Chiapas has escaped. About month ago, the parrot Clint and I share was perched on the wrought iron railing of my terrace that overlooks the city. I had neglected to keep up with clipping his wing feathers. With a sudden squawk, he took wing like he'd been flying all of his life. He was out of sight within seconds.

I am devastated.

I find it hard to convey a sense of the powerful bond that can form between a parrot and his person. The Chop-man and I did everything together. He rode on my shoulder as I made my rounds around town. Once I was carrying him into Office Depot when the security guard stopped me. "Mascotas no se permitan en la tienda," (no pets allowed) he said. Chiapas and I just stared at him. The guard got the message and waved us in: Chiapas is no pet.

We took naps together. He perched on my knee, one four-taloned foot drawn up underneath, head tucked under his right wing. When it was time to get up, he would clamber down onto my chest and do a little dance to wake me up. When I was writing, he'd sit on my shoulder or on the edge of the computer screen. We ate meals together, he standing beside my plate, helping himself to my pasta and carrots. He liked to take showers with me. He'd perch on my shoulder, and when the spray hit him, he'd reel off his entire bilingual vocabulary, about 30 words.

He'd greet me in the morning by saying, "I love you."

I miss him so much.

After he flew the coop, I posted a reward on the local radio station. I went out and spread the word among all the local kids. I got no response whatever.

—§—

I'm spending a few days at the beach. Yesterday I ate breakfast at a palapa restaurant where I met another parrot; a yellow-head Amazon just like Chiapas.

I'm embarrassed I didn't learn his name. But he was a talker, and he repeated almost every word and noise I made in his presence. We had a lengthy conversation while I tried to develop a deeper, more physical relationship with him. He responded by trying to eat my shirt. A true parrot, indeed.

I held out my finger so he would step up. He bit it, hard enough to let me know he wasn't having any, but not so hard as to break the skin. He was saying, "Keep your distance, Bud."

Had he climbed onto my shoulder and rubbed his cheek against mine the way Chiapas did, I would have lost my resolve never to own another parrot. Having Chiapas in my life was a loving experience, but parrots need constant companionship. I used to curtail my travel urges just to accommodate him.

I can't be arranging my life around the needs of a parrot, can I?

Look what they've done to my car, Ma.

Scrapes, dents—this was a brand new car when I brought it to Mexico, resplendent in pearlescent white paint. Were I to bring it to a US body shop, it would cost at least half its value to make it like new. Given the condition it's in today, it would sell for a low fraction of low book.

See how the sidewall rubber has been ground off the left front tire? (Upper left picture.) That white ring around the tire is bad news. Our streets are so narrow that you have to park touching the curb to avoid scrapes from passing cars. Then you have to fold in your left mirror or it'll be sheared off. I've replaced three so far at $300 a pop.

Our streets were not designed for cars, especially trucks and SUVs. They were laid out during the days of horses and mules and pedestrians. They can't be widened because exterior walls are built on property lines, right out to the edge of the street. The left hand photo below shows a small pickup descending Calle Piedras Chinas. When I attempt it, my Explorer has no more than a couple of inches to spare on either side.

On the right we see a garbage truck squeaking by parked cars on Calle Jesús. I'm in awe of these hombres de la basura, and of anyone who drives a large vehicle in town. They get through places that I swear are narrower than their truck. They keep a beveled block of wood in the cab to use as a ramp so they can drive up onto the sidewalk if need be.

The turn from the Salida de Querétaro onto narrow De Loreto is a little tight. Some of the scrapes and scars on the wall of that building are quite deep. I put one of them there myself: check out the left front fender in the upper right photo at the top of this post.

Scratches and dings are one thing; mechanical deterioration is another. Our roads shake everything loose. My once nice tight car squeaks and rattles pitifully. The electronics controlling the four wheel drive controls have shorted out. The gas gauge has become misleadingly inaccurate. The cd changer eats cds—won't give 'em back. All too often the car has to go to the shop to get something tightened. Or to replace stuff that fell off.

Many of our streets are paved with cobblestones, like those pictured top left, below. Cobblestones set up vigorous vibration. You can just feel bolts working loose as you drive.

We like cobblestones because they add to the 17th-Century feel of the city. But they're hell on cars, they work loose leaving vicious potholes, and the paving only lasts three years. When the streets wear out, crews of about 20 guys come in. They dig out all the cobblestones, re-grade the dirt underneath, and re-set the cobbles. By hand.

Some streets are paved with dressed stone. They're a relative pleasure to drive on, but water softens the ground underneath and so you get more potholes, like the one the scooter driver is avoiding. Another source of potholes is neighbors "borrowing" a stone or two to repair their houses.

Sometimes you don't even get cobblestones: cobbled streets randomly peter out into dirt roads four a couple hundred meters, before paving resumes.

Had enough? It gets worse.

As in every country in the world, speeders are a problem. One hugely ineffective solution in Mexico is to post ridiculously low speed limits. This sign posted on Avenida Independencia, a major thoroughfare, sets a limit of about 6 mph.

Of course, nobody observes it. Nor can it be reasonably enforced. Not enough cops. To write you a ticket, they have to confiscate your driver's license, write out the citation, and appear at traffic court that day to testify against you. Takes a couple of hours to process just one speeder.

Too cumbersome. So Mexico uses passive speed controls called topes—industrial-strength speed bumps. The one below doesn't look all that vicious; in fact, I haven't been able to capture in photographs just how serious these things are. But if you hit one at anything over 5 mph, you're gonna go airborne.

Topes come in several varieties. The metal dome type will jar your fillings loose. Sometimes small boulders are sunk into the pavement instead.

Wide topes double as crosswalks. These are very effective: The Ancha de San Antonio, a four-lane arterial, can be crossed by small children in complete safety. More easily than automobiles can.

Groups handing out advertising flyers or soliciting for charitable organizations have discovered that topes make great places for conducting business. It's hard to resist these guys when you come to a near stop and they look you right in the eye.

Dirt roads, cobblestones, and potholes beat the hell out of cars. Here my friend Lee points to the collapsed suspension on her Blazer, a victim of one too many topes.

The bright side is that Mexican mechanics are ingenious and affordable. They can repair anything. Not with factory-approved parts, of course. Nobody can afford those, especially when you need them so often.

Paul (El Guapo) Latoures' Jeep is a case in point. He's got more bailing wire and duct tape under the hood than you'd think possible. Vital components are held in place with bungee cords. There's a pair of wires snaking out through the space between the hood and a fender, through the wing window and into the passenger compartment. God knows what for. His sled is a vision of what my Explorer will look like in another five years.

Which brings me back to my original problem: What to do about my poor beat-up car? Expats know there's only one way out: Drive it into the ground. If you're lucky, it'll still be running when it's ten years old at which time you can import the car without paying high duties. Then you can sell it in Mexico for a few thousand dollars more than it's worth in the States, use the proceeds to buy a new car, and start the process all over again.

Guano-bespattered walks and walls discourage human visitors from lingering on the path between Parque Juárez and the Cultural Center at El Chorro. Here, two of the culprits loiter beside one such wall.

They're beautiful creatures, and they've nested in the area of Parque Juárez for ages. But humans have moved in. Many want the birds out. Recently the city triumphed in the years-long battle with the Parque Juárez birds. I posted about the cleanup effort two years ago.

Driven out of the park, the egrets moved to neighboring trees in the area of El Chorro, referred to by some as the Beverly Hills of San Miguel de Allende. The guano load in effect was transferred from the park to this exclusive neighborhood, a situation everyone knew would not be tolerated for long.

