It’s Sunday, September 14th, 2008. The seldom-virile Difficile and I make our way from Casa Oaxaca to Las Fiestas Patrias Parade in Santa Ana. These are the photos I take…
By evening’s end we’re tired and too sunned. We decide to duck into Rancho de Mendoza for margaritas. Due to the police force atop horses we almost don’t make it to the Rancho. For no good reason, the cops are clearing Fourth Street in one foul swoop making pedestrians go all the way around the block even if there destination just a few feet behind the horse line-up. This is what happens to Difficile. I, on the other hand, am almost trampled under hoof by some Napoleanic cop who is a little too sprightly. I wait atop the flight of stairs wondering how many bar patrons go to the neighboring dentist. I also wonder if Difficile has been arrested.
He arrives in a huff. His glance says, “Damn cops.” Mine says, “Goddamn facist state.” We step into Rancho de Mendoza and it’s packed. Dudes line the walls. People are dancing.
There’s space at the bar. We sit in between a man from D.F., and some dude who’s slumped over a flat Bohemia. We order margaritas and nachos and talk about authoritarianism, immigrants in SanTana, and other topics that are quickly absorbed by the music and the margaritas. Our bartender we’ve had before—she makes a good drink.