Imps

The children are so beautiful here. There are a few rag tag urchins that run up and down the sidewalk by the shop, clothes dirty from the dust and deep brown eyes gleaming with mischief as they grab another handful of our free candy. The girls have loose, dark tendrils framing faces that will be nothing less than stunning in a few years' time. The boys' hair sticks straight up, springing thick and soft from their foreheads, a playful exclamation point to their gap-toothed grins and warm, innocent eyes.  As gorgeous as they are, they can be little imps, leaving messes in our play area and on our tables. It doesn't stop me from wishing I had the genes to produce one of my own.

I lost myself downtown yesterday in El Centro, stumbling upon the huge indoor market entirely by accident. That place is nothing but color and noise and smell. At one end is the meat market that boasts the bloodiest, most unappetizing flesh clinging to bone that I've ever seen. Every time I caught even the faintest whiff, I threw up a little bit in my mouth. People were everywhere, carrying babies around like purses. The school kids stood out in their collared shirts or plaid, pleated skirts; no longer urchins stealing candy, but young Mexican dolls causing obvious distress to the unfortunate groups of teenage boys. They sipped nonchalantly from white, styrofoam cups with straws while the guys fidgeted and wondered how to talk to them. The best they seemed to come up with were playful hits to the arm for lack of anything clever to say. I feel like things haven't changed much despite age or country borders.