cien pesos.

One sunny winter day in Puerto Vallarta--winter in Puerto Vallarta is roughly like June in California--I wandered around the city, looking at bridges, checking out shops, admiring the deep wide blue of Banderas Bay from the boardwalk. I share with my older brother a fascination for bags: what could be better than useful stuff that will contain within it other useful stuff? Bags are like useful stuff multiplied into a simple rapture of sheer utility. A street vendor's backpack for sale caught my eye, so I asked, "¿Cuanto cuesta?"--how much. Pretty straightforward, right? I speak good Spanish, English among Mexicans is kind of spotty, I've been in the country a couple of months and found it's easier and more fun to use their language.

The lady says, in English, "One hundred pesos." I wasn't the only one who thought this was a little odd, because her friend sprang to life to next to her, berating her. "¡Óiga, él preguntó en español, claro que habla español!". He asked you in Spanish, he speaks Spanish!

People rock sometimes. They're so much fun.

Weird work vibes. A couple of weeks of dull quiet have suddenly terminated with a metric shitload (that's an ISO measurement, by the way) of work being dumped on a number of people who aren't me, particularly on my boss, who's sick on top of it all, and for a lot of these tasks the only guy able to do them. All my tasks are still sort of slow-moving or stalled, so I'm trying to pick up random stuff from him.

The call is still there.