The other day, I noticed arborists topping trees, the same tactic that deprived egrets of nesting sites in the nearby park.

This solution to the guano problem seems rather extreme: no more bird poop, but it leaves the trees looking like amputees. Gone are the graceful forms and leafy shade, replaced by ugly, hacked-off stubs. The birds can't nest on stubs, so they move on. Less poop: more ugliness. Is the tradeoff worth it?

Nesting egrets ordinarily live aloft, rarely descending to the ground. But today they have no other place to perch. They stand around on piles of slash looking dazed, avian equivalents of Hiroshima survivors.

At least this year, the trees were cut before nesting had begun, unlike two years ago when the ground was littered with nests and nestlings. Then, neighborhood cats made quick work of the baby birds. Adults, though, are safe enough on the ground; felines wisely keep their distance from long-billed adults.

Mexicans and their Mesoamerican forebears have been working stone for centuries, and they're very good at it. Anywhere in the country where living conditions are inviting (water, arable soil) hundreds of archeological sites attest to the multiplicity and permanence of their works. The Conquistadors harnessed the skills of indigenous stoneworkers, at first for church-building.

The stone of choice is called cantera, a Spanish word that means quarry but in Mexico refers to an easily-worked stone formed of volcanic ash. Cantera is relatively light stone and can be carved into architectural elements and sculptures.

To me the word brings up images of colonial ornaments, but today the stone finds application in modern architecture, even something as pedestrian as the surround of this garage door.

A major source of cantera is the little town of Escolástica, about a half hour south of Querétaro. The name of the town has a religious connotation: It refers to the Middle Age doctrine of organizing Church dogma based on the works of Aristotole, a concept invented by Saint Thomas Aquinas. Heady stuff for a community where people bang rocks with hammers.

Looks to me like there are a couple dozen talleres de cantera (workshops) in Escolástica. Most line the two-lane highway that winds through town. All are small operations, the largest employing maybe twenty stone carvers and laborers.

The stone is so malleable that it can easily be formed into almost any shape. Here, heaped beside the road, are fountains and ornate window frames. The cylindrical objects at the bottom of the image are waste—cores bored out of the center of columns to admit steel reinforcing.

In Escolástica, cores and other scrap are used as construction materials. Free to stoneworkers, it's cheaper than bricks. Stacked in front of this house are hundreds of cantera pavers. Finely dressed ones are used to floor interior rooms in expensive homes.

Stone carvers sometimes enjoy pleasant work conditions. In our year-round pleasant climate, the shade of a huizache (Acacia shaffneri) makes an open-air workshop.

Much stone carving is done with hand tools. The man on the left is hollowing out a fountain with a tool that combines the functions of a chisel and hammer, made from a tiny lozenge of tool steel welded to a heavy bar of mild steel. The artisan on the right uses a conventional hammer and chisel for producing fine fluting on a pink cantera column.

Electric grinders and saws permit quick removal of large amounts of stone. They also make a lot of dust. Workers protect their lungs with bandannas. On the right we see an illustration of Mexico's relaxed attitudes toward work. These three men remained gathered in companionable conversation for the half-hour I was in their shop taking photos.

Pavers are cut using large water-lubricated saws. All of the workers I met had all their fingers, unlike the mesquite furniture-makers of Adjuntos del Rio. But the stone is wet and perhaps a little slippery. And what about flying chunks of rock? I don't think this rig would meet OSHA regulations.

Credit for this excellent image: Paul (El Guapo) Latoures.
Now you know why he gets paid the big bucks.

Sculptors produce myriad works; some conventional, some not. Bas-relief carvings depicting Guadalupe are common. On the right, the naked, intertwined threesome might fire some imaginations. You can't see it in the photo, bout somehow, the female figure's left breast got lopped off and has been glued back in place. I don't think this one's gonna sell.

The cutaway man seems unique to me, perhaps inspired by a high school anatomy book. (Notice how the tibia articulates with the femur...) On the right, Paul and the sculptor discuss the symbolism of a hole in a statue's stomach. When I raised my camera, they broke off their conversation to pose, ruining a candid image. Paul should know better.

Escolástica is situated in the countryside where life remains simple and close to the land. Here a couple carry a load of machete-cut leña (firewood) back to their house. They'll use it for cooking, unable to afford gas. The husband asked me for a regalo (gift) for taking his picture. Cash must be hard to come by. Stone carvers are paid salaries. Campesinos are not.

The stone workers of Escolástica create beauty out of common stone with skill and artistry. Competition keeps prices (and wages) low, so Norteamericanos are often surprised how cheaply they can incorporate hand-carved stonework into their homes. The artisans seem content in their work and adequately compensated. Their lives appear to be pleasant and devoid of the pressures I experienced in Silicon Valley. But as Mexico inexorably moves into the first world, how will these people fare? Will they be able to maintain their small-scale businesses and the pleasure of shaping stone with their hands?

Mexico's 1917 constitution curtails Catholic Church ownership of property. Today, the State owns essentially all ecclesiastical lands and buildings. A consequence of Mexico's long struggle between Church and State is that the city of San Miguel de Allende today bears responsibility for maintenance of its 29 Catholic churches. Many have picturesque exteriors and some are important historically, such as the San Francisco Church, originally founded by Father Juan de San Miguel in 1542.

I particularly like the simplicity, the Mexicanness of the bell tower.

In many places historical buildings are preserved in a state of arrested decay. Here, erosion of plaster enhances our appreciation of the San Francisco Church's age and gives us a glimpse of how it was constructed: walls built of uncut stone—rubble, really— suspended between pink cantera columns. Broken cornices add to the sense of antiquity.

But for me, the features that most evoke the feeling of Old Mexico are cacti and grasses growing atop the walls.

For the last few years, San Miguel has been renovating its historic buildings. New colors and gilding make spectacular the dome of the Templo de las Monjas. Renewed stonework and salmon-colored plaster vastly improve the appearance of our signature building, the Parroquoia de San Miguel Arcangel.

But while much can be gained in doing renovations, sometimes something is lost. Today, the bell tower of the San Francisco Church looks like this:

It's clearly a building in good repair—no mistaking that. But gone is the exposed stonework; gone are the cacti; gone is the sense of great age. Even the patina on the brass bell has been removed.

You'd never guess this building is more than 450 years old.

By and large, I appreciate the renovations that have spruced up our town. But the San Francisco bell tower no longer draws my gaze. For me, its soul has been plastered and painted over. Today it looks like something atop a Santa Barbara condo complex.

When is the best time to visit San Miguel de Allende? Many visitors come just after New Year's day. They're escaping snow and ice, unaware that staying in one of our magnificent colonial homes between December and February is like living in a wine cellar. Daytimes then are sunny and moderate, but nights are cold and houses rarely have central heating. Those thick stone walls are chilly. I love hearing visitors from Toronto complain about the cold!

So for my money, winter is not a good time to come. Nor are April and May comfortable months. They're hot, dry, and dusty. Some tourist-related businesses give up and close during the spring for lack of customers.

No, the sweet spot is during the months of June through October, our rainy season. Scattered clouds fill the sky, moderating the intense sun and lowering temperatures.

Many afternoons feature a thunderstorm or two. They're often intense, but rarely last more than an hour, after which the sun breaks through, the streets are fresh and washed, and the climate is ideal. In these months we get three quarters of our annual 23" of rainfall.

We also get nice sunsets.

Some are put off by the idea of vacationing during the "rainy season." The term, though, is relative: the eastern half of the the US from the great plains to the atlantic seaboard and all of the Pacific Northwest receives roughly double the precipitation we do. Nobody's vacation is going to be ruined by visiting San Miguel during the summer.

