Tucson Az

THE Lost Barrio got that name for a reason. It can't be found on any map. Ask locals for directions there, and chances are good you'll get puzzled looks. Just three-quarters of a mile from downtown Tucson, this shopping district isn't so much lost as it is hidden. A highway cuts it off from neighborhoods to the south. A dusty arroyo is its northern border. Its western edge is obscured by a suburban-sized Volvo dealership and a pair of big box stores.

For decades, the faithful say, a 1-foot-tall crucifix has been granting the wishes of people in need. By the thousands, people have come to pray at El Señor de los Milagros -- Lord of the Miracles -- a shrine on the side of a one-story stucco home in a working-class Mexican American neighborhood in Tucson. People have come from as far away as Germany to worship at the shrine, but most visitors come from Arizona and Mexico. The carved wood sculpture, encased in glass, has been in the Romo family for five generations, said owner Pauline Romo.

Somewhere between Palm Springs and Yuma, Ariz., I heard the train whistle blowing, a low-toned moan that roused me from sleep like a gentle alarm clock. I parted the royal blue curtains that shielded the light from my tiny compartment aboard Amtrak's Sunset Limited Superliner and looked out as the rising sun gave substance and shape to the Sonoran Desert sands.

It starts now. In December, on snowy mountain roads around Tucson with his graying, balding posse riding shotgun, Lance Armstrong is back at it, all in, no doubts, head of a new cycling team but with the same goal as always -- to win the Tour de France. Seven-time Tour de France winner Armstrong, 38, has gathered seven of the men who rode with him in last year's comeback. He also has a dynamic young nemesis, a Spaniard named Alberto Contador, a 26-year-old who has won four Grand Tours, including the Tour de France twice, and who is unafraid to say that he's not a fan of Armstrong the man or the teammate.

I was disappointed. I had checked into Loews Ventana Canyon Resort hoping for a room with a city view. The lights would be beautiful at night in the clear desert air, I thought. But my room was tucked into the back of the 398-room hotel, facing the Santa Catalina Mountains. I had arrived late on an October day just in time for sunset. The flaming red sky I saw from my window was nice, but I still craved city lights. Until the next morning, that is, when I walked out onto my third-floor patio.

As Sabino Creek wound down the canyon in come-hither curves, two boys dangled their skinny legs over a ledge as they caught their breath between dives. Then they stood up side by side and leaped into the deep pool below, surfacing with yelps of exhilaration. I briefly felt an urge to take the plunge, but I settled for a 10-minute dip of the toes. In a spot of such beauty-a place that turned out to be the highlight of a restful and relaxing weekend-I needed no other thrill.

My first golf lesson, from a macho pro at a Caribbean resort, was so miserable that I didn't play again for five years. I wilted under the broiling sun and the scornful gaze of my instructor, who ordered me to do this, do that--rarely disguising his disgust at having to teach a nervous neophyte instead of a real golfer who could appreciate his pithy pointers. I ditched the sport faster than I could yell "Fore!"

Within my first hour at Tanque Verde Ranch, I spotted a bright red male northern cardinal, singing melodiously, in a mesquite tree. Half an hour later, I saw hummingbirds buzzing around a feeder hanging outside the ranch's nature center. Later during my two-day stay, I added a Gila woodpecker, barn swallows and goldfinches to my bird list. You'd think I was staying at a bird preserve instead of a ranch about 25 miles northeast of Tucson's airport.

For decades, the faithful say, a 1-foot-tall crucifix has been granting the wishes of people in need. By the thousands, people have come to pray at El Señor de los Milagros -- Lord of the Miracles -- a shrine on the side of a one-story stucco home in a working-class Mexican American neighborhood in Tucson. People have come from as far away as Germany to worship at the shrine, but most visitors come from Arizona and Mexico. The carved wood sculpture, encased in glass, has been in the Romo family for five generations, said owner Pauline Romo.

No doubt about it, in Tucson they like chiles. From sweet bell peppers and mild New Mexico reds to picante chiltepins and fiery habaneros, chiles are integral to Tucson's gastronomic scene, which is fragrantly influenced by the cuisine of its southern neighbor, the Mexican state of Sonora. A visit to El Charro Cafe is a wonderful introduction to Sonoran-style cuisine.

