Patty's mother, Patricia, is Irish and was studying at a convent in Detroit where she met Patty's father, José, a Mexican man who was studying for the priesthood.

From Dad's photo, you can tell that 1) He was not cut out to be a priest, and 2) Patty's mom didn't have a chance. Just look at his handsome face, that smoldering expression.

[Already my left brain is short-circuiting. Here are two people living ascetic lives, suddenly derailed by passion. I can barely restrain myself from trying to calculate the tradeoffs.]

Freed from vows of chastity, they managed to produce eight children, six of them girls who are shown here. Patty is being held by her dad.

Patty's father is deceased. Most of the rest of the family was at Mom's house. Not for any special reason, but because that's just what they do: gather. Coming together is so important to the family that Mom is building a huge house with eight bedrooms, each with its own bath: one for each child and his or her family.

I renewed my acquaintances with Patty's sisters and their husbands and children, and with her brother, Harold. I met scores of relatives. Every one of them greeted me warmly and welcomed me. I have never been hugged and kissed by so many people, even at a wedding. They swept me into their family as if I were a once-missing member of it.

I can hardly describe this warm experience. Probably because I wouldn't know a feeling if it hit me over the head. All I can do is relate a few events from my visit and hope to convey some idea of what it was like to be taken in by these giving people.

—§—

In this post, I'll introduce you to just a couple of them. Below, we have sister Maru's husband, Juan. He is a wrangler by trade, more at ease in a corral or a cantina than in his mother-in-law's living room. We were all standing around in the kitchen when Juan roared in, gave me one of those complicated Mexican handshakes and a great bear hug. "¡Ay Amigo! ¿Como estabas?"

I had never met the man before.

I thought, "Mexican people sure are friendly, right from the get-go."

Minutes later, Juan realized he had mistaken me for Patty's ex-husband. He was hugely embarrassed, even more so after I insisted on taking his picture. I wanted to share with you this apparition: the Charro outfit, the broad mustache, the infectious grin.

After his enthusiastic greeting, there was nothing for it but to become bosom buddies.

The youngest member of the family is Geraldo, sister Sandy's boy. He quickly latched onto me, giving me besos, and calling me Señor John. Geraldo insisted on having his picture taken. In my notebook, he drew a picture of a Mexican eagle standing on a cactus, a snake in its beak, as well as an anatomically correct Tyrannosaurus rex. Where do kids pick up these things?

Pretty soon, most everyone was calling me Señor John. It became a game. You know that when they start teasing you, you're being accepted.

We drove out to the nearby pueblo of Cuarenta, where sister Sandy Lola and her husband Isaac own a truck stop. By now, you should be getting getting a message: Irish mom, Israeli husband son-in-law. Exactly what is a typical Mexican family?

The truck stop is called Base Cuarenta, because it houses a CB radio base station. You can just make out the antenna to the right of the building.

It is everything you'd expect a truck stop to be, except for selling fuel. That's monopolized by Pemex, the government-owned petroleum company.

Base Cuarenta has everything else a trucker might need: food, wine and booze, repair shop for CB radios, magazines, CDs, bathrooms, showers...

Little Geraldo went inside, got himself a canvas shopping bag and began filling it from the mini-store shelves with shampoo, toothpaste, candy, toys and balloons, all under the indulgent eyes of his mother and aunts. I don't think anybody paid for any of it.

We pushed four tables together and sat in the restaurant. From time to time one sister or another got up and helped herself to some food or got a soft drink out of the cooler. Isaac drank something he called a digestif, except it was non-alcoholic and taken before his meal. I insisted on trying it: Incredibly bitter. It tasted so bad, it had to be good for me.

Dinner conversation was as easy as a warm day, picking up from wherever it left off the last time everyone was there a couple of weeks ago. I was included, my opinion sought, my jokes laughed at. Geraldo spilled his coke. An aunt said "No pasó nada" (No problem); another mopped up the liquid. Geraldo spilled his big bag of candy. We helped him pick it up while the conversation flowed on uninterrupted, everyone having a good time, nada mucho pasando.

Hours after the sun set, it was time to go back to Lagos and to bed. Harold negotiated his van along the dark, shoulderless highway while the sisters sang childhood songs for Geraldo—and for themselves.

Back at Mom's house, we all said good night. Lots of hugs and kisses all around. Patty showed me my room. I lay back and listened to a lively tuba playing in a band at the social center next door, safe in my own bed, a contented engineer at home with his family.