Our landlord, Jorge, loves his suns. I am sure he loves his son, Jorge Jr., as well, but I am talking about the other kind of sun.

This is why there are nearly 3,000 smiling sun faces decorating the hotel where we stay when we are in Mexico. Two more were added yesterday.

Much of the time my husband, Peter, and I are in our little apartment in Jorge's hotel, there is a team of artists working. Fabricio is the father, and usually at least two and sometimes three of his sons work with him. They paint anything that stays still long enough for them to apply paint.

Jorge sets them to work painting ceramic suns to join the nearly 3,000 already hanging in the courtyard. They paint the outside of the hotel for the Day of the Dead and other celebrations -- painting over their artwork at the end of the celebration. They paint saints on palm frond mats that are hung during Holy Week. They paint images of famous wrestlers so tourists can have their photos taken with them. They paint murals in the guest rooms. Occasionally, they even touch up the banisters in the hotel, and do not seem to mind.

Yesterday, Peter and I had lunch in the hotel. Jorge has opened up a sandwich shop in the hotel but, like so much that happens in Mexico, the long-term plan remains unclear to us.

Yesterday, for instance, we had salmon.

"Jorge is serving salmon in his sandwich shop?" I asked Peter.

"Yup."

"It's not really a sandwich shop anymore, is it?"

He also had a steak and a shrimp special. Peter and I had the salmon. It was fantastic.

Then I saw Fabricio on a ladder.

"What is he doing outside our door?" I asked aloud.

We ate. Fabricio painted. After we were through, I went upstairs. Fabricio had found room for two more suns over our door, and had roughed in the first colors.

"Oh! I love that color!" I told him.

There were two suns, side by side, and one of them was painted the blue-green color that I love. I showed him the approximately 11 to 13 bracelets I had on my wrist at the moment, all in shades of blue and green. Fabricio smiled. He kept painting.

Later in the afternoon, Fabricio had taken down his ladder. I stepped outside to see the finished project.

There were two suns: a smiling blue-green female sun with her eyes closed, and a yellow male sun with bright blue eyes -- just like Peter's. I realized that none of this was by accident. Fabricio had painted the two of us, as suns, right outside our door.

"Thank you for the beautiful suns!" I told Fabricio as he was on his way out, arms full of paints and paintbrushes, paint splatters all over his T-shirt and face. "They are beautiful!"

That night, Jorge was sitting at the front desk. I told him how good the salmon was. He smiled. Then I told him that Fabricio had painted two suns -- and they looked just like Peter and me!

Jorge smiled and nodded. He knew. Of course he did.

Nothing happens in this hotel that Jorge does not know about. Peter and I wander around imagining all the gentle acts of kindness that surround us somehow happen by chance.

"Gracias," I said.

I don't know if he thought I was thanking him for the salmon or the suns or the accommodations that always feel like home, or for simply creating this unique and wondrous place.

And it doesn't matter.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other news can be found at CarrieClasson.com.

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I saw the burro wearing pants and carrying a basket filled with paper flowers.

"Oh, my gosh!" I said. "That poor burro."

There are several burros with this job in this Mexican town and, as burro employment goes, it's a pretty easy gig. The burro wears a rustic basket filled with bright paper flowers and is led by a man in a similarly rustic costume, and they follow wedding processions, providing photo opportunities for the guests. The burro is photographed dozens of times and spends the afternoon in the park, doing her best to look picturesque.

On weekdays, when weddings are less common, the burro and her handler park themselves on a narrow bit of cobblestone street with a beautiful view of the old church in the background. Tourists get their photos taken with the burro for a few pesos. I saw no harm in it until the day the burro showed up in pants.

"Oh, my gosh!" And I felt a sense of indignation rising on the burro's behalf.

I mean, it's one thing to carry around fake flowers all day. It is another thing entirely (according to me) to put the poor burro in trousers. To add insult to injury, the pants were not even on her back legs! She was wearing trousers on her front legs that made her look sort of like a little person with a donkey head.

"Outrageous!" I decided in furious defense of the burro's dignity. Making a burro dress up in a silly costume was somehow intolerable, as far as I was concerned. Her handler was making her look comical, a ridiculous punchline to lure more tourists in. She was a joke burro, and I decided -- from my vantage point as the Tourist Who Knows Everything -- this was unacceptable.