We welcome many Norteamericano visitors in July and August. In June, September and October we smugly enjoy uncrowded restaurants and Mexico's best climate as we anticipate the arrival of next winter's crowd of shivering Canadians.

Of course, we Sanmigulenenses will be tanning on the beach at Yelapa by then.

Business was slow the other day for a shoeshine man on a plaza in Mexico City's Roma district.

So to keep busy, he shined his own shoes. He spent about an hour on the one. I didn't wait around for him to get to the other.

One of San Miguel's quiet oases is a former convent, now referred to by locals as Bellas Artes, as in "You can buy chamber music festival tickets at Bellas Artes." It's also known as Centro Cultural Ignacio Ramírez or El Nigromante. I lived here a year before I realized that all three names belonged to the same place. It's a branch of the Palacio de Bellas Artes of Mexico City, and provides gallery space, classrooms for art students, a concert hall, and a small cafe, and it features a mural by David Alfaro Siqueiros.

The other day, an installation by Japanese artiest Sae Otomo caught my eye. She titled it Es Necesario lo Innecesario (Necessary or Unnecessary?). It makes a statement about how our consumption affects the environment; in particular, what we do with stuff after we've used it.

The panel below contains items she found while walking along the highway to Querétaro. The objects she found must have taken her all of five minutes to collect. The amount of trash thrown along highways is shocking to visitors from rich countries.

Consisting mostly of discarded containers, the panel contains one that is disturbing:

This bottle once held highly corrosive muriatic acid. Anyone coming in contact with small amounts of residue might suffer severe burns.

Protest art needs to have more impact, in my view, than a collection of common litter glued to a square or muslin. In the panel below, Sae Otomo delivers, in a work called Afterwards, Where Do They Go?

Where do what go? This work consists of used disposable diapers and sanitary napkins, again found along the highway. Repulsive, shocking—who wants to walk into a gallery to be confronted by something like this? But for me, it succeeds in sharply bringing home the message: Collectively we humans are slobs, throwing disgusting wastes anywhere without regard for the health of the planet or for our fellows.

Art with a strong message. I wouldn't hang it in my living room, though.

Do you become a little nervous when you book an unknown hotel or tour online. What if it's less than what you'd hoped it would be?

We're well past the days where we share buses with campesinos toting chickens. I think. But travel in a country where preventative maintenance is often overlooked can lead to unpleasant surprises.

Like the door falling off your bus.

Gothic churches are rare in Mexico. When one appears, it draws my attention. In Zacatecas, I encountered the Templo de Nuestra Señora de Fátima.

A classical gothic structure, this building would be at home in Spain or Germany (except for the pink cantera cladding). I love its soaring vertical lines and the profusion of towers.

The Iglesia Fátima is modeled on the Basílica Fátima, located in the town of the same name in Portugal, the site of an apparition in 1917 of the Virgin to three peasant children. It has since become the object of many pilgrimages.

Here in Zacatecas, construction of the Iglesia Fátima began around 1950 and was completed in the 1990s. To my untrained eye, there exists an impalpable modern feel to the building, whether because of the lack of weathering, or restraint in the use of exterior detail.

Nevertheless Mexican architectural playfulness creeps in here and there. The canales (rain spouts) are carved stone creatures—lions?—with ornamented metal spouts in their mouths.

The stained glass windows seem more colorful than older European examples, and their subjects are rendered in simpler, perhaps cleaner fashion. The window on the right has an almost psychedelic spiral in the background. Peace, man.

In the churches I visit, I frequently find displays depicting development of the human fetus. Their purpose plainly is not to provide biology lessons: that's hardly the mission of the Church. Displays like this are intended to discourage abortion. In them, models of blastulas are accompanied by text to the effect that such are complete human beings possessing souls.

Although not Catholic, I frequently enter churches to pray and meditate. These quiet, dim, sacred places help me find inner peace. Displays like the above are, for me, jarring and intrusive. But then, Iglesia Fátima is not my church. I'm just borrowing it for a little while. So as a good guest, I'll just keep my opinions to myself, and express gratitude for the hospitality offered me.

Clint and I stayed at the full-service, moderately-priced Hotel Don Miguel in Zacatecas. The impression you get from this view of the place, shot from the summit of La Bufa, is accurate. It's a business class hotel, with all of the attendant charm you encounter in such places.

Looks like a factory, doesn't it? Sort of feels like one when you stay there. But rooms are well-appointed and the staff is attentive. Your $80 per night buys you cleanliness and efficiency, but not charm. It does it buy you in-room WiFi which, in my opinion, earns the place a gold star.

For a luxurious, romantic weekend, the plushest place in town is the Quinta Real. (The link connects to a travel agent's website, because the hotel's own website is is slow with all kinds of flash, an annoying idea particularly favored by Mexican web designers.) It'll run you a good $200 a night, but you get the facilities of a full spa, a fancy restaurant and a beautiful setting. You can just make out the hotel building, immediately behind the old aqueduct.

A five-star hotel built around a 17th-century bull ring, it's probably a good choice for a honeymoon. That is, if you'd rather honeymoon in Zacatecas than in, say, Bali.

Most interesting, for my money, is the Hostel Villa Colonial. It's colorful, clean and homey. It has private rooms or you can stay in hostel-type lodgings. The staff consists of the owner and a couple of friends: they're pleasant and friendly.

I peeked into a hostel room about 2 PM, where I caught a traveler sleeping. Oh, to be that young again. Out all night and then sleep it off until mid-afternoon.

The Hostel Villa Colonial has a pleasant rooftop terrace. Clint and I ascended for the views of La Bufa and the cathedral. We were waylaid by young women from the university who were making a student documentary. They interviewed us about our impressions of Zacatecas which, we reported, were all positive. The girls were charming. Clint was charming. I stood off in a corner taking photos, cluck-clucking at the inappropriateness of their scandalous charmingness.

Here, I could have run pictures of a rare view of the rear of the cathedral, or of cars dangling from the cables of the Teleférico as they made their way up the Cerro de la Bufa. The Hostel Villa Colonial offers many such vistas; better than those from their pricier competition. But that's not how I roll. What caught my eye was this rooftop:

Someone assembled a collection of TV picture tubes. Don't ask my why. No doubt something to do with the almost visceral reluctance Mexicans have for throwing anything away.

Collecting picture tubes: it's probably something I wouldn't do. But I have to admit I can see the appeal, as I am sure can many of you...

The Hostel Villa Colonial is where it's at. Of the three hotels mentioned here, it's the only one where you can strike up conversations with guests and staff. It's relaxed and has lots of charm. And you can stay there for a week for what the Quinta Real would charge for a single night.

It's where you'll find me the next time I visit Zacatecas.

When visiting a new city, finding a good restaurant can be a crapshoot. Fortunately for me, Clint knew of a great one in Zacatecas: Los Dorados de Villa.

(When it comes to the meaning of that name, my Spanish fails me. The Golden Ones of the Town? Can someone help?)

When you're traveling with Clint, the way restaurants work is: If he has been there and liked it, it's going to be good. So don't bother asking any questions. Just go in and eat.

But things didn't look all that good when we arrived. A young woman was lying on the bench provided out front for restaurant patrons waiting for tables. Sleeping off a drunk?

I approached her and cleared my throat. She sat up and smiled. She smelled of soap, not booze. Her eyes weren't dilated. Why was she lying on the bench?

"I was sleepy. I needed a little siesta."

I said, "Of course. Well—er—we're just going into the restaurant."

"Go right ahead," she said. "You won't bother me."

