Sleeping in is usually a mistake in rural Mexico, where most hotels only have hot water for an hour or two in the morning. Including this 19th-century relic that looks like a concrete blockhouse. In the bathroom I can hear shower knobs squeak, the splashy tumble of water hitting tile — and Nooshin groaning in dismay. But she needed sleep more than a warm relaxing shower. That’s why I didn’t wake her earlier.

Our suitcase is an open clamshell in the corner, each half heaped with a colorful riot of clothes, his and hers. I dig through her side of the messiness, cherrypicking an outfit — bra and panties and socks, a plain black pullover sweater, jeans — and toss everything onto the bed. She can save her sundresses and tanktops and miniskirts for the big cities. This is the bible belt of Mexico.

The girl who emerges from the bathroom looks like she was just fished out of the North Atlantic. Long inky hair is plastered to her face and bare shoulders. She’s wrapped tightly in a towel and hunched a little, shivering. A puddle is forming around her feet. “I’m…warning…you,” she grimaces through chattering teeth. “I didn’t…shave…my legs.”

I point at her side of the bed. “Hurry up and get dressed before you freeze to death.”

Nooshin throws aside the towel and struggles into her clothes, fabric catching on her glossy wet skin. Of course, she complains about the bra — “I don’t need it, you know” and “Why do I have to wear one?” and blah blah blah — from the moment she kicks into her hiphuggers until she finishes tying her Nikes. Another week in rural Mexico and she’ll forget she ever dispensed with that undergarment.

Down on the cobblestones Chirbampo is vibrant with daytime. Stark sunlight floods the streets, now awash in people and vehicles belching smoke. Smells assault our nostrils — diesel exhaust, meat grilling for lunch, the perfume of passing women. Every radio within earshot is playing Paulina Rubio’s latest hit, a hooky song about unreliable men and reliable tequila.

On the sidewalks we’re two skyscraper-tall Americans in sunglasses, feeling like rockstars, every face turning our way. “Buenos dias!” people chorus as we pass. Little kids grin at us and wave. Nobody tries to sell us anything, partly out of respect, partly since there’s no tradition of tourism here.

“I love the real Mexico,” Nooshin murmurs in delight, clasping my hand. “This is so much better than Tijuana!”

That makes me grin. “Right now it is, sure. But let’s see how you feel in a month or two. You might kill for a bus ticket back to the bright lights, big city of Tijuana.”

“I suppose,” she says. Doubtfully. Then her arm flies into a pointing line. “Oh wow! Look at that!”

Coming into view is the hand-carved edifice of a gothic cathedral, built by a colonial silver baron trying to buy his way into heaven. The cathedral is enormous for a town this size, towering over the tile rooftops around it, but still dwarfed by the confining peaks. It stands magnificently on the north side of the plaza, a cozy medieval-looking square of cobblestones bisected by the creek that winds through town. A pair of matching stone bridges cross the leafy ravine at each edge of the plaza, joining the two halves.

I tug Nooshin toward the government building and its symbolic placement on the opposite side of the plaza — keeping an eye on God and the Church, dividing the spoils of the New World, an uneasy partnership. Beneath the timbered veranda old men are playing cards and dominoes. The ones who are gambling don’t bother to look up.

She’s fumbling her antique Polaroid camera out of her purse. “Where are we going?”

“To see the mayor.”

“Why?”

“Two reasons,” I say, pausing so she can snap a picture of the cathedral. “First, we need to introduce ourselves as visitors to his town. Just a respect thing, basically.”

“And the second reason?” she asks, collapsing her camera and sliding it back into her purse.

“Because mayors always come from old families that run the town. They know the political landscape, all the local history, you name it. If the mayor tells somebody to talk to us, they will.”

The veranda is interrupted by a cut-out entryway to the building, where a slovenly policeman is baking on a wooden chair in the sun. Inside the massive scarred doors we discover two levels of bureaucratic living, the upper one ringed by a balcony. I begin to circle the ground floor, looking for a brass plate etched with ALCALDE — the Mexican title for mayor — while Nooshin trails along behind me. Unfortunately, an interior modernization in the 1940s or 1950s obliterated the traditional oak doors and brass plates. Instead I’m reading stencils on the smoked-glass windows of metal doors.

