Fried chicken an absolutely legitimate breakfast option here, I go instead for black beans, scrambled eggs, a small slab of cheese, avocado, tortillas, coffee. Later, at a roadside food spot Shania Twain’s greatest hits are playing. In town a police officer sees me walking around the market, we chat, he offers to let me leave my rig in the precinct office. Boys break dancing in the square.
Kid asks me where I am from. I tell him New York City, he says, concentrated earnest, “so you have a pistol?” I tell him I don’t. “No, not here. At home!” No, not even one at home. He’s deflated.
Sunday evening mass. The metaphysics are no longer mine even if the history is etched in my motions, but it is a place of people, music, a sounding of a place.