sweet memories of love. It had been loud in the capital, I’d gotten sick. And then, in Mazatlan, we’d shared our hotel with a bunch of beer-guzzling Yanquis, down for a week of sun and superiority. Still, something about the people we met there, the real Mexicans we went out of our way to meet, had touched us in a certain way. Some of them seemed, to Jeannie and me both, to live by a different set of assumptions.
