Seeing The Ess Oh
Nietzsche says that he writes for a man who "never asks of the truth whether it brings him profit or death. He must have an inclination, born of strength, for questions that no one has the courage for." The girlfriend is brutal that way while being girly in plenty of others. It's one of the things I like best about her.
Quoting Zarathustra on the first date was how she ended up with me in the first place, though I didn't tell her that at the time. You should never tell her exactly what it is you really like about her. I always tell her it was her excellent ass instead.
The girlfriend's family was disturbed where we were going on our international vacation. We headed not just to the safety and security of Mexico City, but also to shady Cuernavaca. "It's full of narcos," warned the girlfriend lowering her voice, "and foreigners."
"Fuera de México," her family says, "todo es Culiacán." I can't wait to tell my friends from Culiacán.
I had a nightmare.
We were in a locally owned organic supermarket in Southern California. The manager was telling me about the details involved in procuring and stocking delicious organic vegetables and selling them to rich yuppies. Then my friend was paying for her order and the clerk added on a surcharge to her bill because she wasn't a rich white yuppie. We called in the LAPD and uncovered systematic corruption and racism in the organic grocery business.
I don't think my description really carries the sense of menace and terror of the nightmare. Someday I'll have to write up the plot better. Suffice it to say I awoke in a chill sweat.
We were at the excellent Fondo de Cultura Económica bookstore on Eje Central. She was looking for a good summer read for her nephews. We'd already tried taking tea at El Pendulo and looking for a good translation of Edgar Allen Poe stories.
Then the girlfriend had a new idea. "Have you ever read B. Traven?" she asked.
"Treasure Of The Sierra Madre B. Traven?" I said, "I love B. Traven. Have you ever read Government?" I rattled off the basic mysteries of his life story.
Another German writer we have in common.
She bought me a copy of her favorite Canasta De Cuentos Mexicanos.
"Sé guisar," she told me. Then she took me to the old family estate in the exotic and mysterious land of the Mexiquenses and showed me. It was delicious. The matriarch butchered a chicken and grand nephews were running around in the shadow of Chiquihuite. Birds were Twittering away. In the time honored way, I sat back and let the ladies do all the work.
They taught me to make horchata. I always loved drinking it but I was very wrong guessing the ingredients.
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