"I'm just going to ask her 'dónde está las galletas', I want to see those chickens!" my sister announced. I tried to imagine our neighbor's reaction when some gringo woman pops her head over the wall that runs between our houses and asks her where the cookies are.
I went to Wal Mart to get my mom and my sister some things that they had forgotten before arriving in Mexico. As I checked out the booze aisle, a man offered me a free shot of Dewars. I rarely, if ever, go to Wal Mart in the U.S., but I just might change my toon if they adopted some of Mexican Wal Mart's policies.
Most homes in Mexico use propane tanks instead of, you know, gas that mysteriously shoots out of the wall through some kind of pipe like Americans have. Roaming trucks with catchy songs cruise the neighborhoods constantly, in case anyone's tank ran out. Strangely, the trucks in our town do not have a catchy song. They belch out an airhorn like noise and a deep, pre-recorded voice perpetually asks, "Do you have gas?" as if the whole town is on the verge of a collective fart.
My sister and I decided to check out a hole in the wall bar that Alec had spotted before heading back to Atlanta. It featured some interesting local color and a few horses parked out front that had carried a couple of the patrons to their afternoon watering hole. We sat at the bar and had some beers and observed. I was surprised when a Mexican woman with a star tattooed on her face suddenly slid between us, simultaneously putting one hand on my sister's thigh and grabbing my left butt cheek with the other. Without even registering what she was saying to us, I exclaimed "That's my sister!", in way of declining her offer for a three way.
"Wow," Holly stated when she finally walked away, "that's breaking all kinds of laws".
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