Dear Mexico,
I'm sorry. I know that I often see the worst in you. I curse the crowded streets and the traffic and the mosquitos and the sidewalks torn up by overgrown roots. I get irritated by the banda music and the long lines at the bank and the lack of customer service. I get frustrated when people can't understand my accent over the phone or when I call the health clinic and no one ever picks up.
But then I overhear Solo speaking Spanish with his buddy, Gael, as they play trains in his room. And it's March 4th and we just harvested broccoli from our garden and squirted each other with the hose. And last night we walked a mere two blocks from our front door to buy fresh fruit popsicles, fresh homemade pastries and all natural barrel churned ice cream. And we filled our bellies for less than 10 bucks. And this morning I went for a five mile run in capris and a tank top.
So, I'm sorry. I know our relationship is rocky, but I think we'll last a couple more years.
