As I walked along the dark streets the chatter of people both in English and Spanish and the smell of street vendors sends a wave of adrenalin through me.
Hot stickiness drips out the end of my corn husk. My tamale is made with lard and I devour
it with careless bliss. I've never tasted a tamale like it before, there are chewy bits of sweet corn and
smoldering stringy cheese. I paid a meager $1.30 to the street vendor who also repairs shoes in the back of his truck.
Behind me is a boring sign that reads, "No alcoholic beverages beyond this point." This is the only thing that looks dull here. Brightly pastel colored buildings are all around. The road leads to the lake. I am told it is too cold and dark to see. I can't imagine this being possible, the colorful signs scar my eyes. When I close them I can still see the Spanish words imprinted glow on my eyelids.
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