Intermission

And after the burning sun, the mountains, the cabrito, the INDIO beers, the Camel Natural Flavor, the sewer smell, the many homonym cities, the street entrepreneurs, the circus people from the road junctions, the third-world north side and the elitist south side, the roasted corn smell, the double morality, and the streets named after supposed heroes and clowns of our history…

After the bajo sexto guitar, the accordion, the long-living and unlikely bohemian cantinas, the women that entice but don´t act, the women that act but don´t entice, the women that are not women, the hostile and hard accent, the foreigner´s hate, the non-walkable city, the churches every three blocks, the fuckers, the yuppies, the punks, the misfits, the arid landscape, the assassinations, the rain-caused traffic accidents, the micro homes for large families and the macro homes for pretentious couples…

After many days, weeks, and a couple of months, nesting the trip, the experience, the challenge of exile. Now here I am, halfway through the journey, in a place neither pure anglo-saxon nor Spanish-speaking… Missing the burning sun, the street entrepreneurs, the INDIO beers, the arid landscape, the streets named after the heroes and clowns, the double moral, the Camel Natural Flavor, the foreigner´s hate… … …