Eventually I find the mayor’s office upstairs. There are two women in the anteroom but only one desk. A nubile teenager in a low-cut blouse and hitched-up miniskirt sits in a chair, flipping through a fashion magazine. I pointedly ignore her, since she’s here for the mayor’s pleasure, not mine. “Is the mayor in?” I ask the working secretary in Spanish.

She doesn’t bother to look up from her paperwork. “The mayor is a busy man.” Doesn’t matter whether he’s napping in his office or visiting a mistress somewhere. He’s a busy man. What more do we need to know?

We backtrack to the balcony and claim a vacant and very uncomfortable bench. Also waiting for the mayor are an ancient peasant, a nervous-looking dude in a suit, and a frumpy mother and her skinny morose teenager. Nooshin puts her head on my shoulder and prepares to sleep some more, but we don’t have long to wait.

A stocky Mexican bangs through the entryway and starts huffing up the stairs. It takes a while. His oversized guayabera shirt can’t conceal a raging girth. Sweat beads on his three chins, then drops to spatter his sandals. At the top of the stairs he pauses to catch his breath, scanning the crowd with obvious disinterest. He meets important citizens at their convenience, at dinner and over drinks. We’re just petitioners. He meets us at his convenience.

The mayor finally turns his fat face our direction. His beady eyes widen. “Americans?” he asks in English thicker than Mexico City smog.

I stand up slowly, giving his neck vertebrae a workout. “That’s what my passport says,” I reply in Spanish, sticking out a hand. “I’m Nick Roberts. It’s a genuine pleasure to visit your town and meet you, senor.”

The mayor tries to summon a macho handshake, but the only exercise his forearm gets is the 12-ounce kind. “Yes. Of course. It’s a pleasure to meet you too. We don’t get many Americans here.”

He tilts over at Nooshin, who pushes her sunglasses up on her head, pinning back her bangs. She smiles brilliantly at him — while her crooked eye wanders off to more interesting sights. He blanches and turns back to me plaintively, as if seeking an explanation. I just keep staring down at him, enjoying his distress. Finally he pivots on a sandal and motions us to follow.

The mayoral office is a surprisingly small room with a view of the plaza. The town’s coat of arms hangs above a simple metal desk. The other walls are mostly bare, the graying plaster only decorated with a small framed map here, a crucifix there. The mayor settles his bulk in what turns out to be a rocking chair, creaking back and forth on the uneven wooden floor.

I’m carrying letters of introduction in my backpack, along with my laptop computer and some tourist guidebooks that don’t bother to mention Chirbampo. I toss the letters on his desk.

The mayor scans them while scratching himself. His eyes gravitate to the letterhead — UCLA, University of California Regents, and my trump card, Estado de Baja California Norte Departmente de Administracion. That gets his attention, a bureaucrat with a small title impressed by a bureaucrat with a bigger one. “You know the director general of Baja California’s Department of Administration?”

Actually I’ve never met the man, just got a secretary to sign his name on a letter I’d written, but I don’t tell the mayor that. “I assisted him in various matters,” I shrug nonchalantly.

“Hmmm,” he nods in appreciation, and slides the letters of introduction back to me. “So what brings you to Chirbampo?”

I explain that I’m seeking an interview with the founder and original owner of the Korea Textile maquiladora. I’m hoping the mayor can make an introduction for me, maybe pick up the phone and —

“I’m not really the mayor,” he corrects me, and his features twist into a pudding of apology. “I’m the head of the town council. The mayor died in a car crash last month. Very tragic.” A fat hand rises toward the window, hangs in space a moment, then slaps back to the desktop. “That’s why you see all the political banners everywhere. We’re having a mayoral election next week.”

Actually I haven’t seen any of the telltale signs of a Mexican election — banners hung from lightpoles and balconies, buildings repainted in party colors, cars topped with loudspeakers careening through the streets and blaring slogans. I shake my head like he’s speaking Swahili instead of Spanish. “What does the election have to do with me?”

The acting mayor writes vealo — see him — on a sheet of letterhead and hands the paper to me. “Take this to Don Fidel and tell him what you want. Maybe he’ll make the introduction for you, maybe he won’t. But it’s out of my hands.”

Confused, I pocket the letter and thank the obese guayabera-clad politico for his hospitality. Next to me Nooshin is rising to her Nikes, oblivious to the conversation, eager to snap a picture of the mayoral office. I aim a warning glance over the acting mayor’s sweaty scalp. Our eyes briefly lock, and her hands immediately fall away from her purse.