Morelia, Michoacán, Mexico (Google Maps ⧉, OpenStreetMap ⧉)

"At two o’clock in the morning, after twenty‐three hours on the road, they crashed through the silent streets of Morelia, past what her fellow passengers murmured was San Pedro Park, and into the courtyard of the Hotel Michoacán."

"The stairway was the finest in Morelia. The ladies posed for her at the head of the steps, black against the pink stone, docile, smiling, their faces pale and soft like the faces of nuns."

"Morelia isn’t Paris, but it is gorgeously picturesque. Much of it is made of a soft pink stone that in certain lights, or when wetted by a shower, glows almost rose."

"…as the bugles from the cavalry post just above us mark off the days as inexorably as the whistles of New Almaden or the church bells of Morelia."

"You were going to take a tutor along to Morelia. Why not to Boise?"

"…one of those grand Mexican estancias at which we stayed when we rode back from Morelia."

"“I wouldn’t be surprised if the perfumed darkness of her barren piazza flooded her with memories of the equally perfumed darkness of Morelia, and if the dangerous impossible possibility Frank suggested brought back the solemnity of bells…”"

"He showed it to Jesús, who made a tree of his family—all from Morelia, Michoacán, except for Jesús and his two brothers."