last day

Another wonderful breakfast yesterday, with molletes – open-faced sandwiches of melted cheese and ham over a layer of frijoles; student food. José says he lived on them in college.

Good conversation with the other writers, politics and art.  After breakfast I'd planned to go out and paint a watercolor, but it rained, so I just napped.  Probably needed it.

Noonish, we went to the feria, where I had an interview with a popular radio station, with a pretty good-sized audience.  The woman who interviewed me, Fernanda Tapia, was very professional and enthusiastic, and José translated well.  I had about fifteen minutes of a two-hour show.

Then off to another good lunch at the greasy spoon just off the fairgrounds.


After six days, I'm still gasping in the thin air when I lie down.  It's not so noticeable when I'm up and around, thank goodness.  ("Goodness has nothing to do with it," says Mr. Oxygen.  "It's me!  All me, you silly fool!")


Evidently I'm in less good shape than most of the people who post about it; the consensus seems to be that you won't notice it after a couple of days.  It may be more the pollution than the altitude in my case.   Sometimes I have difficulty in New York's sea-level soup.


I think Gay managed to get me first class for part of the return, though, so I can gasp a higher quality of oxygen.


Just home for a day.  Throw the clothes in the washing machine, then repack and get in another fucking airplane.  Just to Des Moines, Demicon, though, which is all of a thousand feet above sea level.  A mere pittance.

Another good restaurant for dinner last night, Argentine, Eldiez.  Beef two nights in a row?  More than I normally have in a week.  Really good ice-cold beer to go with it. Appetizers of baked cheese and chistorra, a delicious sausage.

Everyone was speaking Spanish, but that didn't make any difference; it was so loud I couldn't have understood English.  But beef to die for, as the cardiac people say.

Joe