When I have a lot of work-related errands in the centro, I always leave the pickup truck in the same parking lot. The guy who works there has already covered the usual, “Where are you from? And what the hell are you doing in Formosa?” questions. Last week, he started talking about the supposed end of the world. He said since we didn’t all die because of Y2K, this whole Mayan thing was a scam. While writing out my receipt, he seemed pleased to realize it was the thirteenth of the month. So pleased, in fact, that he lifted up his shirt to show me a tattoo of the number 13 above his belly button. I raised my eyebrows, nodded, and finished paying.
Once I got in my car I started munching on the bready chipa I bought that most people would probably call not-very-fresh. But I kind of liked the way the hard, starchy crust squeaked against my teeth.
How I get myself into these situations, I do not know.