The belief -- this is what keeps the celebration going -- is that a spirit does not disappear unless it is forgotten.  So we sat together as family in a room in a house two hundred years old to share memories of those who had gone over to the other side.  Later, we took a bus out to graveyards not far from Pátzcuaro where the celebration is about sitting all night next to the graves of the dead.  Candles are everywhere and the graves often were showered with gifts and memorabilia, a bottle of tequila, bread, photographs.  Towers of marigolds offered portals into a different world.  Tourists mingled and took pictures of the ritual and the families.  I thought the tourism was, perhaps, a kind of desecration, but then one of our party explained that in these small towns, Day of the Dead is probably the most financially profitable day of the year.   Next to the graveyards booths were set up to sell mescal and items to eat.  Young dancers chatted noisily and flirted with one another.

It was cold mostly, and the paths between the graves sometimes became slick mud.  Some started little fires to keep themselves warm throughout the night.

A bus ahead of us tried to turn around on the narrow road, but got stuck sideways, blocking all further traffic.  Eventually, after an argument with the tour company, they sent a taxi for us and we returned to the old house at 4:30 in the morning.