Los Dorados de Villa is kind of like a speakeasy. We had to knock on the locked door (no bell). Someone opened it a crack and asked what we wanted. Suppressing an urge to ask for a bottle of gin, I said, "We're here for dinner."

Did we have a reservation? We did not. We were told to wait. The door shut.

I looked over at the convenient bench. The sleeping girl had vacated, so I was preparing to rest when the restaurant door suddenly reopened and we were motioned inside.

It's tiny. Probably seats 16. The table for six in the foreground was reserved. Ours was the small table to the left of the couple glaring at me as I took their photograph.

Clint said, "The food's really good here." Uh-huh.

Well, the place was colorful in a funky way. I figured the food would be interesting at least. I asked the waiter for a recommendation. Without hesitation he said, "You want to start with the pozole, followed by the enchiladas in tomato cream sauce." Well all right then. I surely wasn't going to argue with him.

The pozole was the best I'd ever had. This dish is often problematic: usually gristly bits of pork in broth with way too much oregano. Los Dorados' was intense chicken broth, shredded chicken breast and garbanzos, perfectly balanced and savory.

The pozole was a dinner all by itself, but although already stuffed, we soldiered on with the enchiladas. Three of them, cheese, chicken and beef were served in a deep bowl in the smoothest light tomato sauce ever. They were nuanced like French haute cuisine; nothing like the rustic fare that is typical Mexican cooking.

I see this post reads like a restaurant review. I guess that's because it is. I don't usually write them, but this place is so special, I can only say that if you're hungry in Zacatecas—you want to start with Los Dorados de Villa.

In the mid-16th Century, Juan de Tolosa encountered the Zacatecanos, native indians carrying silver artifacts. He extracted from them the location of the vein of silver from which they had obtained the precious metal. In short order, Zacatecas was founded, the indians were enslaved and put to work in the mines, and the city became the largest producer of Spain's New World wealth.

Oh, and the life expectancy of the indians was halved.

Today, a statue honors those long-dead miners. I guess it's nice that they are remembered this way, but I wonder how their descendants feel about it.

Other miners are remembered here, as well. Here we have the Emilia Cafe in downtown Zacatecas.

It's located at the intersection of a major artery and a pedestrian walkway: Callejon del Indio Triste—Sad Indian Alley.

I'm told that the sad indian commemorated in Zacatecas refers to a 16th-century man who was enslaved and put to work in the silver mines. Legend has it that he began to cry, and continued to cry for days and weeks, until a priest, touched by the man's sadness, obtained his release from enslavement. The tragedy was too much for the sad indian, who continued to cry for years until his early death.

Today, a statue of him sits atop the building housing the Emilia Cafe. Some, but not many visitors understand its significance.

I've seen many streets in other cities named Indio Triste. We have one in San MIguel de Allende. But I think they commemorate a different sad indian. This man, a member of a noble indian family living in Mexico City, put himself into the service of the Spanish conquerors, betraying his people. Over time his life fell into ruin and as he contemplated the crimes he had perpetrated against his neighbors, he became depressed, and spent the remainder of his life crouched in the street, downcast in sadness.

Both stories are legendary. I found no authoritative references to either, although both seem to have considerable currency. But one thing is for certain: the original New World inhabitants, and their descendants today, have a lot to be sad about.

Several years ago, I stopped briefly at a hotel on the outskirts of Zacatecas, en route to my first extended stay in San Miguel de Allende. There I enjoyed my first Thanksgiving dinner outside of the United States: a pathetic rib eye steak grilled to pemmican-like chewy toughness at one end while still frozen at the other.

Fresh from harsh treatment at the hands of a corrupt Gomez Palacio traficante, I thoroughly enjoyed my badly-cooked meal and gave thanks I had been able to escape jail or impoundment of my car.

So I've always had a desire to return to the city that was founded on a vein of silver, and when Clint invited me to accompany him while he nosed out hidden retablos, I agreed to come.

The Spanish, and the indigenous Zacatecas before them, couldn't have missed the silver. It was found in a mountaintop rock formation called Cerro de la Bufa, which I guess you could translate as "wheeze hill."

It was so named because of the soughing sound the mountain makes when the wind is strong. The silver mines beneath it have long been exhausted. The place has become a tourist attraction. Part of the mine has been converted into a disco, which may well be as good a use for one as any, if you've ever experienced the disappointment of touring a rough, dark hole in the ground.

You can ride a gondola to the summit of Cerro de la Bufa, for an overhead view of the city.

Historically important as one of the truly significant sources of Spain's 16th- and 17th-century wealth, and with a well-preserved city center (after the silver ran out, nobody could afford to tear the old colonial buildings down), Zacatecas today is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Like so many old Mexican cities, Zacatecas is chock full of monuments, bringing Mexican history alive for someone like me who has difficulty visualizing past events from written descriptions. This fountain commemorates figures prominent in the founding of the city, among them Juan de Tolosa, credited with discovering the massive silver deposits.

In more recent times, efforts have been made to preserve the details that make this place so visually interesting. These wonderful street lamps caught my eye.

Like San Miguel, Guanajuato and other colonial cities, Zacatecas has narrow pedestrian-only callejónes leading off who-knows-where, lending interest and a sense of mystery.

The city is a tourist magnet. The vast majority of visitors are Mexicans enjoying a beautiful place and soaking up their heritage. With tourists come unfortunate contrivances like this genuine San Francisco cable car.

For an elegant stay, it's hard to top the Quinta Real, built on the site of an old plaza de toreros (bullfight ring), here being set up for a wedding reception. About $200 a night ought to get it: expensive, but not for the top hotel in a significant city anymore. (Clint and I stayed in a cheaper place, lest you get the wrong idea.)

The arches in the background belong to Del Cubo, an ancient aqueduct.

When I think of Zacatecas, though, one image stands out: Zacatecas Cathedral.

Construction started in 1610, but the Mexican Churrigueresque-style exterior was completed in the mid-18th Century. The façade is one of the most ornamented I have seen. Fronted as it is by a busy street, contemplation of the decorations on this beautiful building is problematical—glimpses captured between passing buses and trucks.

But when you can see it, what a sight! We're looking at bas-relief images of the apostles, tucked in between those fantastically carved columns.

Like too many important Mexican churches, the interior of this one was looted during the Civil War and the Revolution. Today, the interior is plain and unremarkable. But the Cathedral remains the landmark of Zacatecas, one of the jewels of Mexico.

Retablos are small paintings of religious subjects. Most were painted on tin, dating from the 19th Century, but rare ones as much as 300 years old exist; the old ones usually painted on copper or wood. Subjects can be divided into three categories: 1) Jesus Christ, 2) The Virgin in her various manifestations, and 3) a wide variety of saints, angels, and other holy figures. On the left, a retablo bears a rendering of the patron saint of my town, St. Michael.

Their style owes much to 17th-century Spain. Concerned by the rapid spread of New World settlements that were springing up faster than churches could be built, the Spanish Catholic Church sent painters overseas to teach indigenous artists how to make paintings for use in home chapels. Since then, countless thousands of them have been created.

The term retablo means "behind the altar," after the location where they were displayed.

Although retablos have roots in classical Spanish painting, they clearly are Mexican folk art: charming, colorful, and eminently collectable. Demand has increased rapidly in recent years, and therein lies an opportunity for my friend and noted international merchant, Clint. Here he is in an antique store in Zacatecas, checking out a selection of retablos in an effort to build his stock.

Visitors can't just wander about the countryside visiting ruined haciendas and making offers for antiques anymore. Mexican dealers are experiencing booming demand, and they scour the country for pieces that have survived. The likes of us don't have a chance. Clint looks for retablos in retail antique shops, but for him there still are substantial margins, because he resells them to collectors in the states. They are willing to pay much higher prices than retablos can command in Mexico.

