There is a garble of mayhem. Buses spit, gears grinding and thumping. Horns from their push-buttons blare; from yellow and white Mazda taxis, from gritty pockmarked trucks, from local peoples and passing pedestrians. It’s hot where all these species interact, for a strong Mexican sun burns low in February skies. Everything seems to sweat. My pores. The parched plants covered in dust. Those firing engines inside their oil blocks. And the roaming dogs: Chihuahuas, poodles, mutts. I wander into una tienda (a shop) owned by a small family and pull out three beers from the cooler. It’s Negra Modelo by choice, and for a mere 45 pesos (approximately three US dollars), I head to the beach and cross the old part of town. I’ve been in Mexico for over a week, but it feels like the
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