Just one Monumental view after another...

One of my great joys when traveling is viewing expansive vistas. Just sitting on a hillside, watching the clouds roll by, is so restful. I can almost feel my pulse slow down.

Of course, that doesn't last long, because I'm soon up again looking for a flower or rock to photograph. My father says that always having a camera stuck in my face diminishes the joy of the experience. (But I don't think so. MY joy comes from looking back at images of places I've been over the years.)

Recently, with an upgrade to--TADA!--Adobe Photoshop CS5 I've been able to create exquisite panorama images. I've taken the requisite frames for years, but it hasn't been really easy to stitch them together until now. Photoshop CS5 makes it ridiculously easy to create panos.

Please enjoy a few from my recent travels:

A beautiful seaside at Calafia, Mexico.
This is Mormon Rocks in the San Bernardino Mountains. This is the view from Northern Arizona looking north toward Utah.

This was a beautiful bend in the road in Zion National Monument, Utah.

A view of Monument Valley from a trip with Dad last summer.

The wondrous North Rim of the Grand Canyon.

Wedding albums sure have come a long way since 1977

Last night, as my husband was watching an ancient Bonanza episode, he noticed that one of the cowboys was an old friend of ours. We cracked up, recalling how different the character was from his real-life persona. I seemed to recall a picture of him in our wedding album and pulled out the dilapidated volume to show my grown daughter, who exclaimed, "Oh, that's who that was. I always wondered about him."



Leafing through the old album I was apalled to see the condition it was in. There is no longer a cover on the cheap, dimestore book; the photos are affixed to what used to be sticky pages, and the protective acetate sheeting has mostly disappeared. There are a total of 40 images in the album--definitely just the highlights.

Yet, what would I do without it?

It got me thinking how important our wedding albums are, no matter how pitiful. We treasure those images for years and decades throughout our lives. And if I had my mother's album, how I would treasure that--even though my parents have been divorced for more than 30 years.

Today, we expect fancy albums with custom-designed pages made from archival photos. There may even be a video DVD inside, too. The options seem endless.

I love being able to create such a gift for my clients. Who knows what the future will bring? I, for one, can't wait to find out.

Was life ever that slow? Of watermelons and green apricots

Last week my family got a chance to slow down and watch some old movies together, one of which was based on William Saroyan's "The Human Comedy." It features Mickey Rooney and Carl "Alfalfa" Switzer of Little Rascals fame, set in mythical Ithaca, California, a small, sleepy town which I imagine would be in the wine country near Salinas.

In the movie, Rooney's character's brother is in the Army, fondly recalling with his buddies the features of his idyllic home town. Ah, to be in Ithaca...

It was a time of innocence, to be sure. In one telling scene, after two small illiterate boys take an awe-filled trip to the public library (there's a red book! there's a green one!), a gang of local boys dare to raid an old man's apricot tree. Led by a pubescent Switzer, the group of boys sneak through the old man's yard, dashing to hide behind bushes and farm implements, to approach the tree, daring each other to snatch a snack. (Little do they know the old man sees them coming and wishes he could ripen the fruit faster for them.)

Once the group has gathered under the tree, egging Switzer on, the old man appears and slams the screen door, and the boys scatter. Alfalfa--er, Switzer--refuses to skedaddle until he grabs at least one apricot, and the group is next seen scurrying back to Main Street.

There, in front of the drug store, the gang of miscreants gather round to see the prize. Switzer slowly opens his palm, revealing a marble-sized, green apricot.

"Ooh, ooooohhhh!" the appreciative boys murmur, struck with wonder at the courage and daring-do of their young leader.

Really? Was life EVER that simple? I was dumbstruck.

I asked my dad if such days ever really existed, and he reassured me that they did.

Once or twice when he was a young man, he began an oft-told tale, my dad dared to raid a watermelon patch near his Arkansas home. He and a carload of friends had stopped and climbed through the barbed wire fence and were scouring the patch for a ripe melon, when my dad joked that he saw "someone coming down from the house with a shotgun!"

The friends were back in the car in a flash, and the group was off with a couple of melons.

Another time (or two) the boys visited the patch to crack open a couple of melons, scooping out the juicy, seed-free heart and leaving the remains to rot.

Not long after that, the owner of the patch happened to stop by their home. "Say, boys, I have a watermelon patch up yonder and you're welcome to help yourself anytime."