Clint has a unique style of networking. Stopping two mariachis on the street, he asked them something like, "Hey. Know where I can buy some retablos?" I dunno—I probably wouldn't have tried that approach. But for him it worked. They steered him to this imposing building.

A former mercado where meat and vegetables were sold, it has now been converted into an elegant shopping mall.

The high, paneled ceiling, the cast-iron columns, the tiled floors have all been retained and restored. Individual stores have been constructed as free-standing glass enclosures. For my money, the architect gets an A for this building. It's so fine that it looked a little rich for our blood.

But most antique shops have a way of being cluttered, eclectic places with flexible pricing, and the one in the mercado was no exception. Clint hit pay dirt here: three fine retablos at good prices.

Back in San Miguel, Clint shows off one of his trophies: a charming Madonna and Child in an ornate frame. It's easy to see why demand for these objects is so high.

I wonder if Clint will actually manage to part with this one. He has several nice ones hanging in his home, and I suspect he loves them primarily for their appeal, and not so much for their potential profits.

The biggest fair in all of Mexico is held every year during May in Aguascalientes. Clint and I headed over there to check it out. Called Feria Nacional de San Marcos, people attend from all over Mexico and many visit from other Latin American countries as well. It's a deeply traditional event; the 2008 fair was the 180th.

Clint and I envisioned a large mercado with traditionally dressed indigenous people—a showcase of Mexico's best. We'd heard it had a spicy side, too: bullfights, cockfights, gambling—an aspect of Mexico I'd not seen. We were thinking quaint, rustic, but big. We were wrong.

Feria Nacional de San Marcos is a big deal, similar in many ways to the California State Fair. While the fair indeed features many cultural events, like the California event it's strong on bread and circuses. Daily agendas feature long lists of entertainers. Most visitors come to play at this junior grade Las Vegas. I suspect a minority actually are interested in culture.

Unfortunately we'd failed to do our homework, investing a long drive to visit something totally unlike what we had imagined. Arriving in Aguascalientes around 10 AM, Clint paid $150 pesos to park, and we walked out into the area where the fair was held. Oops. It was closed! Wouldn't open until that evening. The fair is a nighttime affair. A quick check of the website would have saved us a lot of time and effort.

So what we got to see was a cleaning crew hosing the place down after last night's festivities. Don't want to think about that too much.

We got to see two policemen trying to subdue a leftover drunk at the request of a restaurant manager.

And we had a quick look at an intriguing boite. I've been trying to imagine to whom this place would appeal.

Due to poor planning, we were unable to stay until evening. We returned to San Miguel, singularly unimpressed with Aguascalientes. This is unfair, however. Belated research shows that Aguascalientes is a vibrant town, developing real economic muscle, its heart a storehouse of colonial architecture of some note.

I'll be back to explore the city properly. But I think I'll skip the fair, for the same reason I have avoided the California State Fair. Elvis impersonators are just not my thing.

Mexico is a thirsty country, especially this time of year. We are nearing the end of the dry season (thankfully) but days are hot and we breathe a lot of dust. We dry out quickly in the thin air of San Miguel de Allende, Alt. 6,600'. So we need lots to drink, and plenty of people make a living providing fluids.

Some people like licuados—drinks made from fruits whirled in a blender with water and sugar, sometimes with a quail egg or two added for protein. Here a young family buys refreshing bebidas—drinks—at one of the ubiquitous kiosks that service the needs of thirsty people.

Tourists prefer to sit on the central plaza under arches. Costs a little more to drink here, but the chairs have backs and the drinks have alcohol. These ladies appear to be enjoying—what—bloody marys? What is it that's served in a tall glass, is red, and has salt on the rim?

Nobody goes thirsty in this country. Wherever you go, there's a bar or restaurant or drink stand or in a pinch, a tiendita that'll sell you a bottle of water—just a few steps away.

Last month an unseasonable thunderstorm dumped rain and hail on us while we were lunching at Casa de Aves out near Atotonilco. The incongruity of a couple inches of frozen precipitation covering ground underneath cactus and mesquite inspired me to stop and shoot a few frames.

We had been dining on a terrace beside a lovely pond when the hail started. Sudden gusty winds blew rain under the sun umbrellas. Diners sprinted for the hotel a couple hundred meters away where, after some delay, the kitchen staff set us up to continue our meals.

The drive home afforded us views of—what? Not exactly a winter wonderland, but white vistas reminiscent of snow days where as children we were excused from school.

Darned if I know how this cow managed to cover its head with wet straw. Was it trying to dampen the impact of hailstones?

Of course not. Mexican farmers don't de-horn cows like those in the States do. So when foraging, cows sometimes get tangled up in long grasses.

From my home in California, I always thought of Mexico as a land of cactus and deserts and haciendas with bougainvillea dripping over stone walls. That there can be hail and snow and ice opens my mind to the incredible diversity of this land.

When I was a lowly technician working part-time to finance my college education, I wired a lot of equipment. My boss, a bull of a man named Ira Zeeman, looked at my early work disdainfully and said, "Wood, that sh*t looks like a rats nest!" He then showed me how to "dress" wires; that is, after connecting them to their terminals, to arrange their paths so they look neat and orderly.

Properly Dressed Wires

Ira's criticism stuck with me . Forty-five years later, I still react to poor wiring. No wonder this lamp post jumped out at me when I was walking through Parque Juárez the other day.

A Rat's Nest

The mussy appearance of this rig is extreme even for Mexican wiring, which I have observed rarely rises to North American or European standards.

A closer look reveals more than appearance problems. Check the splice between the white heavy-gauge wire and the three orange ones. No insulation, not to mention that the twisted connection is likely to fail over time as the wires move in the wind. Other splices on the same pole have been protected with black electrical tape. Not good: that stuff won't last a year in the hot sun and the rain.

Safety isn't as big a concern in Mexico as other places. Here in San Miguel de Allende a couple of years ago, a little girl was electrocuted during a rainstorm when wiring like this failed.

Once I watched an electrician lean out over Aldama street from a rooftop, reaching for overhead wiring. He licked his fingers to improve conductivity and touched the wires to see if they were live! OK. Those of us who did electrical work for a living sometimes did that kind of thing when we were young and foolish. But today I find it hard to watch.

—§—

Safety issues aren't confined to outdoor wiring. Consider this heater, provided in my room in an expensive hotel.

For some reason, the power cord had been cut and spliced, then insulated with that unreliable black electrical tape.

The tape is coming unstuck with use. This story will end some cold winter night in a shower of sparks and the smell of burning insulation. If the guest to whom this happens is not some uptight safety-obsessed gringo, he'll probably just calmly call housekeeping and ask for another heater. No big deal.

Up north, hazards like this were more common up when I was a little boy. Today Norteamericanos live more secure lives. But sometimes I think we've all become a little paranoid, as in the case of the elementary school administration that prohibited children from bringing flowers to school—because some child might have an allergic reaction to them.

Once you get off the cuotas—the toll roads—driving in Mexico becomes an adventure. For one thing, you're more likely to be held up for extortion by the police. Most corrupt in my experience are the cops in the State of Mexico. I have driven through that state four times now, and I have been stopped three of those times, threatened with impoundment of my car. This trip to Tepoztlán was no exception.

For another, you get lost. The number and accuracy of directional signs is improving, but I usually wind up asking for directions several times on a long stretch. At the small town of Santa Martha, near the border between the states of Mexico and Morelos, we asked about the road to Cuernavaca en route to Tepoztlán.

