the gorge, Chinese gamblers from Vegas posing in front of the restrooms, and overweight American families buying tee shirts. Not so at Sequoia National Park. Visitors are drawn to its more famous neighbor to the north, Yosemite. If you want to go to one of our great National Parks, and you don't want the crowds, Sequoia is a good choice.



You run into even fewer visitors during the shoulder seasons. Gone are the screaming little monsters running up and down the trail, scaring away wildlife and throwing Pepsi bottles everywhere. They're in school. Where they should be. W. C. Fields summed up my feelings exactly: "Go away, kid. Ya bother me."

This time of year, visitors consist of retired folks—old farts like yours truly—and Germans. The first sign of the latter is the row of rented El Monte Class C motorcoaches in the parking lot. Somehow, the word is out in Germany. Ya wanna see the USA? Rent an RV and for God's sake, go in May or September. You can't believe how ungemütlich things are during the summer. The second sign is that in the hotel everyone—guests and staff alike—speak with accents. Staying with these two groups—Germans and Geezers—is very pleasant. Everyone is here to enjoy and respect nature. They're quiet, serious and reverential.

Sequoia has got it all: granite peaks, waterfalls, alpine meadows, lakes, panoramic views. And humongous trees.



Sequoias are the other Redwood tree. Much less prolific than the Coast Redwoods, they have survived the onslaught of civilization in part because they are not as valuable commercially as the others: they tend to shatter across the grain when felled.

They are the biggest trees in the world by volume. Jean is standing here in front of the biggest of them all, named the General Sherman Tree.

In line with the theme of getting away from crowds, Jean and I hiked away from the General Sherman Tree, where maybe fifty people were gathered. In less than a mile we found ourselves in silent groves, encountering other hikers only occasionally.



Here, Jean is sharpening her tree-hugging skills. The tree appears to be unmoved.

Having implied that we did some serious back-country trekking, I have to 'fess up. The trails we walked all were paved. Even so, 99% of visitors never take them. It's so easy to get away from it all.



The Rangers are playful when they build trails. There's at least two tunnels through fallen trees along the way.

A huge wildfire is burning over near the coast, in the Los Padres National Forest near Ojai. In Santa Barbara, we awoke one morning to what looked like snowfall—ashes drifting down and blanketing cars and driveways. WIth a shift to onshore winds, smoke has been blown hundreds of miles inland, affecting views in Sequoia Park.



On the drive home, we took back roads through Tulare County, passing through the little town of Orange Cove. Nearly 100% Mexican, we felt right at home. The U. S. seems a little alien to us—in some ways at least. We went into a little tiendita, bought a coke for $0.65 (half the California normal price). Jean asked for directions to the restroom and made no headway until she switched to Spanish.

A highlight of our trip.

I'm making this trip to Santa Barbara because I am the FOB—the Father of the Bride. I have enormous responsibilities here. All eyes will be upon me as I walk the bride down the aisle. I will have to say something both humorous and profound at the reception. I have to write checks.

Somehow, I got it into my head that I also would be a central figure in planning and preparation for the wedding. The other day, at breakfast, I was thoroughly disabused of that notion.



I was the sole male at a table with, from left to right, my lovely wife Jean (the SMOB—Step Mother of the Bride), my lovely sister Suzie (the SOFOB—Sister of the Father of the Bride), and my lovely daughter Samantha (the DOFOB—Daughter of the Father of the Bride).

Now, I am not, as Ollie North's attorney complained at the Iran-Contra Hearings, a potted plant. I am accustomed to conversations revolving around me. Or at least to making key contributions, insightful observations, penetrating analyses.

But not this time.

Because they were talking about brassieres.

And try as I might, I couldn't think of a single thing to say. So I just shut up, ate my breakfast, and paid the bill.

I'm realizing that fathers have essentially nothing to contribute to planning weddings. We aren't equipped for it. We really don't understand them. Weddings, that is. Or, come to think about it, women either. Best to stay out of the way, wallet at the ready, and do pretty much whatever the women ask.

We drove for hours. We wandered half-lost through county roads near Hanford: Born-Again Christian navel of California. We passed body shops and tractor dealers with fish on their signs. We passed billboards that said, "Abortion is Murder" and "Get Us Out of the UN!" Finally we found our destination.



Doesn't look like much, does it? But wait a minute—the building doesn't the kind of All-American design you'd expect in this part of the country. Those hip roofs. Those sashed exterior panels. That roofed entry gate.

Yep. This building is Japanese.

We've reached the Ruth and Sherman Lee Institute for Japanese Art which, this fall, is showing exquisite baskets made by the Tanabe Family of Sakai (near Osaka). We met them on our Japan Tour this spring (see blog archive 5/17/2006). The exhibition here contains more Tanabe baskets than we saw at the home of the artists themselves.



This small museum is remarkable. Objects are not kept behind glass, so you can get as close to the work as you want (but don't touch). Magnifying glasses are set out here and there, permitting viewing of details. The lighting has been carefully designed to bring out the texture and patterns of the baskets. Even the ventilation has been designed to prevent the deposit of dust.

I could have posted scores of photographs of baskets. I chose just one image of baskets made by Tanabe Chikuunsai I, the founder of the Tanabe family of bamboo artists.



I love the old traditional Chinese designs. The work is so fine, it's hard to imagine these baskets began as hunks of bamboo stalks.

You can collect them. A couple members of our tour group bought some direct from the Tanabes. They probably got good prices that way.

But they are expensive. This Tanabe Chikuunsai I basket is, as I write, available from Tai Gallery/Textile Arts of Santa Fe for "more than $10,000."



The collection consists mostly of baskets owned by Willard G. Clark, who made his money in the international bull semen market. (Hey, I'm just reporting the facts, here.) He and his wife, true Japanophiles, live next to the museum in their Japanese-style house. Hard to imagine dry, hot valley days permitting the growing of a Japanese garden, but the Clarks are doing it.

In the U. S. fast food advertisers show you images of sizzling steaks or golden fried chicken. Gets your juices flowing.

Not here. Apparently, what whets Mexican appetites is pictures of cheerful barnyard animals.



Pollo Feliz—the Happy Chicken—is a Mexican fast food chain, one of two permitted to operate in San Miguel. (The other is Domino's Pizza.) The smiling white hen with the feathery thumbs-up is as recognizable as the golden arches. This poster is announcing the opening of the new Mega-Pollo Feliz.

