A few words on a sadder subject. It was the Day of the Dead we were marking, after all, not Carnival in Rio.
After the parade I went back to the hotel, squeezed like a lime for a margarita. Grabbed my rucksack and headed for Santa Fe.
My motivation for public transport ran dry. My legs went on strike, and my soul demanded an Uber.
- $24.89 for 16 km and 28 minutes. The first, and as it turned out not the last, hole below the budget’s waterline.
The universe: “Relaxed a bit early there, Captain!”
Karma came round to collect for the sleeping gentleman I’d already been mentally farming points off.
Breakfast, it turns out, wasn’t included — they’d said so, perfectly honestly, on a little sign decorated with **** asterisks.
In my innocence I’d assumed that was the hotel’s **** star rating.
- $32.05 for Mexican hospitality, as extended to one trusting Chilean mug.
Rather like a hotel minibar: the only thing on the house was the guilt 🥹