Santa Martha is a sweet town with friendly people. We were given good directions by a group of smiling taxi drivers just like we have in so many other little pueblas. What made Santa Martha stand out for me, though, was its church.

Architecturally speaking, it's not particularly pleasing. Absent the bell towers, the design is more suited to a warehouse. But its appearance is nonetheless arresting. I screeched to a stop when it came into view.

What is it about this building that caught my attention? For one thing, there's the color. Bricks don't come in that shade of red. A close look revealed that the church had been painted red, and the mortar lines, white. Also unusual, the crosses atop the bell towers support solar collectors, even though CFE power lines run to the building. Isn't that sacrilegious or something?

Over the gate to the church courtyard, someone mounted a large image of the Virgin Mary rendered in neon tubing. She's carrying a torch, a symbol I'm not familiar with. More oddly, she's depicted standing on what appears to be an outline of the State of Morelos.

The decorations on the church doors are a marvel—a riot of plastic flowers. Plastic ornaments usually strike me an abominations, affronts to my sensibilities, but here the effect is somehow pleasing.

In preparing these images for posting, I corrected keystone distortion (the effect that makes buildings look narrower at the top than at the bottom) and camera tilt. Only after I had completed the work, I realized that I had inadvertently removed the church's most endearing characteristic. The whole building is out of plumb. Check how the roof line and the beam immediately beneath fall at different slopes.

This place of worship apparently was built by community members who weren't skilled in construction techniques. Well, the lines may be skewed, but as a symbol of the faith and devotion of the residents of Santa Martha, this building is perfect.

No visit to a town is complete, in my opinion, without a visit to its mercado. Tepoztlán has a good one, entered through a gate adorned with a remarkable mosaic depicting Mexico's history, in the manner of so many muralists.

Instead of tiles or pieces of glass, this mural is made of seeds and beans. The detail shows an Aztec ball player.

As in almost every mercado, the bulk of the place contains food vendors.

The old man with his back to the camera had food on his mind. He asked the woman on the right for some. He comes here every day for a handout of tortillas and whatever else vendors are willing to give him. Nobody goes hungry in Mexico, they say.

This woman sells grilled chicken. You can see the flames from her grill just below the edge of the table. She flings the carcasses around with abandon—a real eye-catcher.

Toña's Carniceria specializes in pork. Ropes of yummy-looking chorizo hang on the right; not-so-yummy-looking pigs' heads hang on the left. I love the mascot on the sign: a smiling pig holding the severed head of one of his brothers, a knife in his right hand.

Gross-out time. Loops of small intestine hang on the left. I find them tasty when boiled in lard. Tasty, that is, if you don't think about them too much. On the right, we have what seems to be the trachea and lungs of a larger animal, perhaps a steer. I don't know if these are tasty or not. Between the two there's a black, organ-like thing hanging. From its appearance, I can't imagine it would be tasty.

Room-temperature meat display somehow doesn't make me as nervous as it might in California. Maybe that's because meat usually goes from slaughter to stomach in a single day in Mexico. No plastic wrapped cuts fermenting in pink liquid in some cold case, their pull dates ominously near.

Many of the food stalls serve meals to be eaten right in the mercado. Tacos, huaraches, gorditos, I found everything to be delicious. In many ways the food served here is every bit as good if not better than that served in regular restaurants.

This plastic colander is filled with flor de calabeza—squash blossoms. One of my favorite meals is quesadillas de flor de calabeza: squash blossoms cooked with chopped onions and seasonings, then spooned into a flour tortilla filled with melted Manchego cheese. Usually two is all I can manage, but I always wish I had room for another.

A large number of non-food items is sold in the mercado. Here a young patron evaluates a potential purchase—a handbag.

Embroidered huipiles (I think this is a huipil) add color to the scene.

I wanted to buy a large turned wooden salad bowl from this vendor of handmade wood items, but somehow I was never at his place just before I was planning to return to my hotel, up a few steep blocks from the mercado. I didn't want to lug bulky items around with me.

I don't have the temperament to sit in a stall or a store all day and sell stuff. I wonder how people manage to do it. Clearly the vegetable lady and the ice cream man find the whole thing tedious, napping as they are between customers.

Other activities kept me from giving Tepoztlán as much attention as I wanted to, so I'll be back, if only for a workshop or retreat. There's a lot to do packed into this small town. Well equipped to serve visitors. a surprisingly large number of them on weekends, it still manages to retain the character of a working Mexican town and has a strong indigene presence.

Located less than an hour from Mexico City, and given its charm, Tepoztlán attracts a sophisticated and affluent crowd of weekenders. Catering to them, tourist-class restaurants have sprung up, and I ran into some that are noteworthy.

My favorite is Los Colorines. The name means bright colors. It also refers to a type of flowering tree.

Vivid colors are what greet you when you step through the violet and pink doors.

All those colors somehow combine into a unified theme. The effect is warm and cozy.

The cuisine is traditional Mexican with a twist. Some dishes are served from a counter full of cazuelas, the flared pottery bowls pictured below.

(I like the purple and white papel picado, left over from Holy Week.)

I ordered capeadas—vegetables mixed in a fritter batter and deep fried. OK, OK. Heart patients shouldn't eat them. But these were too unusual to pass up.

Several varieties were on offer: cauliflower, sweet corn. I wouldn't have paid the saturated fat price for these. Then I spotted capeada de flor de colorín, and I was lost. The coral tree, currently in bloom in central Mexico, has brilliant blossoms, and I've occasionally seen them for sale as a foodstuff. This would be my chance to try some.

I ordered one other kind: capeada de huazontle. Huazantle is a green that tastes vaguely like broccoli. Only the tiny flower buds are eaten. The leaves are tough and the stems are woody.

I'm told that huazontle fritters are sometimes prepared by separating the buds from the stems and mixing them into the batter. But real men eat them with stems still attached. You pick up your capeada by the stem end and scrape the flower buds off with your lower teeth, like you would eat an artichoke.

The capeadas de huazontle were tasty. The capeadas de colorines didn't seem to have any flavor other than that of deep-fried batter.

For something completely different, La Diferencia offers a variety of Greek, Italian, North African and other dishes, all excellent. They specialize in fondue. A mother-daughter team owns and operates the restaurant; delightful people. Some friends ate their dinners at La Diferenca exclusively. The only downside is that it tends to be closed except on weekends, because midweek traffic is thin.

Finally, we have La Vista, an upscale place offering Mexican and American dishes, all well prepared. Most of the seating is outside on a terrace with a wonderful backdrop of mountains; hence, La Vista. I included a view of the terrace in my April 23 post.

Misspellings and typographical errors often creep into the English-language versions of Mexican restaurant menus. La Vista's contains an item, "Nachos with beans, Oaxaca cheese and crack."

Hmmm. Surely not what it sounds like. I never did work out what the third ingredient was.

Los Colorines and La Diferencia are inexpensive. For finer dining at higher prices, La Vista is a good bet, but not on weekends unless you have reservations. All three are excellent.

What we're looking at here is a view of Ehecatepetl, Hill of the Wind, one of the names of the place where the ancient pyramid, El Tepozteco is located. The window through which we're viewing the mountain belongs to another religious building, Tepoztlán Convent.

This 16th-century convent was built by the Dominican Order. It was occupied by the builders for a couple hundred years after which it passed through a number of hands including Napoleon III's troops, and the military during the Mexican Revolution.

In 1939 it was placed in the care of INAH (National Institute of Anthropology and History). Subsequently it moldered for decades. Stunning frescos deteriorated—a loss of priceless cultural and historical images.