While a few corporate-style fast food chains operate in Mexico, their outlets are far outnumbered by independent restaurants. The food scene is much like that of 50 years ago in the States—a good thing if you ask me.

But this can lead to some unique experiences. In his helpful and informative book, Live Well in Mexico, Ken Luboff tells about ordering chicken in a small country restaurant, only to see, a few minutes later, a small boy out in the yard chasing a chicken. In the tech biz, we would call that vertical integration.

Not so at Pollo Feliz. Refrigerated trucks roll up daily and unload crates of prepared chickens, ready to throw on the grill.



Actually, their grilled chicken is quite tasty. The new restaurant is clean and well-lit, and seats at least a hundred—odd, given that most people order take-out. It's probably the biggest restaurant in town.

Funny how introducing fast food to third-world countries can do that. The biggest restaurant in Moscow is McDonalds, and even so, it was so crowded, I didn't wait around for a Big Mac.



They even have Pollo Felices in Los Angeles (just as there are McDonalds in Querétaro). Their signature promotion gimmick is guys standing outside in chicken suits, waving at passing motorists. I read somewhere that Tom Cruise got his acting start as a Pollo Feliz mascot.

Mexico is adopting American advertising methods. Showing the finished product instead of the raw materials. This poster shows an alleged family enjoying actual cooked chicken. Revolutionary.



Their ads are not very polished yet. This has got to be one of the cheesier advertising photographs of all time.

The models are all looking in different directions. Can you say "Photoshop?"

Dad may need a Heimlich maneuver.

Mom got screwed; she only got a wing. Part of the sad legacy of machismo culture. Under the circumstances, everyone is just too darn cheerful.

And there's something eerie about the scene, snapped just before a group chomp. The family that chews together...

Many years ago I read an article about a black man who was walking the streets of Beverly Hills in his warm-up suit when he was stopped by the police who demanded identification. He tried to explain that he had left his wallet at home since he was just out getting some exercise. The police arrested him on some charge or other and took him to jail. Turns out he was a resident of Beverly Hills, not some vagrant as the cops had suspected. I have often thought since about the paranoia of people who live in wealthy enclaves.

Santa Barbara has such an enclave, which locals call The Riviera. Rich folks live here in magnificent homes.









The Riviera is situated on a hill. Steep winding streets without sidewalks deter strollers.

The neighborhood resembles Bel Air, where Jean and I once took an evening walk. As we passed house after house, motion detectors switched on security lights. Amused by the extreme security measures, I told Jean the story of the black guy getting arrested in Beverly Hills.

A security service truck zipped by. We speculated that perhaps a nervous resident had called when we triggered their lights.

A few minutes later, two cop cars came tearing up the hill. The lead car slowed and hit us with a searchlight. Seeing a middle-aged couple walking along holding hands, they sped on their way, looking for real intruders.

We cracked up, knowing that we had a good story to tell about paranoid rich people frightened by pedestrian passers-by. Then the helicopter came. Whapping away overhead, it pinned us with its million-candlepower light.

Really.

The Riviera shares a feature with Bel Air: Security service signs.




I can't imagine anyone dumb enough to try to enter one of these homes. Of course they all have alarms. The streets are narrow and winding: no fast getaway routes. The place is blanketed with cops.

All that the signs manage to accomplish is to lend a fearful, mean-spirited, hyper-protective feel to an otherwise beautiful neighborhood.

Part of what residents are protecting is their views.



They sit out on their decks and look down on the city below.



They can spot their yachts in the harbor. But letting riff-raff into the neighborhood would spoil the ambiance. Best to warn 'em off.



Surprisingly, most of these people are democrats. Lots of Toyotas in the driveways with John Kerry bumper stickers. So they're careful not to single out any one ethnic group for exclusion.

The National Guard isn't so concerned about political correctness. They want to make sure their message gets to the right people.

Sometime in the late eighteenth century, the Spanish built a presidio at Santa Barbara to house a garrison of soldiers. They kept order and secured Spain's claim to this part of the world. Like most of the Spanish-era buildings in Alta California, it was made of adobe—dried mud bricks—on account of there were fewer natives here to put to work quarrying stone. And even if there were, the local Chumash didn't have stoneworking skills like the peoples who inhabited central Mexico. Probably because they were so stoned on Datura that the best they could do is make mud pies.



Adobe dissolves in rain, so adobe buildings are plastered inside and out and roofed with clay tiles. The resulting look—thick, lumpy white walls topped with red tiles—has carried down to today as the signature style of modern Santa Barbara: The Mission Revival.

California became American. The Spanish left. Over the decades, many buildings were lost as roof beams rotted and collapsed, and plaster cracked, allowing water in. Some, like the Presidio, survived.

Today, preserving California's Spanish heritage is a priority. Many buildings have been restored, and continue to undergo restoration work as needed. Traditional materials are used.



Fallen walls are rebuilt with adobe bricks. Cinder blocks would be cheaper and more durable, and would not be visible under plaster and tiles, but then everyone would know the building no longer was authentic. Bad for tourism.



To make adobe blocks, mud is forced into molds. The molds are removed and the bricks are allowed to dry in the sun. (The newly-formed bricks in the photos above have been covered with paper to protect them from an unseasonable rain.)

The original bricks were made by Chumash Indians. (Sorry. Chumash Native Americans. Or whatever.) Slave labor. Working for two meals a day. Beans and tortillas.

The new bricks are being made by State of California employees being paid, say, $50-$60,000 per year, with vacations, sick leave, major medical and retirement benefits. Given their superior compensation packages, you'd expect the State employees to put superior effort into their brick-making.

So I guess they better be changing into loincloths and digging adobe out of the yard and mixing it with water and straw or whatever. Getting their hands dirty. Hand packing that goop into molds carved with hand axes. For the authenticity, you know.



Oops.

What's this?

Looks like a load of highly refined adobe trucked in from the Santa Ynez Valley. And a diesel-powered cement mixer. Hmmm. The materials may be authentic, but the process sure isn't.

Man. They just don't make peons like they used to. I bet the guys making these bricks are blond surfer types with names like Derek or Justin, and are protected by OSHA regulations from carrying heavy loads or putting their hands in germy dirt. And I bet that the people mowing their lawns are descendants of those original Chumash builders.

