Smells like tortillas
14 photos, 10 stories & 9 uses of rooftops
Maria de los Angeles lives with her 99 year old father and her 87 year old father-in-law. At 60 years old, she has 23 grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. In November she was widowed when her husband was killed on his way home from a cock fight.
Wearing her Sunday patent leathers, buckles undone, Estefania dashes across the dusty yard with a small metal chair which she intends to hang from a branch of the flowering jarcaranda.
Dona Dalva has her windows open this evening. Fellini's La Dolce Vita buzzes from the television screen. Her socks slump into her shoes as she stands eating a torta of manchego cheese.
First there was the construction job, then the computer class and now it's chauffeuring tourists between the airport and the B & B owned by the gueros. Less work and more pay - it's okay. Rogelio admits to his grandmother's 'A good price tag usually beats out a dream.'
Two lovers separated by an unnamable fear.
Ever since he won a lifting competition in Mexico City, he goes by 'Mr. Mexico Junior'. It's even on his personal training card. Junior's muscular mass has become bulk - something he needs to accommodate with sweat pants and t-shirts for both professional reasons and practical.
Her father is a famous bullfighter in Mexico City. It was April that she picked up a young man at a gay bar by telling him, "I like your style." The next day she took him to a dusty hollow behind the museum and they screwed.
Estel bakes honey cakes and millet cookies for the health food store. On Wednesdays she teaches a hybrid mixture of Jack La Lane calisthenics and breathing exercises which she calls "el yoga". Frequently she encourages participants to wash in the communal bathroom in order to "relax their minds".
Pizarro manages a group of young women who distribute promotional samples for various companies. The commission he earns is good but not enough to pay for his coke habit. So he took up dancing at a Ladies Club driving the four hours to Vera Cruz and back every weekend.
One night after a couple of tequilas, Moses reminisces of working in Detroit. He thinks of the snow that fell there forty odd years ago. He thinks of Lake Huron and how its surface was built of ice.
Smells like tortillas.