Presumably, dad says, he knew about the boys' fruit habit all along and just wanted them to know he didn't mind.

Or maybe it was a bit of reverse psychology, because my dad says they never did raid that watermelon patch again.

Somehow it just wasn't the same.

Why the moon looked red during the eclipse

Last night’s lunar eclipse was stunning, and caught me totally by surprise.

Not that I didn’t know the rare event was happening. It’s just that I assumed it would be covered by the clouds that threatened and stormed all day. But as I got ready to slip between the covers, I thought I’d peek outside one last time to see if I could see the moon.

See it I did! By the time the eclipse was beginning, at about 11:15 p.m., scattered clouds scooted mostly out of view, so I stepped outside in my bathrobe and slippers and peeked heavenward.

Yikes! The full, white orb was directly overhead in my Sacramento neighborhood, covered three-quarters of the way with a rather brilliant reddish-orange overlay (a Photoshop term seems best in this case).

I dashed back inside to grab a camera, fit my longest lens, scrounge for a CF card, and ran back outside. My first few guesses at the exposure were off.

Evidently, the Sunny 16 rule works for a regular full moon, but not an eclipse. Hand-holding and bracing on the mailbox were not going to give me the stability I needed, either.

Back into the house I ran for a tripod. In the meantime, unfortunately, the eclipse progressed to fully cover the moon. But I did manage to get some steady shots of a fully darkened moon.

Upon later inspection, the rusty-brown surface looked quite like a basketball, minus the seams. It was an awesome sight.

I wondered what made the moon appear reddish-brown during the eclipse. According to one explanation by EarthSky, an organization that makes such scientific mysteries accessible to laypersons like me, the color of the moon is from light refracting off dust and clouds in Earth’s atmosphere. Were there no atmosphere, the moon would be totally black as you might expect.

I know a lot has been made of the fact that this total eclipse occurred on the date of the winter solstice, which evidently hasn’t happened since 1638.

Although I don’t believe the coincidence has any particular significance, it is easy to see how early civilizations might have freaked out when they saw the great night luminary turn red, like blood.

For those who missed this complete lunar eclipse, you can catch the show again in 2132. So you should have plenty of time to get your camera settings ready!

I'm a Social Media misfit

OK, I admit it. I'm guilty.

And I'm feeling it.

I've convinced myself of the importance of blogging and sending e-mails and Facebooking and Tweeting ... and then I rarely do it.

Alas, I'm doomed.

Or, am I?

Lately I've been getting a newsletter about simplifying life, slowing down and taking time to enjoy the simple things--called, appropriately enough, Rowdy Kittens. Now, doesn't that just make your smile? How can you get irritated at a kitten?

So I've been reexamining the guilt-trip I've had to keep up with all the So-Mo-Joneses out there (that's social media Joneses). Is hourly Tweeting, daily Facebooking, twice-weekly blogging and monthly e-mailing really necessary to build my client base?

Truth be told, it probably is. I realize that. And I'm gonna try.

I'm just not going to stress out about it. Life is short. If you don't take the time to look around once in a while, you might miss something (Ferris said).

So enjoy today. It's mid-November, the leaves are turning beautiful shades of scarlet and gold, and the sky is blue. And don't forget to tell me (comment below) what you did to make this day special.

When you know it's love...

Create your own video slideshow at animoto.com.

Darn barn swallows

For a couple of years now I've had a string of aluminum foil strips hanging above my front door, causing my friends to wonder what Eastern philosophy I've converted to.

I always laugh, explaining how the shiny metal is keeping the pesky birds from building their nest there.

That is, until this year.

A pair of barn swallows came back with a vengeance this spring, swooping and diving at the front entry, screeching their disapproval, daring the illicit metal tags to stop them from rebuilding their nest there. The chatter was pretty terrifying, actually.

After hearing the commotion for several days, I went out on the porch to see what was up, and there above our door sat two of the sweetest little birdies you could imagine. I was surprised to see them stay put while I examined them. Their little heads cocked; I asked what they were doing.

They held their ground. And I relented.

"OK, you can stay," I told them.

Immediately after that -- and not before -- the pair began depositing throatfuls of mud and straw, layer by bubbly layer, in the area surrounded by the foil strips. Soon bits of fluffy feathers lined the nest and I waited expectantly for the chirping of hungry babies.