There's not enough public restrooms in the U. S. You're a tourist in some strange place and you gotta go. Bad enough you don't know the layout of the place you're visiting. Hard to find some facilities. Discomfort increases.

You go into a store and ask. The clerk makes you feel like a bum and refuses. "Sorry. It's for employees only." Bitch.

Now you're desperate. You go into a café. A sign says restrooms are for customers only. So you buy an unwanted cup of coffee, dump it in the trash, and use the facilities.

It's better in Mexico. In Mexico they understand how it is when you gotta go. In Mexico, you often have a condition that makes bathroom access urgent. In Mexico there's lots and lots of children who need the bathroom at inconvenient times. So, there's lots of public bathrooms. And nobody refuses you when you ask for one. Because these people understand. These people have been there.

At the Santa Barbara Farmers' Markets, they get it too. In a corner of the parking lot where the market is held, there's a couple of porta-potties. They unfortunately are located upwind from the the food stands, but hey—at least they're there.



They're nice modern ones, and they're clean, if a little smelly.

But wait a minute. What's that thing Jean is standing at?



Why, it's a porta-vanity!

Jeez. All these years we survived wiping our hands on our pants. Now someone in the health department has decided you gotta be able to wash up afterwards, too.

We're all getting so scared of picking up a few germs. What a bunch of pansies we're becoming.

I recently read that the reason there's so much asthma and other respiratory ailments is because kids don't get to play in dirt, so their immune systems, having nothing better to do, attack their own otherwise healthy bodies.

When I was a kid, I used to run around in the chicken coop in my bare feet, chicken shit oozing between my toes. I have never had asthma. Q. E. D.

I'm waiting for porta-showers.

To my Mexican friends this September 16th., ¡Viva la revolución. Viva México!

Seems like anyone can set up a stand to sell street food. No licenses. No health inspectors. No signage. Sometimes, hardly any food.



Just put a table in your doorway with some food on it and watch the pesos come rolling in. This place is selling gelatina (jello) and carrot juice. Patti the plumber recalls, as a little girl, being sent out in the street to sell gelatinas. I doubt there's $20 pesos' worth of food on offer here—being sold from a house with a U. S. dollar value in the mid-six figures. Go figure.



This next place is more elaborate than the previous one. There's more food on display and there's signs to attract and guide customers. A young man ponders his selection...



... which includes fresh-squeezed orange or grapefruit juice ($15 pesos—$1.36 U. S.) or carrot or beet juice $13 pesos—$1.16 U. S.)



Looks like he went for the OJ. Note the amount you get—about a quart! The proprietor is giving me the evil eye as I take the photo. Stupid gringos with their cameras.



I like this tamale vendor. The green chicken ones are very spicy. (The tamales are green, not the chicken.) Rounding out his corn-based product offering, he's selling atole, a soupy warm drink made from masa—dried corn flour. It's an acquired taste, and surprisingly popular. Surprisingly.



This stand sells carnitas sandwiches. The torpedo-shaped rolls are called bolillos. I like the happy pig sitting in the pot on the fire. That kind of promotion wouldn't work up north.



This woman is selling gordos—balls of masa smooshed around a filling such as chicken or nopales (cactus leaves), the whole assemblage then grilled on the kluge in the foreground. Actually, her gas-fired rig is fairly advanced. Another vender squats under a bridge and cooks her gordos on a hot metal plate over a charcoal fire.



Here's some guys at an open-air market boiling chunks of pig in lard—carnitas. You can just make out the handle of a wire skimmer in the galvanized pail at the bottom right. There's something in the basket. Better not ask what.



This señorita is making tortillas by hand—the best kind.



This tamale stand is set up next to a bus stop. Good location. Lots of vendors set up next to bus stops.



Those are agave leaves hanging out of the pot. Which means they're cooking barbacoa. A layer of leaves from the plant ordinarily used to make tequila lines the bottom of the pot. Chunks of old, tired sheep are placed on top. It's boiled for about a day. Pretty strong flavor, if you ask me.



Assorted foods are sold here in front of a high school. I think the wheelbarrow underscores the ephemeral sense of this stand.



The roach coach. This truck pulls up to construction sites—here in front of my friend Bob's house. He says that this vendor specializes in chicken neck tacos. He's just joking. I think.

My friends, Irwin and Imelda (not their real names) made some improvements to their home on (name of street deleted to protect the guilty). Among these was the addition of a tejado—a sort of lanai—on their roof. The first photo shows their home after the tejado was completed. The second one (badly photoshopped) shows roughly what it looked like prior to construction.




Remodels require permits, subject to draconian restrictions, if your home is located in the historic center of town. As a general principle, this is good. Much of San Miguel's charm derives from the preservation of a quasi-colonial look. But as is the case in most things Mexican, the regulations are applied capriciously and unevenly.

Everything is subject to negotiation. Most homeowners hire an architect to handle obtaining the permits and inspection processes.

The job of the architect is not, as you might innocently expect, to keep your project within the regulations. He pretty much can't stay within the regulations because of spur-of-the-moment opinions on the part of the inspectors. No. his job is to finesse the inspectors.

How it works is, you decide what it is you want to do, say, add a second story. Since adding a second story will be highly visible from the street, you'll need an influential architect. He'll design what you want and then the games begin.

Permits are obtained which neglect to mention that the new bedrooms and baths will require addition of a second story. Sand, concrete and bricks are delivered on Saturday, when the inspectors don't work. Construction begins. Then one day, as you are coming home, you notice something stuck to your door.



If you've lived here for awhile, you think to yourself, "Oh, shit." You've been tagged with a stop work order.



Don't panic. Practically no job escapes getting slapped with a stop work order.

It's inconvenient. It's against the law for workers to continue with your job while the stop order is in force, so that means more sneaking around on Saturday, or only doing things inside where the inspectors can't see.

Meanwhile, your architect is supposed to go see the appropriate agency to do the negotiation, skid-greasing and outright bribery needed to get the inspectors to lighten up.

It's all so tiresome. If all these inspectors and regulations and red tape accomplished something, I suppose it would all be worth it. But check this out:



This building is right across the street from Irwin and Imelda's house. Look colonial to you? I thought not.

