You know, last night, because I was bored with reading--spending most of my time in bed, due to an affliction demanding that--I this time took with me a great big coffee-table-sized book of photographs of Mexico, to look at pictures until I fell asleep.
Now, I'm sort of familiar with Mexico, but never paid much attention, as the history and culture of Latin America hasn't ever been anything to row my boat, rock my chair, push my buttons. It's nice and all that, but it's just something that doesn't turn me on.
After looking at these photographs, I became rather impressed with the beauty, the glory, the splendors, the people, of that country.
It struck me that the oblate spheroid never really saw her native country, and from the crib circa 1964 or 1965 thought of nothing more than getting out of there and coming to America, as Mexico wasn't "good enough" for her.