Finally, after weeks of waiting and washing little poopies off my doorstep, we saw an egg. Cracked open on my doormat, that is. Soon another fell from the nest -- or was pushed out by a predator.

I am crestfallen. I had my camera all poised for a shot of hungry little mouths, opened wide, waiting for sustenance. But I got bupkiss.

Soon the "sweet" little birdies will be gone. And I'll be up on the ladder, scrubbing away all their hard work.

It's not that I'm a bird hater. Really. I just can't stand the heartbreak.

A photographic scavenger hunt

Kodak is sponsoring a contest this month that asks us to enter five specific photos each week during June. I've been having a bit of fun with it--looking for creative ways to fulfill the assignments.

Week 1 asked for a photo of a cupcake, so I called upon my daughter Mindi. (Poor thing, that's what she gets for living with me!)

Pretty yummy, huh? I like to call this one "Guilty Pleasures."

The face of determination

The Community Collaborative Charter School graduates celebrate reaching their goal.

I recently photographed the graduation ceremonies of two independent study schools. These kids have had to overcome disheartening odds to reach the stage this day, where their proud principals, school board members and teachers waited to award them their diplomas.

Many of these young people are foster kids, homeless, working full time, single parents ... to them, issues like who wore the same dress to prom really are kid stuff.

One young woman accepted her "overcomer" award with tears streaming down her face. She'd endured the exhaustion of working full time, with two small children, as she finished her requirements. Another young mother persisted until, on her eighth try, she finally passed the math portion of the high school exit exam.

Many were of above-average age: one of the teachers proudly pointed out the 22-year-old who came back to see him at the independent charter school after having dropped out -- again. He had a job offer, but the employer couldn't use him unless he had a diploma. His priorities clear, he finally completed his coursework.

Sitting among the audience, listening to the hubbub of the parents, friends and babies, I could tell that many of these youth would not repeat the scene among university compatriots. Nevertheless, this day would change their lives forever. They have at least tasted the satisfaction of completing a worthy goal. They know now that hard work does pay off.

They can do anything they set their minds to do. Congratulations, Class of 2010!

Inspired by vegetables!

I was simply strolling through the produce aisle the other day, gathering my tomatoes and zucchini for dinner, when shazam! -- I encountered the most breathtaking artichokes I'd ever seen.

Their silvery petals bent uniformly inward, like a delicate flower (which I guess they are!). Completely spherical, these were. Unique little orbs of goodness. I had to have them--not so much as a tasty appetizer--but for a photographic study.

Once I had these little beauties home on my kitchen counter, I gathered up all their little fruit and veggie compatriots and we went into the studio. My mother even contributed lemons and pineapple for contrast. Am I making you hungry yet?

Flying in a Cessna isn't for sissies

Did I tell you about the time my dad’s friend took us flying?

Jeff and Neil, Dad’s walking buddies, have a little Cessna that they hangar near Mojave, so we headed out there one fall day when I was visiting. I had been interested in going flying with them since I became enthralled with the San Andreas fault and Dad mentioned the guys would be happy to fly me over sections of the fault near his home in Palmdale.

That trip never came together, but this sunny fall day, Dad and Jeff and I went for a spin.

Jeff, the pilot, let me sit in the co-pilot’s seat so I could take pictures. We taxied out on the runway and poof! were in the air. I had my headset on so I could hear Jeff if he needed to communicate with me, and they helped muffle the steady whine of the engine.

Our route took us toward the mountain pass leading to Lake Isabella, where we would land and have supposedly the best burger this side of the Pecos.

Now, usually I’m a very good flyer. I’ve been in lots of small commercial jets and prop planes, and whenever we’ve hit turbulence, I go into a sort of Lamaze-breathing trance that sees me through quite well.

And this trip wasn’t too rough. The sensation of being in such a small craft as drafts and eddies cause it to hop and skip along does take some getting used to, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I just sat back and relaxed and enjoyed the stellar view.

After a while, Jeff asked me, “Do you mind if I get the nose up a bit?”

Why should I mind?

“You just fly the plane anyhow you need to. You’re the pilot,” I assured him.

I didn’t quite understand the significance of his query.

After heading what seemed to be straight up, Jeff dropped the nose suddenly and sent us plummeting back to earth.