Well, maybe I'm being unfair. This example is, after all, a commercial building. Here's a private home just up the street:



Yup. This building is in compliance. Irwin and Imelda's is not.

As Will Rogers said, "Thank God we don't get all the government we pay for."

Father Junipero Serra knew good real estate when he saw it. He picked the best location for the Santa Barbara mission. It's a drop-dead gorgeous place, situated on a hill with a view of the ocean to the south and the mountains to the north. House prices here have headed up ever since. Shoulda bought in 1770.





Yeah. It's not like the Mission District in San Francisco. The neighborhood that has grown up around the Santa Barbara Mission is where you want to live. If you can afford it.





There's a lot of houses for sale here. Most are listed by Southeby's, and you know what that means.

I checked out some listings. You can get started for around $6 million and trade your way up to $25 million. Sigh.

I've already bitched here about the high price of groceries in Santa Barbara: Steaks for $20 per pound, coffee for $12.



Last week we bought fruit at Ralph's supermarket. Mostly because it's within walking distance.

We got two perfect-looking and huge Fuji apples that apparently had been held in nitrogen or carbon dioxide or whatever for at least a year, because they were brown and mushy inside. We bought two big mangos that never ripened. (As mexican residents, we know our mangos.) We got four tasteless pluots. Two mealy peaches. A package of baby lettuce that turned slimy after one day in the fridge. A plastic container of tired, fermenting blueberries.

We wound up throwing most of this stuff away, not having a compost pile to recycle it in.

So, we've learned a lesson: Don't buy veggies at Ralph's.

Fortunately, we have two farmers' markets within walking distance of our rented townhouse; on Saturday mornings and Tuesday evenings. There's a lot of stands there that sell olive oil, honey, pistachios, frozen steaks and flowers.



I finally found some vendors that sold actual vegetables and fruit. I was pleased to see that much of it was locally grown on the Central Coast—Arroyo Grande and like that.



We bought a few things for dinner: bicolor corn, delicate lettuces, heirloom tomatoes and peaches. Man, were they good. Almost as good as Mexican produce. And certainly less contaminated by pesticides and E. coli.



But if we were expecting lower prices than Ralph's, well, forget it. What you see here cost $11. Still, it was cheaper than Ralph's, considering that all we got out of the stuff we bought there was a cantaloupe, a few lonely blueberries and a contribution for the landfill.

She's a bad, bad, bad girl. Hangs out with the wrong kind of kids. Her father doesn't know what to do with her.



Santa Barbara is a kinder, gentler place. Laid back. Even the graffiti has a sort of easy-going innocence.

The populace of Santa Barbara, consisting mainly of ordinary (?) Californians and tourists, is liberally seasoned with more noteworthy types. For example, peace demonstrators. Here's a veteran on his Harley-Davidson Personal Mobility Device.



He's followed by a small clump of chanting, drumming protesters.



It all seemed low-key and friendly until a guy wearing desert storm fatigues riding a chopper began tracking them, revving his unmuffled engine, shattering the quiet and warmth of the street.

Street musicians played for dollars at a nearby farmers' market. The accordion player's chords were disconnected from the melody; a perfect disconnect of left and right brain.



The blues player's great sound was interrupted by an enthusiast who wanted him to hear something on his iPod—a polka no doubt.



A substantial Mexican community made us feel right at home. Up at the mission, I caught a young girl on the way to her quinceañera.



Downtown a festival of some kind was forming up. A stage with scores of speakers was setting up. Some band members waited in their natty suits for things to start.



The ear-splitting music got to Samantha's mother, Sandy, who was staying in a nearby motel. She reported that her Australian Shepherd, Harry, was frightened by the noise and wouldn't get out of the car.

Along the West Beach Esplanade, the Sunday art walk was in full swing. Here, Jean considers some bad art while the artist looks on hopefully.



Nearby, kids play in the skateboard park. The money that goes into recreational facilities is huge. In San Miguel, I doubt that there's a single soccer field with grass. In Santa Barbara, there probably isn't one without.



State Street, a pleasant street lined with cafes and restaurants, fielded the usual panhandlers and homeless.



Meanwhile, a retired gent slumbers on a bench, oblivious to passing throngs of tourists and shoppers.



He obviously places little importance on his appearance. Comfort is paramount.

Santa Barbara, where bride-to-be Samantha lives, is one of the most beautiful places on the planet. The city is built on a narrow plain, the Pacific Ocean and the Channel Islands to the south, and steep, rugged mountains to the north. Spectacular views are everywhere. The climate is near-perfect year-round.



Actually, it's not near-perfect right now. But it's gonna be perfect. For now, mornings are overcast, afternoons are sunny. This is a view of the city, with the ocean beyond. You can almost make them out through the fog.

The rich and famous have homes here: Oprah Winfrey, Ronald Reagan. It is a place for very privileged people. They don't tolerate weather that isn't near-perfect. Not at the kind of prices they pay to live here.

We have rented a place for the month before Sam's wedding. We found one on the Santa Barbara Craig's List that's a steal: An Alviso-style townhouse located on the edge of the Barrio for only $4,200 a month.

OK. I'm being unfair. The place is, after all, a vacation rental. It's three blocks from State Street and the heart of the downtown. It's maybe five blocks from the beach and the pier. Location, location, location. As for the nearby Barrio, we like being surrounded by Mexicans. And graffiti. And pickup trucks with decals of Calvin pissing on something.

Some books have been thoughtfully left for us in our rented townhouse. One in particular reflects Santa Barbara New Age mentality: Clear Your Clutter with Feng Shui, by one Karen Kingston. Chapter 18 is entitled "Clutter Clearing Your Body [sic]." The clutter referred to is that which is strewn about your colon. The chapter is full of nonsense about "impacted mucoid plaque" which Ms. Kingston, had she ever remained conscious through a colonoscopy, looking at the monitors, would have noted was not present. She might then have realized that it's her mind, not her colon, that is cluttered with impacted mucoid plaque.

I like the subsection entitled "The Ideal Bowel Movement," of which she lists six key properties. I won't clutter up this post with the list, leaving it instead to your well-formed imaginations.

