Thanksgiving Day, 1996.

Welcome to the next level.

Goldfish and I walked into Mexico in a light drizzle, so psyched we wandered right past the immigration office. We got the cheapest hotel we could find, a place that made Little 6 look like the ritz. It was perfectly decrepit, totally covered in cryptic Mexican graffiti, and you had to use a bucket of water from the shower to flush the toilet. Splendid! This is how the average Mexican travels, isn't it? After ordering our Thanksgiving dinner in phrasebook spanish, we plotted our foray into the fabled mexican bus system.

Nov 29
With the help of a Mexican who had worked in WI (never knew your cheese came from a sweat shop, did you?) and knew a little english, we found a local bus that would take us out to the main bus terminal. After we got on, the bus slowly filled until we had given up our seats to women and children. Halfway there, a blind musician made his way to the back of the bus and started belting out what sounded like his best Vincente Fernandez impression as he strummed a twelve dollar guitar. Goldfish spent the rest of the ride dodging the head of said guitar.

We made it to the bus station and bought second class bus tickets to Saltillo. It didn't turn out to be a hair raising adventure like I halfway anticipated, but instead provided a few quiet contemplative hours. Looking out the window, I saw as the dusty land flew by that the cracked earth and rocks and scrub were full of the magic of brujos and that the towns no bigger than a couple blinks instantly flooded my senses with the character of an existence scraped out of labor and patience. As the sun set, our bus climbed into the Sierra Madres, and the desert was replaced by the black outline of the mountains. Turning a deep mexican red, the sky blushed at indecencies only it and the sun knew about, and I watched, lost in it all.

Sometime in the night we arrived in Saltillo

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