But I woke up in Mexico to a chilly August morning.
Last night just after midnight, fireworks exploded on the nearby plaza. Just after midnight meant we’d entered another day, one that merited in some Catholic way the typical blasts of celebration.
Being accustomed to this, I went back to sleep and dreamed of New Orleans where I was walking on Carrollton Avenue, and I had a job on the newspaper again. I met a friend of an old friend. He remembered my name, but I did not recall his, which is one of my many defects. There was no clear time of year, but had it been August, it would have been hot, very hot and humid.
Just past 6, I was awake again, and it was cold, cold in August. I thought of a visit to Guanajuato in the 1980s with my second ex-wife. It too was August, and I remembered it was cold there for the same reason, altitude, and how amazed I was on walking out the hotel door to a cold August morning in Mexico.
I finally got out of bed at 7, walked into the kitchen and looked out the dining room window. And took this photo on another cold August morning. I like it here, and they’re still making noise on the nearby plaza, a small band now, celebrating something or other that I care not about in the slightest. I’m not Catholic.