In L. A. Story, Steve Martin's character meets a ditzy roller-skating blonde New-Ager who takes him to Santa Barbara to visit a Colon Institute for a "high colonic." As they are leaving, walking down the monumental front steps of the Institute, Steve delivers one of the better lines in cinema: "Thanks for the lunch, and... enema."

—§—

Not only are we in the nesting grounds of crystal wearers, this part of the country is the trend center of personalized license plates. Every other car sports one. None appear to be clever. Typical is the following:



The State of California has introduced several new symbols to the alphabet. The most popular appears to be the heart. This is a bad idea.

Cop: "So, did you get the license number?"

H&R Victim: "Uh... No... I think there was a heart in it. WJH-Heart. Or maybe WJH-Club. I don't see so good anymore."

Cop (into radio): "OK. We're looking for a silver Scion with a plate beginning 'WJH♥'."

Dispatcher: "Oh, how sweet..."

The illustrated plate is particularly pathetic. I mean, save your money and let the State figure out what to put on your plate. For example, BOL SÍ would be a good one. SWEE T Π would be good, too. Let's THINK about these things a little, people!

But your initials and your wife's initials separated with a heart? Is that the best you can do? You might as well have a bumper sticker that says, "I have the imagination of a liver fluke."

—§—

Here's a real shock for someone who has been out of the country for a while: Grocery prices. Jean and I went to Ralph's to stock up on basics. $200. Jeez!

Sam took me to a "better" independent grocery store. Prices there were stunning.



Looks lovely, doesn't it. The price on the left is for one bunch of celery.



Asparagus: $6 per pound. That's $13.20 per kilo—$145 pesos. We can buy the better part of a week's vegetables for $145 pesos.

Do you see some sort of crash coming?

We're presently on a Continental Airlines Boeing 737, flying a roughly latitudinal great circle between Houston and Los Angeles. We began at 6 AM this morning in San Miguel and should arrive in Santa Barbara about 6 PM. Our purpose is to spend most of September helping Samantha with wedding arrangements. Oh yeah, and to get the hell out of San Miguel de Allende until after all the Independencia and San Miguelada madness is over and done with.

Our driver, Manuel, arrived to pick us up at 5:50AM.

OK. I know what you're gonna say.

"They have a driver? First you tell us they have a cook and a maid and a gardener. Now you're telling me they have a driver too? Well, excu-use me!"

Would you believe that our driver is an economy measure? I thought not.

Some months ago, the former President of the San Miguel School of English, where I teach as a volunteer, told me he was going to visit the school's treasurer, who lives some miles outside of town. He said, "I'll just call my driver, and he'll take me there this morning."

I was very impressed. I said, "Bob! You have a driver! I didn't know you were a millionaire."

"I'm not," he said. "I just realized one day that having a driver was cheaper than owning and operating a car. Think about it. A taxi anywhere in town costs $15 pesos—$1.35 U. S. Rides to Costco in Querétaro cost proportionately. And if you pay a taxi driver to take you shopping there, he'll wait for you, since he's gonna make his whole day's income on that one trip. Now, if you figure depreciation and license fees and gas and the high maintenance costs that you pay, what with everything shaking loose on cobblestone roads, you can afford a whole lot of taxi rides for the cost of owning a car. Plus, if you make a deal with a driver to use him exclusively, he'll give you a deal on rates. So, I got rid of my car, and whenever I need to go someplace, I just call him on his cell. When I'm not using him, he just drives his taxi around town picking up tourists or whatever. So I save money, and he makes more than he would if I weren't in the picture."

Well, hell! The more I thought about it, the more I realized what a good idea that was. Jean and I began hailing taxis. Soon, Jean ran into Manuel, an affable 30-year-old man who speaks colloquial English that he learned while working in Missouri. He's an excellent driver, skillful and safe, and he understands gringo mentality, so there's not so much cultural confusion. Like when I order scrambled eggs and the waiter asks (in Spanish), "You want bacon with that?" and I say "Sure," and what I get is bacon crumbled into my eggs.

So, now we have a driver. And he picked us up this morning to take us to Benito Juaréz International Airport (BJX) in León.

An economy measure, you see.

Most flights out of BJX are via cramped little commuter planess. We're going to LA via Houston, 'cause that's the way it is. We go most everywhere via Houston.

It's a beautiful day for flying. The sky is full of thunderheads. The countryside is green and blooming from the rains.

The pilot sets the flaps of the Embrauer 145 to 9° and we take off. In the distance we see the mountain that overlooks the city of Guanajuato, the huge statue of El Pípila (the wanker) at its summit.

Jean complains that she wasn't allowed to bring water and chapstick into the cabin. Dehydration surely is immanent. Our flight attendant, beefy Donald Price, whose male pattern baldness shines pinkly through his gelled and spiked hair, saves her with the quickest drink service we've ever experienced. Jean lives to see another day.

We're served a breakfast that might have come out of one of those tienditas that specialize in orange styrofoam with chile sauce. Our meal consists of three cello-paks of corporate food that seems more like litter than nutrition. We got:

• New York Style Cinnamon Bagel Chips (New York Style? I don't think so. And what the hell is a bagel chip, anyway?)
• Quaker Breakfast Bars—Very Berry Muffin flavor. (Sssweeeeet! A fruit flavor not found in nature. Because Very Berries aren't found in nature. I could only manage one bite.)
• Prize brand Natural Raisins. (Probably strip-mined. They were the only thing I ate.)

Can airline food get any worse?

The two-hour ride out of Mexico was up to its usual standards: A small disintegrating aircraft bouncing around in turbulent air carrying 24 people jammed into tiny seats listening to a squalling baby.

Can air travel get any worse?

Here on the Houston-LA leg, we got upgraded to Business Class, so things are looking better. Waiting for takeoff, we're surrounded by businessmen yelling into cell phones. It's annoying, but unlike infants, they have to stop when the aircraft door closes.

Still in store for us is car rental and a drive up the PCH to Santa Barbara. I'm innocently anticipating that I'm gonna enjoy it. We'll see.

We feel oppressed by the handful of oil companies in the U. S. who, we strongly suspect, engage in price-fixing. As Californians subjected to the highest gasoline costs in the country, we think that we (a blue state) are being singled out under an administration originating in Texas (a red state).

Now, as foreign residents of Mexico, we realize we ain't seen nothin' yet.