From that moment on, I made it my mission to restore the burro's dignity. On days when she showed up in pants, I shook my head disapprovingly and said, "No pants!" in Spanish. On days she showed up in her natural attire, I indicated my approval. "I am happy the burro has no pants!" I said -- a phrase I am unlikely to need on many other occasions.

My mission was going well, I thought. The burro was showing up in pants far less often and everything was going well -- until yesterday.

Yesterday, I actually stopped to talk to the burro's handler.

"I'm glad she is not wearing pants!" I reiterated as if, by now, he might not have gotten my point.

"I will show you," he said in English. And he gestured that I should come near.

The burro had large patches on the back of her legs where the flies had been eating her skin. He told me they hurt her, and he could not keep the insects away. He put poison on the spots, but it did not work well, and it cost 500 pesos for a small bottle. The pants kept the flies away and allowed her poor legs to heal.

And I am an idiot.

"I'm so sorry," I said in Spanish. "I didn't understand. She should wear pants if she needs them!"

And I thought of all the assumptions I make every day, all the opinions I form with no basis but my own ridiculous preconceptions. This man took the time to show me the truth -- about one little burro in pants -- and I wondered how often I am just so, so wrong.

"Gracias," I told him.

"De nada," he said. "It's nothing."

But of course, it was something. It was something very important.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other news can be found at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

My husband, Peter, is trying to impress a local collie.

Peter knows better than this. He had a collie for many years. Collies are not easily impressed. They have their own priorities and their own agenda and if it happens to coincide with yours, you can pretend they did something on your behalf -- but you'd be lying to yourself.

But Peter still loves collies. The current object of Peter's affection is named Lassero and lives on a road Peter takes every day on his hike.

Peter met the collie one day when the dog was sticking his head through the curtains. Peter learned his name from the collie's owner, and went on to assume he and the collie would be fast friends. Every day, as Peter walked by, he called out, "Lassero!" and the collie ignored him. So Peter decided he would start bringing treats.

Peter brought a cookie and put it on the windowsill. The collie did not come. On the way home, Peter checked the windowsill. The cookie was gone. Peter did this for several days running.

"Maybe Lassero's owner is finding the cookies," I said. "Maybe he is throwing them away!" Peter was not convinced.

Then one day, Lassero was at the window. Peter gave him a cookie. Lassero ignored it. Peter put it down on the sill. Lassero poked it with his nose. He eventually ate it, but did not seem excited.

"I don't think Lassero likes cookies," Peter concluded. The next day, he went out and bought corn chips.

"If he didn't like cookies, he's not going to like corn chips!" I told Peter. "He's waiting for organic sun-dried beef chips." Peter looked as if he was considering this.

"I could take chicken," he said.

"You can't take chicken on your hike!" I figured there wasn't much Peter wouldn't do to capture this dog's affection.

Then Peter had an idea. "Popcorn! Dogs love popcorn even more than beef!"

Peter packaged up some popcorn and put it in his backpack. "Lassero!" he called. The dog did not answer. Peter left popcorn on the windowsill. On his way down, he checked. The popcorn was still there, but one piece had been moved. It was now in tiny, wet pieces. Apparently, Lassero did not like popcorn either.

Some dogs will do anything for affection. Some dogs will give you affection once they figure you've earned it. And some dogs are always going to play hard to get. I had a feeling that Lassero might not be in the market for more friends, but I didn't want to break this to Peter.

And even though it sounds funny, it's still a little sad. I've been ignored and ghosted by folks I thought were my friends. I realized -- a little too late -- they were not actually my friends. They already had friends, and I wasn't one of them. It doesn't matter if it's a dog or a person. The realization still hurts.

"You have lots of dog friends," I reminded Peter.

And he does. There is Reacher, who he calls the "Reacher Creature," a giant dog who jumps up in delight when he sees Peter. There is Bucky, who has very short legs and lies down on the sidewalk when Peter talks too long with Bucky's owner. There are several tiny dogs who walk on his route every day and bark in excitement every time Peter goes by. And somewhere, just behind the curtains of his home, is Lassero, ignoring Peter every day.

"Lassero doesn't know what he is missing," I told Peter. And he doesn't.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other news can be found at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION