m'log0705 -- Purgatorio

Apparently, the systema mexicana goes Ask and thou shalt receive. Electricity was on and off at the hotel today, so I went out to the Jardin with a yellow pad and the wad of documents to write.

As I was writing, an ancient woman came and offered to wash my clothes.

I wash my own clothes, I returned as best I could. She thought I had misunderstood.

I need to find a place to live, I continued. The hotel is too expensive, and I need a stove.

I did not need a cook, did not want her to bring food by every day. I finally agreed to pay some tiny sum for washing if only she could help me rent a room with a stove.

"No pro ble ma," she announced for my dense ears, waved me behind her, and trundled a few blocks to a restaurant with a sign out front: El infierno. Not "rooms for rent" I kid you not. Why had I not guessed? El infierno must have gotten its name from the long row of birds skewered and roasting over coals. Trusty Guide spoke to a young girl who wiped the grease from her hands and scampered back through the tables with a dozen or so keys on a wire strung through what looked like a small mesquite stick. She led us through an unmarked door up a narrow staircase.

The stairs opened on a nice tile patio; the room was ample, with a kitchen, a shower, and a balcony that opened over calle Institución. Trusty Guide shook her head a half dozen times, and I wound up with a price a fraction of what I'd been paying. I pulled out some cash.

An hour or so later, I hauled my dufflebag up the stairs, and an old guy with a goat beard and a posh accent greeted me, "Ah, you are a resident, then. Welcome to Purgatorio."