We wake up to the sounds of children playing. Not icky American ones who only make bleep and bang sounds, but excellent Mexican children who are probably chasing a greased boar around a Maypole.

Wandered into a residential neighborhood yesterday. They really do have broken, jagged-edged soda bottles nesting along the tops of outside walls. I passed an escuela de danza, an aging cool Communist professor type, whom I tried to follow, and workman listening to the rad Extreme song, More than Words, among other things.

I did a little browsing in a tacky shopping district reminiscent of Brooklyn´s Fulton Mall. I tried to tell the salesgirl that a shirt I tried was ´trop pequena´, mixing student French and butchered Sanish, then puffing out my cheeks to let her know I was, you know, a fatty, but instead probably indicated that I had some kind of brain disease.

I had my first beer alone in a cafe. Sure, it´s a totally touristy place with big buckskin bar stools and a Frida Kahlo tile relief, but I walked in, ordered a Tecate, and promtly learned her that I am way spazzier when hit on in a bar in Mexico. I think I may have referred to Malcolm as my wife again, but I felt proud and autonomous just the same.

Just before bed I composed this poem, entitled A Haiku for Quilaquiles

flubbery corn food
smothered in light green cream sauce
chicken at breakfast!

I feel a little strange today. But I´m out and about, just the same, to practice my abominable Spanish, which sounds so much better in my head, and perhaps purchase some shoes that don´t make my feet bleed. Buenos Tardes, mi amigos. (why did I study French?)

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