More recently, INAH has undertaken restoration projects at many historical sites. Work at Tepoztlán Convent began in 1993, and today, large parts of the buildings and its murals have been brought back to life.

Besides elaborate repeating patterns, some of the frescos depict scenes. In this nicho, we see a representation of Calvary, along with what looks like an open tomb and a sarcophagus.

The running patterns include motífs mysterious to me. Here two mermen-kings hold a tablet containing a vase of flowers inscribed "Maria". What is the symbology here?

Portraits of unidentified church figures, undoubtedly important ones, surround a doorway leading back to the convent entrance, where the only admission requirement is signing a guestbook.

Little remains of objects and structural details indicating people actually lived here. A pair of crude sinks are all that remain of the kitchens that once fed scores.

Maintenance, once neglected, seems now to be in good hands. Inside and out, the place shows the results of frequent cleanings.

A museum associated with the convent houses colonial-era artifacts, some of them quite good. A bookstore and gift shop occupies a room. Little of what is sold there is relevant to the convent, but many good books and art objects are for sale. I acquired a fine book of poems by Pablo Neruda.

INAH is making wonderful restorations of Mexico's historical sites. Emphasis seems to be on historical accuracy and authenticity. Mexico, once a country of dusty, overgrown ruins, is acquiring places that tell us much more about what life was like 500 years ago.

Two of my friends tell me that they got their start as expatriates living in Mexico in the town of Tepoztlán. For decades, the place has been a magnet for artists and other creative types, new agers, unreconstructed hippies, spiritual seekers and the mildly insane. In recent years, the wealthy have followed the more creatively-inclined pioneers. Today it serves as a weekend playground for well-heeled residents of Mexico City.

The vast majority of Tepoztlán's 35,000 residents, though, are ordinary Mexican people living quiet lives. They attend masses at one of the many churches.

From my hotel, I can hear the masses being said over public address systems set up for overflow crowds. Sunday school classes are held in church courtyards, in the near-perfect subtropical climate.

The bells in the foreground all have large cracks. In the Sixteenth Century, large bronze objects often contained flaws, unsurprising given the state of metallurgy at the time.

Images of the Virgin abound here as in most Mexican towns. A non-Catholic, I've accepted her comforting presence and miss seeing her image when I visit el norte.

Tension between the sacred and the secular exists here, too. A poster promotes birth control with a cartoon figure, "The Wandering Condom".

Elegant restaurants cater to visitors. I've eaten better meals here than in most San Miguel restaurants. But tourists usually come on weekends. I photographed this restaurant on a weekday—typically devoid of patrons. It was jammed on Sunday.

Everywhere you go in Tepoztlán, the surrounding craggy mountains provide a dramatic backdrop.

More modest eateries cater to ordinary people. I enjoyed the food I ate in places like this every bit as much as the fare in the ritzy joints.

The big chain markets—Gigante, Soriana, Wal-Mart—have been kept out by fierce community resistance. The Super Tepoz, below, is the biggest supermarket in town.

Some businesses are tiny. This mercer sells his ribbons from a shop; no wider than the doorway.

The Similar Pharmacy reminds me of Bob's Pretty Good Bank from Garrison Keillor's Lake Woebegone. The motto at Bob's is "Never a borrower or a lender be." The motto at the Similar Pharmacy is "The same but cheaper."

Many internet cafés are scattered throughout town, catering to younger people

The anime image in the poster in this cybercafé warrants a closer look. She's an iPod, complete with Apple logo and control wheel!

From internet technology to ancient hand weaving techniques. Men who reweave rush seats ply their craft on sidewalks, not in shops. Customers invite them to come to their homes where they take chairs outside to renew them.

This man is one of your high-end re-weavers. You can tell because he's sitting on an upended plastic crate instead of the curb like most of the others do.

In Tepoztlán, garbage is collected using hand trucks with steel drums attached. Cuts down on congestion caused by garbage trucks stopping every block for fifteen minutes while neighbors bring out their trash. Plus it employs a lot of people. San Miguel Mayor Jesús Correa please take note.

In the vicinity of the central plaza, tourists like me wander around with digital cameras glued to their foreheads. New age devotees get their bodies massaged, their chockras aligned, and their colons cleansed. Spiritual seekers attend retreats. 95% of the people here don't care about any of that. They eat cecina (dried salted beef) in the mercado and plan their daughters' quincianeras (fifteenth birthday parties). They live peacefully in their beautiful town, the quality of their lives perhaps better than ours who live north of the border.

One reason for visiting Tepoztlán is to climb up to El Tepozteco, the ruins of a pyramid built in the 12th or 13th Century by early Aztecs. The monument is dedicated to Ometochtli-Tepoxtécatl, god of pulque (an alcoholic fermented maguey drink), fertility and abundance. Today, people make the difficult climb up Ehecatepetl, the mountain where the pyramid is located, to satisfy their own particular spiritual longings.

Walking north out of Tepoztlán, city gives way to country, and the street becomes lined with scores of vendors, some offering souvenirs and handcrafts, but most selling food and drink. Fluids are important because the climb is hot and arduous, and hikers cannot obtain water along the way. I bought two liters: they barely lasted till I reached the summit.

Vendors' tarpaulins create a welcome tunnel of shade. I once thought the ubiquitous booths that spring up next to important archeological sites and historical monuments were a desecration. Today I welcome their presence. Hungry? Thirsty? Forgot your hat or jacket? No need to do without. The little shops along the way are inviting, comforting. How much friendlier would be the mall between the Lincoln and Washington monuments if it were lined with kiosks selling fresh fruit cups, paletas and aguas de sabor?

The path to the pyramid consists of a crude stairway. You have to climb 400 meters of steps. It's like ascending to the observation platform of the Empire State Building in the stairwell, except the Empire State Building isn't as high and the steps aren't as treacherous.

Oh yeah, keep in mind you're climbing at mile-high altitude, so you need a good cardiovascular system. A sign at the bottom warns people with heart problems not to attempt the ascent. So of course, even though I have a scarred heart and an implanted defibrillator, I took the sign as a challenge, not a warning. I set off to prove I could do it. Dumb, I guess.

The stairway ascends through clefts in rocks where a seasonal creek runs. In this view, you can just make out part of the town of Tepoztlán

The trail ascends through pleasant woodlands. I would have enjoyed them more if I hadn't been gasping for breath and seeing spots before my eyes.

Pictured below is the last fifty feet of the climb. The building at the top of the stairway is—you guessed it—a refreshment stand.

What appears to be rubble here are actually walls built to support a score of narrow switchbacks. Any steeper, and you'd need ropes and pitons.

A fit, young person can make the climb in 45 minutes. I needed an hour and a half because of stops to catch my breath. For all that effort, this is what I got.

If you are looking for a spectacular, or even a mildly interesting archeological site, you'll be disappointed. El Tepozteco is small and most of the carvings and paint are long gone. You can cover the site in five minutes. But nobody visits the pyramid for sightseeing. At least smart people don't. They come to experience whatever energy exists here. They come for a spiritual experience, perhaps for some kind of enlightenment.

People sit and meditate, or pray, or just gaze at the view for an hour or two. One man blew notes on a conch shell. I sat and tried to feel the presence of the old gods that once inhabited this place.

Some visitors came to talk on their cell phones. Go figure. Before I get too superior about telephones, I have to admit that I called Paul (El Guapo) from up here (he was at the beach in Manzanillo) so I could share the experience with him.

To climb the pyramid itself, you pay a $35 peso admission fee at this ticket office. Heaven help anyone who makes the climb without bringing enough money to pay it.

