In the market in Puerto Vallarta, past the garlic and the dried chiles and just at the bin of overripe mangoes and papayas, there was a smell, really a musk, so disconcerting and memory soaked I had to stop in my tracks to process the experience. I don't even know what the exact memories were, just a full body sort of deja vu, entirely provoked by the smell.

The rest of the trip was mostly unremarkable. Funny how that works. It was nice to be a family hanging out, instead of a family just trying to get all the day-to-day crap done. The hub drank a few too many beers and got a rip-roaring sunburn. I got to play in the ocean with Kyra. We were stunned by how expensive it all was, slapped in the face by the value of the US dollar. I didn't have access to the Internet, so managed to not think about work for several days in a row.

PV is not the Mexico I am in love with, though. Similar, but not the place I used to escape to in my 20s, living in a palapa with a Zapotecan family, reading and swimming and sleeping and beating back my workaholism. I don't really think that Mexico still exists.