Mind you, Dad, sitting in the back seat, was without earphones and had no idea what was happening. To his credit (and mine!) we remained silent. Perhaps we were preoccupied with the condition of our drawers.
After a few moments, we leveled off and Jeff explained that he was trying to open flap on the piton tube. Without air streaming into the tube, the airspeed indicator didn’t work.

Not good!

Our experienced pilot wasn’t too concerned, however, as he simply kept up a good, steady pace, probably well above what was needed to keep us safely aloft. It did mean, however, that we would have to bypass the landing and our burgers.

The rest of our flight was beautiful, albeit a bit bumpy over the mountains. My Lamaze breathing trick failed me, but fortunately I hadn’t anything in my stomach. What a view!

I’m glad I went, although I was really glad we didn’t head over to Catalina or some crazy thing like that.
I happily retire my Cessna wings.

Join us for a ride in the following video:

Pardon me, DMV -- it's none of your business!

Every time I have to renew my driver’s license, I get stuck in a cycle of guilt and vanity worthy of Perseus. You see, it’s been several years since the last renewal, which can only mean that one or more pieces of information on the document is no longer accurate. And I don’t mean the color of my eyes.

You know what I mean.

Yes, my weight. I can’t believe that the number that so horrified me at age 21 now seems an unrealistic ideal. Heck, if I weighed that now I’d be a vision – a goddess, I tell you. That number (that I won’t mention) was then dozens less than my young husband. A respectable female-male gap then existed that remained for several years.

And then the duplicity began.

I did pretty well at keeping the “fat” wolf at bay until my mid- to late thirties. But then, as my driver’s license renewals came due, “that number” didn’t get updated nearly as often as my photo. After all, I was just carrying a few extra pounds temporarily.

There were all sorts of very valid reasons:

1. I just moved to a new house.
2. I was just starting a new job.
3. The kids were driving me crazy.
4. It was November.
5. The sun was out.

Anyway, by the time it became obvious that I wasn’t going to reclaim my age-21 weight, I was stuck. And I think it’s the DMV’s fault.

No, really. I do. Think about it: the first time you renew, all you have to do is send in a check and they reissue the license with all the previous information intact. The next time they only ask that you go in and get a new photo.

“Same address?”

“Yes.”

“Step over here for your photo.”

Eventually you have to take the test again, and the clerk will probably ask if all the information is still correct. What are you supposed to say?

“Everything’s the same but I now dye my hair blonde.”

Come on, they know people change their hair color. So I just give ‘em what it was originally. I guess. I forget.

Address? Check. Been the same for 22 years.

Eyes? Blue-green. Blue. Whatever. That doesn’t change.

Then, the pause.

“Uh, excuse me, sir. Could you bump up my weight by 30 pounds? I’d hate to be found left for dead and the officer not be able to recognize me from the description on my license.”

Yeah, right.

It’d be different if I were simply filling out a form and some clerk just typed in the data. But to make this particular change, you have to actually call their attention to the fact that you’ve been enjoying too much ice cream for far too long. Then they give you the smirk. The knowing non-smile. They don’t say a word. Bastards.

So, naturally, I’d rather avoid all that.

Judging by my driver’s license, I’m the picture of fitness. And what goes past the checker on the conveyor belt at the grocery store has no connection to the weight on my license, right? What happens in Safeway stays in Safeway.

“Did you put my Oreos in the bag with the Slimfast?” I ask as I put away my ID.

You gotta love a woman who could play poker with James Bond.

Tall ships in Old Sacramento

My head's still swimming with all the sunshine we've been having. The cold, crisp nights and bright sunny days have produced what, IMHO, has been the BEST fall color Sacramento's ever seen! At least in the 23 years I've lived here.

Last week I kidnapped Fred for a stop off at Old Sacramento's port to see if the old-school tall ships were still there. Making our way to the riverbank, we discovered the most beautiful scene right behind the railroad museum:
I wanted to grab any ol' couple and do an impromptu photo session. The sad thing is, this spot will not stay this way for long.

Meandering down the dock, we watched the train come into the station. The steam boiled over as the engine was refueled.
Sadly, the old sailing ship was nowhere to be seen. The docks were abuzz with visitors, and for once it was fun to linger in the ol' tourist trap. We continued across Capitol to the south of Tower Bridge. Lo and behold -- the old sailing ship was making its way back to port!

