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The thing about hanging around in a country where the currency is weaker than your own, is that you feel flushed.  A sensation heightened by the margaritas I’d had in the cenote bar.

Sitting in a perfect little spot, outside the bar near the parking lot, sat an abuela and her nieta…  Abuelas’ fingers relentlessly worrying pieces of wire through crepe paper, fashioning flowers, while nieta smiled and just slightly guilted passersby into parting ways with their pesos.

I may have been channeling Angelina Jolie in a crappy humanitarian film (minus headscarf and income).  Because, in a moment of arseholic magnamanity I pronounced 

“Oh no…(insert fumey margarita breath) please…take this all this money and just pose for a photo instead”.  

Awkward silence.  Nieta robotically repeatedly raising her hand to pass me the handmade flowers.  Brain not calibrating why the strange gringa was giving her dinero, whilst not taking the crepe flowers. 

Meanwhile, abuela caught on alright – deadly still and silent, not a muscle moving.  She simply mind-melded me “What do you think this is? We don’t need no stinking

badges?*  Just buy the damn flowers and get lost crazy gringa!”  It was actually something a bit ruder than that.  

Meanwhile back in the car…

Me: “Do you think I pissed her off, baby?” 

Tom: “Either that, or, she has rbf” **

What do you think? The mayan mind-meld already told me…I got the picture. loud and clear.

*1948 film The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.

**Resting Bitch Face

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