People aren't really old when they reach their sixties, are they? I'm 66, and I feel like I'm only a couple of years out of adolescence. I still have an eye for young ladies (as if I had anything to offer them). I think that surely Airplane is one of the funniest movies ever made (and stop calling me Shirley). I continue to wonder about what I want to do when I grow up.

But owing to a lapse in maintaining responsibility for the health of my (slightly) aging body, I forgot about getting a flu shot this year. All would have been well, except for that non-hygienic lumbering slob, Paul Latoures, (El Guapo). Paul's appearance screams,"Get away! Get away!" to the fastidious, or for that matter anyone else who washes his hands more than once a week.

A couple of weeks ago, I picked Paul up and drove him various places, during which time he continuously coughed, filling the car with aerosols, each micro-droplet containing animalcules in search of a new host. I remember thinking at the time that I should stop the car and say "Get out"! That, or stop breathing. It's a wonder what we do for love.

So I've been in bed with influenza for the last week, and now, chastened, I'm resolved to take better care of my health.

Another indication of aging is spending more time visiting sick friends. A few weeks ago, I visited one at Hospital Los Angeles, the gold standard hospital in these parts.

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

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

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

"I dunno. Whaddaya got?"

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

"Will you marry me?"

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

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

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

Even the Pope receives petitions.

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

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