By Walter Agnew Moore II

Perhaps I could explain why I am sitting here at this computer with a fake tattoo on my left forearm saying that "Colima es PRI", as in Partido Revolucionary Institucional, as in I am a gringo meddling in Mexican politics and therefore could *technically* get deported, but I prefer to blame it on the cat.

Yes, that's right, the cat. The one that tried to break into my house last night, about 2 am. The window slats next to the front door were rattling just like somebody trying to jimmy their arm in far enough to reach the door knob, and I figured I'd rather catch em outside than in, so there I go running in ancient Celtic glory style, and my battle turns out to be with a damn cat that's trying to butt one of the slats in.

Dude ran away. But the start of the rainy season is making everybody a litle tense. I keeps getting ready to rain and just won't. Nice clouds, plenty of mosquitos, no rain yet.

Bottom's probably going to fall out later tonight.

I am still happily not exercising. I ride my bike up and down hills a couple of hours everyday, but that's for fun. Yesterday I found the old bus station.

I already knew where the big antiseptic bus station was, the one with the luxury liners. But yesterday I found the old one on the south side of town. It looks like what a small-town Mexican bus station should look like. There are colorful shops and restaurants crammed into every space, people bustling about with their packages, and a big blue "Buen Viaje" sign over the entrance to the docks where red schoolbuses were lined up with their destinations hand-painted on the windshields.

It costs abot $3.50 to get to Manzanillo 90 kilometers away. That's less than the price of my gas.

I kicked back at a cafe, and two old men in straw hats asked if they could share my table. They were on their way up to Guadalajara from the coast. We all three ate together, and they explained the names of their dishes to me. One of them had once worked in Oregon. "They have lots of apples there?" I asked. "Oh yes."

His hands trembled as he put sauce on his eggs. Then it was time for them to get back on the bus, and we shook hands all around. He was "Miguel something... Mike!" I wished them well. As I unchained my bike, I saw the waitresses giggling and pointing at me.

Today I bought a map of Colima the way it was in 1887. They had an Old Cemetary, a New Cemetary, and a Gringo Cemetary then. The Gringo one is underneath a park and a Pemex gas station now according to my new map. I'm gonna go check it out in a minute, say hi to the Gringos.