Reflections on Getting Caught In The Rain Without Proper Getting Caught In The Rain Attire

Rain streaming against my face. A plastic bag full of plantains, papaya, incense and apples tucked between my knees. A soaked service dress, a satchel full of literature, and a bouquet of flowers precariously wedged behind my seat. I am wearing a helmet. I shift from second to third gear. The motorcycle shifts as I head down Oaxaca Avenue. An almost familiar Mexican pop song races through the air as I pass and wave at a sister from the congregation. A single thought drifts through my mind. "I love Mexico."

Shift gears.

Hours earlier. I stumble out of bed, throw on assorted finery, and hop on my motorcycle. Heading out to the Kingdom Hall, I steer to avoid many a pothole and pedestrian. Stall. Start. Stall. Start. A taxi driver cuts me off and a truck full of hombres hollers and honks. I grit my teeth. A single declaration rolls involuntarily off my tongue. "I hate Mexico!" I yell into the wind. I look around to see who has overheard this galvanic eruption. A stray dog looks at me with mild curiosity.

The passing of a few hours, a hearty lunch, and an amazing Bible study takes the edge of off anything, and so it did. Now I'm home, strangely and perfectly content, listening to Abbey Road and googling "What Type of Parasite Do I Have?" as if for a frivolous personality test. I am bruised, and burnt, and altogether beat. The crickets outside chirp with unparalled passion. Tonight, they love Mexico, and I am powerless to disagree.