The ticket takers, the snack stand employees, the maintenance employees make the climb every day. They are thin and look fit. I forgot to ask how all those bottles of water and Coca Cola at the snack stand got to the summit. I think they were packed in on the backs of people. Parts of the trail seem too steep and narrow for mules.

Site workers need at least one meal during their shifts, and nobody in Mexico thinks a ham sandwich is a proper lunch. The midday meal is supposed to be hot. Here a crude fireplace and a comal constitute a kitchen where proper meals can be prepared. I see this arrangement all over the country, especially at construction sites.

Mexican people are more energetic and strong than their norteamericano neighbors. This toddler was carried up the mountain, as were several others. I was hauling just my Nikon SLR and managed to injure my back.

Maybe this little girl will forget to pick up her dinosaur (on the ground next to her right foot). What might future archeologists think if they found it in another thousand years? I wonder if they'll attach too much significance to it: a ritual image, a shaman's fetish, an offering to the gods.

I wonder if we get any of this stuff right. Signs tell us priests lived here. What if they were just rich guys, living in a posh view neighborhood?

As I sat on the pyramid, resting for the descent (really tough on the quads), none of this mattered. I had a couple of hours in a high place, allowing my spirit to join with all of yours. Which was why I made the climb.

Christopher Reynolds of the Los Angeles Times writes, "Who knew Mexico had its own Sedona?" The small colonial town of Tepoztlán, just one hour south of Mexico City, certainly fits that description.

Tepoztlán is sited in a narrow valley, the topography of which seems to focus spiritual energy in a way similar to Sedona or Big Sur. Steep, unusually shaped mountains high overhead, early morning calls of hundreds of roosters, a rising sun glowing through mist cause consciousness to shift in an inexplicable way.

Before the Spanish arrived, Tepoztlán was home to a Náhuatl-speaking group of Aztecs who built El Tepozteco pyramid high in the mountains overlooking the present-day town. Built to honor Ometochtli-Tepoxtécatl, the god of the intoxicating drink pulque, fertility and harvest, today pilgrims make the trek up the hundreds of steps from the valley floor to the pyramid on their own spiritual quests.

Tepoztlán is believed to be the birthplace of the feathered serpent god Quetzalcóatl, whose image has been adopted by the city government.

Many residents are of indigenous descent, and take great pride in maintaining prehispanic traditions. Even the graffiti has an Aztec flavor.

In 1995, the indigenous people of Tepoztlán discovered that their mayor had secretly sold out to a developer that wanted to build a large hotel and golf course complex. The people occupied city hall and ran the Mayor out of town. Today, despite development pressure to meet the demands of middle class visitors from Mexico City, Tepoztlán has been able to maintain its small-town character.

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Among the scores of American and European expats who have arrived [in Tepoztlán] in recent years, many are of the New Age/holistic/herbal persuasion, spiritual seekers eager to keep ancient rituals alive alongside imported ones. So now you can get your chakras harmonized and ions cleansed just down the street from where you get your fresh guacamole and pollo en mole.

—Los Angeles Times, November 1, 2007

Alternative medicine practitioners, psychics and spiritualists abound here. I have never seen such a concentration of such offerings anywhere else.

I find it difficult to buy into the concept of a photo of my aura. Too easy to fake with a light leak in the camera. Ionic detoxification looks just plain gross. The photos on the sign display time lapse photos of a really bad pair of feet, the cleaning fluid turning progressively more yellow, with brownish fragments floating in it.

Where New Age people congregate, reminders of India pop up. Below we have the Govinda Traditional Hindu Vegetarian Restaurant.

Lakshmi offers clothing made in India, unexpected in Mexico.

A lapidary shop advertises ovoid stones using a Sanskrit word I first read in the Kama Sutra: Lingam means penis.

Tepoztlán is reputed to be the birthplace of pulque, a fermented liquid I have heard described as "alcoholic snot". This shop offers homemade pulque made in the tradition of the proprietor's grandfather.

At one time, drinks were sold from sidewalk kiosks the way hurricanes are sold on Bourbon Street. Rowdy young people from Mexico City got drunk and caused problems. Also, some indigenous people had difficulty handling readily available alcohol, and so public consumption was outlawed. This sign warns residents and visitors alike the police will arrest people who break this law.

Tepoztlán attracts a cultured and sophisticated crowd. Artists hang out in cafés. Frequent concerts are held. Last month, a production of Franz Kafka's The gorilla was staged at the civic auditorium—something I wouldn't expect to see outside of Berkeley.

Apparently no further productions are planned for a while. Some sort of construction is blocking the theater entrance. The work involves breaking concrete and digging an enormous hole. All of it is being done by hand which means it'll take a long time. Meanwhile, untidy heaps of escombro (rubble) block the sidewalk—a reassuring sign that construction of public works is performed the same way all over Mexico.

Tepoztlán hosts many facilities for retreats and workshops, making it vaguely reminiscent of Esalen in Big Sur as a place where people can explore consciousness expansion and spiritual development. And the town has even more to offer, which I'll cover in future posts.

Chauvinism can take many forms. Having come to love my adopted country, Mexico, I want to think I am free of bias. Lorena Reyes, a reader, identifies one of my blind spots. Here's what she wrote:

HI i was searching in internet and found you blog,is very nice that you give you point about our culture, i was to U.S.A in december and i really i cant understand why the people choise death in the desert,i think you pictures are goods, but i think like mexican that  i would  like if you want show our country,show place more prety and moderns, like Monterrey,Guadalajara, Veracruz,that show that in mexico Can have progress if you work a lot, not only the poor side,cause in  U.S A. i Looked many poor people and not latin,is my point. thank you.

Lorena is exactly right. And eloquent. I responded in my inadequate Spanish to put our communication on an equal footing, asking her if she would allow me to quote her email in this post, a request to which she graciously consented.

Many poor people do live in the United States, but they represent only a part of the story. Fifth Avenue, Silicon Valley and Beverly Hills need to be included. Looking back through old posts, I see that my subjects often are poverty, people in traditional dress, cultural oddities deriving from inadequate education. Missing are observations about the progress this country has made, the emergence of a working democracy, the growing middle class of well-paid professionals.

I'm taking Lorena's observation to heart. In the future, I'll include more posts that deal with the accomplishments of modern Mexico, in addition to those topics that seem different and noteworthy to northern eyes.

I'll begin with a look at the work of helicopter pilot Oscar Ruiz, who has taken a wonderful series of Aerial Photographs of Mexico City. I've posted two below, but I encourage you to follow the link and look at this work: there's nothing like it anywhere else.

Oscar identifies these as more than three hundred low income homes in Ixtapaluca. He says the entire complex has more than 10,000!

It's hard to believe this is a real photograph, but it is. More importantly, it shows that Mexico is a mature country that is able to provide subsidized housing of high quality on a huge scale.

Mexico is home to some of the world's greatest architects and has a wealth of interesting structures, like this apartment building.

Clearly, this is not low income housing. But I suspect that apartments like this are affordable to professional and managerial workers, suggesting that the historical imbalance in wealth distribution, while still severe, is beginning to moderate.

Here in San Miguel de Allende, we have an apartment tower under construction. Several modern condominium projects have been completed. A huge Nick Faldo golf and residence complex is being built on the north edge of town. Hell, we now even have a Starbucks right on the Jardín. Not everyone is happy about all this, especially immigrants from the north who came here to see the charm of women washing clothes outdoors in concrete tubs at the lavendería pública. But maybe someone should ask those washerwomen if they wouldn't prefer to use a modern washer and dryer in a nice condo somewhere. We all know what their answer would be.