We came out of the restaurant three blocks away from the Zocalo district of Mexico City. As always, we’re obvious toursits. My mum is blonde with a midwestern build and I’m too pale to be native.
It starts to rain- hard, like a heavenly hose being emptied or a godly toilet being flushed. There was no escape from the water except to crowd our thick american butts into the doorway of the restaraunt that we’d just exited. Bills paid- no reason to go back in.
So I step out into the rain.
My mum squirms farther in to the wall. She’s afraid of ruining her hair.
[...] La Ciudad y la lluvia [...]