Though a rainstorm threatened, sun regularly broke through the grey and backlit the ship's sails. I realized what had to happen next, and soon a deafening horn warned vehicle and pedestrians to get off the bridge! (As you can see, the school-bus-yellow paint that everyone worried was too bright has indeed mellowed into the glint of a gold nugget.)

Even the old ziggurat building was in rare form.

Satisfied with our inspection of the Hawaiian Chieftain, Fred and I wandered back by the taffy store, blissfully happy about our afternoon date.

Sure beats reruns of Cheyenne.

It's all in the light...

Tonight a few photographer friends and I got together for a little experimentation with lighting. One of our PPSV members, Ruben Gonzalez, who recently earned his PPA Certification, led a session of advanced lighting techniques. I'll just call it, "Getting it right with video light."

The lovely Leah was our model. In this dramatic image, we lit the model through the slats of a bamboo tea tray to mimic a moonlit night through shutters. It was amazing to see what a beautiful result you can get with such modest set.

Nothing like a fun night playing around with light to refresh and invigorate the creative spirit. Thank you for your patience, Leah!

Puppy love

I'm not sure how it happened, but somehow I got the rep for being a dog-hater. Me! a hater!

This, just because I don't cuddle up in bed with a couple of hundred-pound canines. Under the covers. Pushing me off. On my pillow. Yech.

Now, don't get me wrong. I've walked my dogs (yes, plural) over the years. It's just that taking them with me sometimes causes more trouble when we confront other pups on their territory. I like my walks to be more serene. Quiet -- that's what I like.

I admit that when I come home and say hi to whomever is present, I don't usually notice that my Australian shepherd mix-mutt is desperate for my attention. To her credit, Freckles persists in tap-dancing before me, click-clacking on the Pergo, non-stop, until I have no choice but to show her the love.

Lately, I've indulged her a little more quickly than usual. Rubbing her ears, which, if she's just come in from outdoors, are frosty and need warming. Tempting her with nose-to-almost-nose contact... no licking! Scratching that place in the middle of her rump that's hard to reach.

She really is sweet. Never messes in the house. Always obeys. Even eats those barbecue chips Fred throws her way, even though it doesn't look like she likes them.

Heck, she's not so bad. And if I'd keep up my pet-owner responsibility of brushing her with the special $40 hair remover once in a while, I wouldn't even have that much to complain about. And it's good for my blood pressure.

But I draw the line at my bed. Sorry.

Jasmine Star comes to PPSV

She came, she shared, she conquered!

Jasmine Star may be relatively new to the photography business, but she certainly lives up to her name.

At last night's meeting of the Professional Photographers of Sacramento Valley, Jasmine shared her philosophy and the secrets to her success--and challenged us to send her photos of her in action. As all I had was my Canon G9, and the house was packed, this video will have to do!

The house was packed with regulars and guests who follow her blog. I know I'll be stalking her from now on.

She was truly an inspiration the way she uses new media to connect with her clients. Hopefully just a couple of megawatts of her energy rubbed off on me!

A fall color explosion in Yosemite

Recently, Fred and I stole away to Yosemite National Park, hoping to see some fall color. I've never been to the park at this time of year before, and I certainly wasn't disappointed. Brilliant yellow leaves were popping out everywhere; warm sunshine-filled days made the sky a vibrant blue.

Inspired by a friend's recent trek to Half Dome, we set out for Vernal Falls along the Mist Trail. Three hours straight up convinced us to come back by a more moderate route, so we returned on the Muir Trial, which you see at left. It was so beautiful that I stopped short in my limping tracks several times to haul out my camera. After a "refreshing" rain, the skies cleared, revealing a starry field I hoped to capture digitally.

Up well before dawn, I fiddled around trying for an acceptable exposure. I did have moderate success painting the cliff face with my flashlight (see left). What an awesome scene -- and unbelievably comfortable for late October.

With the recent rains contributing to the runoff, even Yosemite Falls--usually quiet at this time of year--put on a spectacular show for us. And Mirror Lake was filling up.

The only hardship was staying in the "heated" tent cabins -- the only affordable accommodations in the valley available at the last minute. It was rather chilly at night. Good opportunity to cuddle up!

All in all, it was a wonderful respite. It was so invigorating and inspiring, I'm afraid I went a little crazy:

(Of course it's fake -- you think I'm insane?)

Visit YouTube for a slideshow with more of my images of Yosemite in Fall, complete with music. Enjoy!

