It was easy to go to Mexico, to the big flowery city, to the Orozcos, to the beaches where an ocean view costschange. It was easy to love from thebeginning.
It was the frogs on the curvy mountain road in the midst of the storm. Itwas La Ciudad de Dios, mini-Rio,where El Cristo Rey and los apostolicos watch over Ejutla. It was seduction in Spanish, becauseeverything sounds better in a language that is not your own. It was the late night, the rain, and the fuzzin my head. It was the songs in thestreetlight and the supportive adobe wall. It was okay to say nothing inthe morning.
It was riding in the back of a truck, jostling out of townonto the cobblestones of Puerte in the obscurity of 1 am. Itwas drunkenness off good tequila that remembered me in the morning. It was the mariachi sitting next to me,picking la guitarra. It was the low slung brick house and the night-time serenade.
I emailed no one, called no one, missed no one. Perhaps you would say I did not loveenough. But it was only that I loved Mexicotoo much.
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