Tales From The Trip (Some Times

I haven’t really been involved in writing much this last month or so.  It’s so funny, and like not awesome at, how good habits are so hard to form, and so easy to break.  Of coarse the reverse of that is how our nature is our nature and to defy that with logic, or passion, or any other aspect of our drive to persevere, is what makes being human so amazingly complex.  Like, it’s ummm…. not only our choice to envision how we want to live, but then to deal with the reality of implementing our vision.  Cool…

One of my favorite times along this trip was my walk into Mexico.

I crossed the border, using one of the pedestrian bridges, into Ciadad Juarez with 15 dollars and change in my pocket.  I locked all of my possessions to a fence, tucked behind a dumpster, in the backlot of a Church’s Chicken.  I just had to do it and walk away and try my hardest not to trip on the idea that all of my most important possessions in the world, at the time, were protected by the cover of a refuse container.

It was a couple quick blocks to the border and took no time to cross into a whole new country.  I had no idea where I was going, where the visitor center was (ha), and what I was going to even say when I did get somewhere.  So I did what I felt comfortable with and walked straight into the first bar/club I saw.  It was called ZOO.

I quickly realized that unlike Tiajuana, most of the locals here spoke no English.  In that situation I just smile and nod and everything works out.  Oh yeah! and find the first mutha fucker that speaks English and by him/her a beer.

So I haggled with the guy at the door, in terrible espanyolo, and settled on paying the five buck entry fee, but receiving 2 beers in exchange.  I tipped him a buck and got a homie on the inside.

The flow of the place was tight.  I figured out it was ladies night pretty quick because there were male strippers doing male stripper things.  I went off to the side and stood to observe, sticking out like a six foot, white thumb.  Me Primo walked up.  He said, “what’s good dogg? What are you doin out here?”  I said, “you wanna beer?”  The recipe for instant homeboiii’s.

His name was Mr. Hblah Villablahblah.  We started chit chatting.  He spoke perfect American English.  He told me he spent high school in Oklahoma, and was deported after his marriage license was rejected.  I didn’t ask to many questions,,,,, until a few days later.

Well I’m running out of time at the public lib.  I’ll pick this one back up soon.

Take it ez y’all

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