Pemex (pronounced "peh-mex") is the government-owned petroleum monopoly. We gringos disparagingly call it "Pee-Mex." Everybody buys their gas from Pee-Mex. You can't buy it anywhere else. Pee-Mex has no competitors.

The good news (presumably) is that the monopoly's revenues accrue to the benefit of the Mexican people, rather than a bunch of shareholders. This amount is not inconsiderable, given that petroleum is Mexico's largest source of income (followed by tourism and remittances).

One wonders, however—just what percentage of those revenues actually reach the people? (Hint: It's almost certainly not 100.)

The bad news is that some functionary in a Mexico City high-rise decides where to locate gas stations in, say, Chiapas (mostly where there's no actual traffic), how much to charge for gasoline (too much) and what the restroom cleaning policy is (pigsty). One would also expect that this functionary would set standards for the conduct of gas station attendants, and enforce them.



Buying gas in Mexico requires the skills of a champion Texas Hold-em player. Like in Oregon, you're not allowed to pump your own gas. No. Instead, the highly-trained, scrupulously honest employees of Pee-Mex must perform the demanding and dangerous task of pumping it. Providing all kinds of opportunities for hanky-panky.

For example, you buy $300 pesos worth of gas. You hand the guy a $500 peso note. More frequently than you would expect, he hands you a single $100 peso note in change. The wise customer immediately counts his change, notes the discrepancy and asks the attendant for the other $100 pesos, which he hands you with a sheepish grin.

"Oh gee. Silly me. I miscounted your change. Here you go. All's well that ends well. No hard feelings, huh?"

One defense, if you don't want to repeatedly demand the correct change, is to ask for an amount of gas for which you have exact change. You order $300 pesos' worth, holding three $100 peso notes in your hand.

This usually works, but the good ones have a countermove ready. He pumps $280 pesos worth and tells you the tank's full. Or the pump's broken. Or they ran out of gas. Whatever. It's amazing how unreliable Pemex stations are.

Now, it's customary to tip the attendant, especially if he washes your windshield. He gets just a few pesos. $20 pesos is too much.

You give him your $300 pesos. The attendant gives you a $20 peso bill in change. You're expected to tip him or else you are a cheap gringo bastard exploiting a poor Mexican. He's already turning away. You need to do something right now! But what?

You hand him back the $20 peso bill and say, "Keep the change." You feel like a jerk. You find yourself wondering, "What the hell just happened?"

The wise customer always has a $5 peso coin in his hand.

One of the most frequent scams is the balky pump. Here's how it works. The previous customer buys $127 pesos worth of gas. You pull up. The guy puts the nozzle in your car's filler pipe. You foolishly neglect to look at the pump to see that the meter reads $127 pesos. You might as well have a sign on your back that says, "I'm easy. Here's my wallet. Just go ahead and take what you think is right."

A few minutes later, the attendant asks for your attention. "Señor. We have a problem. The pesky pump shut off prematurely. To start it again, I must reset it. Here. I will write down $127 pesos on this notepad I happen to be carrying. Then I will reset the pump and complete your order, at which time I will add the $127 pesos to the total then registering on the pump. I'm so sorry for the inconvenience. But you know how it is. Pemex won't send a technico to fix the pump. What can one do?"

After filling your tank, he adds $127 pesos to the total on the meter, which, feeling really stupid, you pay. Then he tries to shortchange you. 'Cause you were so easy about the pump thing.

Of course, the wise customer always checks to see that the pump has been zeroed.

The relatively honest attendants in San Miguel de Allende will point this out to you in case you forget. "Mire. Ceros," they will say.

But in thoroughly corrupt cities like, say, Saltillo, you have to be on your toes. Once I pulled into a gas station there. Immediately three guys surrounded the car. One asked me what Rose's name was. Being an old Mexico hand, I was not taken in. "Rosita" I said over my shoulder as I walked over to check the pump.

Fresh from dodging that distraction, I approached the attendant who said something incomprehensible in rapid Spanish and pointed behind me. I turned and saw a rack of gasoline additives. I turned back to tell him I didn't want any. Meanwhile, one of his confederates edged in front of me to wash the side windows, cutting off my view of the pump. Then the guy looking at Rose asked, "Does she bite?" I told him, "No." I eyed him suspiciously as he reached his hand into the car to scratch her ears. Just in case he might try to hurt her. I mean, I was on total alert. No way was I gonna let anything go wrong. I didn't just fall off the potato truck, you know.

At that point, the attendant gestured apologetically toward the pump. Oh darn. It had already pumped $127 pesos' worth of gas and then, wouldn't you know it, it shut down.

Got me! The whole charade was brilliantly orchestrated. They'd obviously practiced this scam until it was seamless. I almost had to admire them.

Oh, I could have raised a stink. I could have threatened to call the police. But of course, it's well known that the police in Saltillo are more corrupt even than pump attendants. I'd probably wind up having to bribe them not to take me to jail for attempting to defraud a gas station.

So I paid the a**hole and got out of there, mindful that ten minutes in a cesspool like Saltillo is too long. The $127 pesos I wrote off to tuition in the school of living in Mexico.

The lesson? Don't ever let a Pee-Mex employee put a hose in your tank until you see "0000.00"

My friend Paul Latour is a photographer, an artist of considerable merit whose work is grossly underappreciated on account of his antipathy for self promotion. Every Wednesday afternoon at 2:00 PM Paul and I eat comida together, spending a couple of hours in rambling conversation that only two fellows afflicted by ADHD could enjoy.

I walked up to his house today for a visit.

Paul is sort of a troglodyte who lives at the far end of a mysterious tunnel just off the Salida de Querétaro. Thousands of people winding down the old highway from Querétaro pass by Paul's tunnel every day, and many no doubt wonder where it leads. But it is narrow, very steep, and mysterious, so few have the courage to explore.



Paul's house hangs precipitously on the hillside. From his aerie, he follows his muse and engages in combat with his neighbors. Of all the people I have met in San Miguel, Paul had been in jail more often, has been involved in lawsuits the most frequently. I think he likes it that way.



From high above the town, Paul looks out on a spectacular western view (to which this photo does no justice). The town spreads out below him. In the distance the rugged Guanajuato Mountains rise. Seasonally, huge flocks of migrating birds string out against the sky. In the rainy season, spectacular lightning shows fill the wall of his living room. Views perfect for stimulating great art.