A tightrope act worthy of kings

Every night on the zocalo, if you're not too distracted by the many musicians, soccer games, vendors and the yard-of-beer dispenser, you may see a world class tightrope act performed by Jose Esqueda Ochoa, who also sells souvenirs from a cart. Our last evening in Veracruz I asked his name and story, and this is what he told me.

Jose learned his trade 49 years ago from his father, with whom he said he worked in an Italian circus for years. Jose has also spent years harvesting crops in the south in the U.S. (He claims in some way to be related to the Flying Wallendas, though Tino Wallenda didn't know him; he says Esqueda is a common name in the circus.)

Whatever his lineage, I'll let Jose's work speak for itself. All I know is that Jose peformed religiously every night--once to a near-empty plaza during a rainstorm at 2 a.m.

Watch the video on YouTube here. After you see it, tell me what you think!

Life on the Zocalo

We stayed at the Hotels Colonial and Imperial right on the zocalo, a fantastic choice for exposure to local culture. Every day around noon or so, the square freshly swept and washed, the vendors begin laying out their wares on blankets and carts. Indians with blusas, wooden spoons, hand-painted bookmarks and other merchandise bound to their backs patrol the area.

In what was to become our regular practice, we stopped at the Grand Cafe del Portal for a lechero. The espresso comes in a tall glass, to which is added a healthy amount of steamed milk, poured from an impressive height by a skilled waiter. See the process here:
(I apologize for the quality; had the wrong setting! I have another video, but this was the best show.)

The zocalo is, well, intense. Several cafes line the square in front of each hotel. On any given evening, there may be four or five bands vying for attention. When fully employed (they only play when paid), the cacophany is at once exhiliarating and overwhelming and intoxicating. Something NOT to be missed.

By the end of our stay I had come to love the intimacy of the Indian children pressing on us at midnight trying to sell us a macrame bracelet. The first night, while we were still trying to be cool, "No, gracias" was our standard reply. But by night four I think we had purchased just about everything in their inventory.

Mindi did get one girl to crack up when she mimicked her pitiful plea. (These children are well fed and cared for by their parents, who work nearby and watch over them. ) So she sent over her little sister, who was determined not to break character:

One night around midnight, one girl persisted in her quest to get us to buy a bracelet. I didn't really want one, but I relented and slipped her a few small coins to get her to leave. "Shh!" I said, putting my finger to pursed lips, warning her not to tell anyone.

Three minutes later, four or five younger children descended on our table and serenaded us with their simple, childish song. "Copera, copera" (or something that sounded like that), they requested.

"No copera," I insisted. Their sister shouldn't have told, I reckoned. The youngsters soon evaporated into the night. I never saw those little ones again.

Heck, I should have given them something. They deserved it.

Avoiding gunplay and other noble vacation goals...

So, my dad invites me and Mindi to go to Veracruz with him and of course I say yes. I've learned not to get too freaked out by reports of violence, so hearing of beheadings and car bombings in the tourist area didn't dissuade me from hopping the midnight flight to Guadalajara.


I must say, we seemed to step into Mexico the instant we got in line to check in at the Sacramento "International" Airport. Everyone -- and I mean everyone except one other white lady -- was speaking Spanish. Lots and lots of babies on the flight.


Mexicana Airlines is a great company and the flight was uneventful. We retrieved our rental car and got some rudimentary directions into town and headed out. The instant we left the airport we confronted about six vehicles stuffed with armed soldiers. Vehicles were posted at the exit and entrance to the highway, and several guarded entry to the facility we were passing.
"Are we supposed to stop?" I asked Mindi. We slowed to a crawl, trying to get the attention of the soldiers standing on the side of the road. The officer posted on the road had his back to us and did not turn around.

It was quite intimidating, being from California and all, to see regular patrols of soldiers with their trigger fingers poised on their automatic rifles. I gulped mightily and stopped.

We looked pathetically at the group of soldiers and shot a questioning glance. They laughed and waved us on. Turns out that was the entrance to a military base, so not too unusual. (Except we didn't see another such show of force the rest of our trip.)


I do have to apologize for not having a photo of all this. It just seemed more prudent not to do anything questionable.


After taking the possibly more direct, but slower, route into town suggested by the rental car company, we finally got to the zocalo in the old city center of Veracruz. That I do have a picture of: