I hear stories of Mexico from my husband and they’re horror stories. Bartenders yanking your head back to pour tequila down your throat. Men eating out strippers mid-show. Getting lost trying to get back to the States and having a Mexican cop pull you over, saying you can go for five dollars. Stories of corruption and lack of morals. The stuff novels are made of.

My mother comes back from a three week vacation down South. A tourist town gone downhill since the teachers began protesting. She said it was a “police town” not long ago, then made it sound like an artists’ paradise. Friendly, welcoming people. Inexpensive, hand-painted crafts.

Then my husband says, “You know what us Mexicans do? We sell the white tourists stuff we don’t want, that we have laying around the house. We’ll tell them anything to make a buck.”

“Yeah, I know. My mother’s always been gullible.”

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