I found Paul lying in his bedroom, watching the U. S. Open on TV.



Homes with views like Paul's, if they are located a quarter mile to the north in Los Balcones, are worth millions. But situated on the gritty Salida de Querétaro, Paul's house ain't worth squat. Location, location, location. He wants to sell it, but despairs because it doesn't meet the profile prospective residents are looking for; i. e., an authentic colonial within two flat blocks of the Jardín (main square).

OK. Maybe I'm being a little harsh. His house is worth squat. But not much more than squat.

Last Wednesday, Paul arrived at our table at the Villa Santa Monica lugging a camera, tripod and a whole lot of film. As I sat contemplating my Chiles en Nogada, Paul pointed the camera in my direction and shot a couple hundred images, panning up and down, side to side, in a raster scan. Oooooh—Kayyy...

Today's visit was to view the product of his efforts.



Paul has named it "Miercoles a los dos." Wednesday at two.

I won't insult you all with my pathetic engineer's feeble attempts at criticism, except to say that it overwhelms me. Paul has made about fifty of these... what do you call them... photomontages? A wide varitey of subjects: A blind beggar in a colonial doorway, a sparkling new concrete truck, a triptych of Tomás Horn's new baby girl. I especially liked three works depicting El Gato Negro, The Black Cat, a bar unmatched for its grubbiness. They're part of a series Paul calls "Sacred San Miguel."

I include this picture of Paul standing next to his work to provide a sense of scale. It's about 5' X 4'.

Paul is the one on the left.



"Miercoles a los dos" is a perfect image of the lunches Paul and I share: disjoint, non-linear conversation that somehow coalesces into a vaguely coherent whole.

I woke up from my siesta to the sound of high explosives. The quiet, sleepy summer is over. Fiesta season is upon us.

No one is as unabashedly patriotic as Mexicans. Nobody knows how to throw parties like Mexicans. And September is the month when Mexico celebrates the biggest holiday after Christmas: The Anniversary of the War of Independence.

We Norteamericanos sometimes confuse Cinco de Mayo (which commemorates the victory over the French Army at the Battle of Puebla on May 5, 1862) with events of the War of Independence (1810-21). Actually, Cinco de Mayo has become primarily a Chicano holiday in the U. S. It receives a lot of attention because it is so heavily commercialized. Sort of like the Super Bowl, which nobody gives a sh*t about it but everybody watches because of the hype, and because they, the American public, have been thoroughly trained to buy into whatever is pushed at them through the tube. Disagree? I have two words for you: JonBenet Ramsey.

Pardon me. I digress.

Cinco de Mayo receives much less notice here, deep in the Mexican interior. But ¡Viva la Independencia! It was on September 16, 1810 that Miguel Hidalgo issued El Grito, the Cry of Independence; the equivalent of our Declaration of Independence. This is the greatest day in Mexican history.

Late in August, street vendors pop up everywhere selling flags...



...and other patriotic items. I saw one guy selling red, white and green Viking helmets. That's one that completely baffles me.



Decorations are hung across intersections...



...and on the façades of historic buildings. This image is supposed to represent General Ignacio Allende.



I think it looks like a robot in a hard hat, but then, I'm an uncultured gringo. Sketchy as it is, this image would be recognized instantly by any Mexican schoolchild. As, for example, on this old $50 peso banknote.



Flag sales have been brisk. Already they're sprouting along Aldama Street, where I live. (Mine is the yellow house on the left.)



But this is only one of many celebrations in September. We got:

• Fiesta de Nuestra Señora de los Remedios
• Festividad de la Virgen de Loreto
• Homenaje a los Niños Héroes de Chapultepec
• El Aniversario de la Independencia
• La Sanmiguelada
• La feria del pueblo
• La Alborada

It seems like the fun never ends. I enjoy all of these colorful celebrations except La Sanmiguelada, our own version of Pamploma's running of the bulls, when thousands of young people come to get drunk, to get laid and to piss in the streets. Jean and I stock up on food, cokes and movies, shut our doors, and huddle in our house until everyone goes home.

September is a great time to visit, to view or better yet, to participate in all these celebrations. But visitors shouldn't come here expecting to sleep. Fireworks at 4 AM announce each day's festivities. Parties with mega-amplified music last far into the wee hours. Singing drunks roam the streets.

It's like living in a singles apartment complex. You might as well join the party, because there's no way you're gonna escape it. I sometimes complain to my Mexican friends about the uproar. They just don't understand my attitude. Why not just have a good time with everyone else? Here, have a strawberry tamale.

When September rolls around, many of us Norteamericano residents figure—been there, done that. For us, it's a great month to be someplace else. It's shoulder season, so vacationers no longer crowd Paris, Florence or San Francisco. The theater and arts season starts in London and New York. So, many of us leave the noise and throngs of visitors in San Miguel, returning to quieter times in October when everything has calmed down.

For more on San Miguel's September festivals, click here.

All around town we see flower vendors. It is a mystery to me whether they are licensed or if they just set up shop on some corner. Knowing the way officialdom works in Mexico, the odds are good that someone with a title receives unreported cash to ensure that women like these are permitted to ply their trade unmolested.



Some set up tables near the entrances to important buildings, such as this one which is alongside Bellas Artes. Others just find a wide place on a sidewalk.

There is no excuse for not buying some flowers on a whim. They're cheap and they're everywhere.

Most people regularly have fresh cut flowers in their homes. If the selection on the street doesn't include what you're looking for, there are larger outlets in the Mercado.



One flower lady specializes in long-stemmed roses, She is a fixture at the corner of Pila Seca and Aldama, near my home. I pass her every day on my way to do my errands.



Her price is right. A dozen roses cost $5. This is the inflated Centro Histórico price. A friend who lives over in Colonia San Antonio buys hers from a door-to-door vendor for $3.50. When we visited San Francisco in July, I saw a kiosk in the Embarcadero Center selling loose roses for $7. a stem! Flowers there are a luxury indeed.

Under an arcade in the main plaza, an old woman sells dried flower arrangements. Her timeless face and bottomless patience help maintain the ancient flavor of our city center.



What wouold we do without them? The flower ladies are part of what makes living here so magical.

We have servants.