Convicted sniper Lee Boyd Malvo confessed to police that he and cohort John Allen Muhammad were responsible for the 2002 killing of a 60-year-old man on a Tucson golf course, authorities said. "He admitted to the killing of Jerry Taylor," said Capt. Bill Richards, a Tucson police commander. Richards said Malvo spoke to Tucson officers who visited him in jail in Montgomery County, Md. He has immunity from prosecution in the case.

THE Lost Barrio got that name for a reason. It can't be found on any map. Ask locals for directions there, and chances are good you'll get puzzled looks. Just three-quarters of a mile from downtown Tucson, this shopping district isn't so much lost as it is hidden. A highway cuts it off from neighborhoods to the south. A dusty arroyo is its northern border. Its western edge is obscured by a suburban-sized Volvo dealership and a pair of big box stores.

I was disappointed. I had checked into Loews Ventana Canyon Resort hoping for a room with a city view. The lights would be beautiful at night in the clear desert air, I thought. But my room was tucked into the back of the 398-room hotel, facing the Santa Catalina Mountains. I had arrived late on an October day just in time for sunset. The flaming red sky I saw from my window was nice, but I still craved city lights. Until the next morning, that is, when I walked out onto my third-floor patio.

Within my first hour at Tanque Verde Ranch, I spotted a bright red male northern cardinal, singing melodiously, in a mesquite tree. Half an hour later, I saw hummingbirds buzzing around a feeder hanging outside the ranch's nature center. Later during my two-day stay, I added a Gila woodpecker, barn swallows and goldfinches to my bird list. You'd think I was staying at a bird preserve instead of a ranch about 25 miles northeast of Tucson's airport.

Somewhere between Palm Springs and Yuma, Ariz., I heard the train whistle blowing, a low-toned moan that roused me from sleep like a gentle alarm clock. I parted the royal blue curtains that shielded the light from my tiny compartment aboard Amtrak's Sunset Limited Superliner and looked out as the rising sun gave substance and shape to the Sonoran Desert sands.

Claiming plaintiffs in sexual abuse cases are demanding more money than can be offered, officials of the Roman Catholic Diocese of Tucson said Wednesday they were considering a bankruptcy filing. An attorney for alleged victims dismissed the talk as a tactic to gain community sympathy and delay litigation. Bishop Gerald F. Kicanas said bankruptcy could be the only way to handle the 19 cases alleging sexual abuse by clergy pending against the diocese.

Forget cowboys and retirees. Tucson in winter may not rival Paris in spring as an image for sophisticated escape, but it's not all rodeos and golf, either. Tucsonans point out with pride that their city is one of the few in this country with a resident symphony and ballet, opera and theater companies. It has a wide range of museums and galleries and at this time of the year--between snowfalls--crisp, clean air and implausibly vivid sunsets. Tucson also has a new, ambitious arts festival.

A perfect hybrid of cowboy, Latino and Indian, Tucson is the real Southwest. In the barrio historico, the dusty adobe walls, the piercingly blue sky, the pepper trees, the lavender doors evoke not only the historic West but also Mexico, which is truly just a long horse ride away over empty mountain passes and saguaro-studded plains. I had come alone to Tucson to explore its secondhand stores and historic downtown, and had made reservations at the downtown Arizona Inn.

For the first time in years, Albert Belle has the entire spring and summer to do as he pleases. Instead of plotting ways to solve opposing pitchers, he's enjoying another sport. Pushed out of baseball in March because of a degenerative right hip, Belle has spent much of his free time on the golf course. The former slugger hasn't been in contact with many of his former peers, although recently he made a surprise phone call to Chicago White Sox manager Jerry Manuel.

As Sabino Creek wound down the canyon in come-hither curves, two boys dangled their skinny legs over a ledge as they caught their breath between dives. Then they stood up side by side and leaped into the deep pool below, surfacing with yelps of exhilaration. I briefly felt an urge to take the plunge, but I settled for a 10-minute dip of the toes. In a spot of such beauty-a place that turned out to be the highlight of a restful and relaxing weekend-I needed no other thrill.