En route, the autobus twisting a curving through the hills. Dust swirling in all open windows, dancing in rays of sunlight gleaming in from open roof hatch. Passage through dark stone tunnels. Arrival in a new town nestled in the crevice of the dry hills. Even weather. Monolith cathedrals a stones-throw distance from one another. Narrow cobblestone streets snaking between multicolor buildings so close to each other they obscure attempts at orientation. A little room on the planta baja behind the towering university. Poop in front of the door that multiplies like mitochondria, then disappears without a trace. The site of the beginnings of the Mexican Revolution. Climb to the statue, el mirador for the nation’s hero. Medieval clothed musicians who lure you to buy tickets through public inclusive performances. A theme-less parade. We explored our heritage, sister and I. We ate and drank to our heart’s content. We walked, and ate some more, and napped. At night we frequented the cantinas. Cantineros tous les deux. Cantinas with menus dominated by mezcales artesanales. La Inundación, El Incendio, La Chopería. Star dust children lounging in rustic rooms made of concrete and dark wood, azulejo bars. We spoke frequently of the retrograding political climate of our country to the north. Two siblings mindful of the past, present and still-to-come. A string of moments in time. The culminations of 21 and 30 years respectively. A last meal at Truco 7. A trip to the place where flying starts and ends. Nuestra partida. Nuestra despedida. Te amo México.

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