Night comes in small steps.
In small increments light diminishes, dark grows, attitudes turn cavalier.
In Mazatlan, people come out at night, even families. They have purposely stayed out of the heat on long afternoons when even policia and Mexican mafia take siestas.
Tonight, OPEN for business signs beckon as I sit facing the ocean and watch the sun drown in the waves. The moon has come out from the bullpen and will be pitching the rest of tonight’s game.
Time is not on time here. It stretches like silly putty.
Salvadore Dali’s blobbish dripping, crawling timepieces are closer to truth than the clock tower in the public square, proper and rigid.
Uruguay and Costa Rica are a long way behind me.
Thankfully, there are still places in this world where people follow their own drummer.