There. I've said it. I know it's politically incorrect to have servants. I'm prepared for your approbrium.

In fact, I already have been a target of disapproval by some of my acquaintances. Among themselves, they have been saying that hiring people to prepare meals and clean house and do laundry and gardening is somehow morally wrong and exploitative.

I'm gonna reveal all about our domestic situation. It's open kimono time. If we are to be objects of disdain, so be it.

Our first experience with servants was like a ghetto kid's first hit of crack cocaine: immediate addiction. We rented a house on Úmaran through a friend. It came with a cook and a maid. We gave the cook money and she bought groceries and prepared all of our meals.

Five weeks into our stay at the Úmaran house, I suffered a heart attack. After five days in a Mexican hospital, we made preparations to go back to California. Juanita and Lupe wept when we left. We didn't realize until much later that they thought I was going home to die. Juanita, who was pregnant with her first child while we were there, named him after me—Juanito.



(Lupe, Juanita, and my namesake, Juanito.)

The mutual warmth and affection we had with Juanita and Lupe meant more to us than the clean sheets and chicken enchiladas. Our relationship was closer than employee-employer but not as close as peer friends. Class informs all relationships in Mexico. It's unfortunate, but there it is. But even so, wonderfully close relationships grow where there are cracks in the hierarchy.

After we bought our house, we met Arlene Swift Jones, who was leaving her long-time home in San Miguel de Allende. Rosario had worked in her house for many years. She would be out of a job when when Arlene left. We hired Rosario, and she began preparing our meals and doing general housekeeping.



Rosario is 51 years old. She has had very little schooling and is illiterate. Not many jobs are open to her. She became a mother when she was only 13 years old.

In all of the homes we rented before buying the one we live in now, the staff included a second housekeeper, to do heavy cleaning, run errands and wash and iron clothes. It makes you wonder how homemakers in the U. S. do it—especially women who work outside the home as well.

Rosario's 38-year-old daughter, Ana Maria, needed work. On those occasions when she came to the house to help her mother, a warm contentment settled over our household. Things ran more smoothly. Everyone seemed more happy. This alone made hiring Ana Maria worthwhile—so we did.



Ana Maria is a single mom with three children. Her ex-husband provides no support. She lives with her mother.

We also needed a part-time gardener. A series of self-professed gardeners briefly worked at our house. When they had killed enough plants that we could accurately calibrate their skills, we fired them and hired others. One day, I met Ana Maria's 19-year-old son, Edgar, an art student. An intelligent, affable young man, he began hanging around our house, helping his mom and generally making himself useful. I realized that after repeatedly failing to find a knowledgeable gardener among the "professionals," that perhaps I could train my own. So I began showing Edgar the ropes. Today he works here part time.



Sure enough, the garden has begun to thrive. Here Edgar is standing in front of a world-class pachypodium: Its robust health is largely his doing.

The amount we pay these people is pitifully small; so small that any Norteamericano living on a moderate income could easily afford their salaries. So I guess you could make a case that we are exploiting them. Here's our arrangement:

1) We pay them about 150% of the going rate for maids, cooks and gardeners. Most people in their job categories live in abject poverty. Ours don't.

2) We increase their wages every year, by at least the Mexican Government guidelines and usually more.

3) We give them two weeks' paid vacation every year, if they want to take one. If they don't, we pay them two weeks' additional pay at the end of the year. No Mexican employer of domestic help does this.

4) We regularly pay the aguinaldo, a Christmas bonus that is mandated by law, but rarely paid voluntarily by private employers. It is equivalent to two weeks' pay.

5) They receive time off with pay for medical and other problems.

6) We cover all of their medical and dental expenses for them and their children.

7) We pay for Edgar's tuition and books at the San Miguel School of English.

8) We pay for tuition, books, uniforms and school clothes for Ana Maria's seven-year-old daughter, Teresa.



Here Teresa is wearing a dress Ana Maria made for a folk dance performance on the last day of school this year. What a sweetie!

A huge influx of Norteamericanos has provided a real boost to the local economy. A great deal of employment derives from our presence. Some of the jobs are direct: cooks, housekeepers, gardeners, handymen, drivers, houseboys, nurses and companions.

Perhaps we are exploiting these people. Perhaps we should stop exploiting them. Maybe we need to encourage them to go out into the real Mexican economy and learn to live prosperously in it.

Of course, living in the local economy can be tough. Especially if you're illiterate. Especially if your first child was born while you were a young teenager. Especially if you are a woman trying to live independently from an abusive husband. Especially in a country where there's no welfare system, no workfare system to help you learn how to be a store clerk.

Maybe Rosario and Ana Maria and Edgar feel exploited. I'll never know, because if I ask them, they'll just say they aren't. Maybe they'd appreciate the ending of their exploitation. Maybe I should give them the option to leave for a more non-exploitative job.

Oh. I forgot. They already have that option.

Our critics already know all this. They persist in their criticism. Why?

I think they're envious. They lack the courage and imagination to live adventurous lives, one small benefit of which can be getting your socks washed by someone else. They try to escape the disappointment of their circumscribed, unrewarding lives by being judgmental, by dispensing huffy criticism of those who live interesting and exciting lives.

Such people should be careful of bad karma, or they may be reincarnated as creatures with even more circumscribed lives. Instead of picking away at the success of others, they may be consigned, in the next life, to picking noses.

In September, a wild shrub blooms briefly. Campesinos gather the flowers and bring them into town to sell. I don't know the proper name of the plant, and I've never seen it cultivated. Mexicans call it Jazmín del Campo—Country Jasmine.



Jazmín del Campo ranks up there with the most intensely perfumed flowers in the world, even more so than the Plumeria or Lehua blossoms used in Hawaiian leis. Hauntingly sweet, the odor becomes cloying, almost overwhelming in confined spaces. The other day, we brought some to a friend as a hostess gift. During the car ride, we all started seeing spots. At home, we usually place the flowers in one of our outdoor spaces.



The blooms last only for a couple of days, and the Jazmín season lasts only for a couple of weeks. Like many things that grow in Mexico, they're available only in season, unlike up north where we could buy many delicacies year round.

The seasonality of Jazmín del Campo makes it all the more enjoyable during the brief moment when it comes to San Miguel. It helps mark the time of year. Jazmín in bloom means summer's over. Time to go back to school.