An inquisitive old fart with a camera
There must be pothole gods. Or demons. Or entities.
Otherwise — now that our road is fixed and well-drained — why do all the potholes (pozos, same word as well) form right around our driveway?
Today a little kid — just-removed-the-training-wheels little — fell in one of them. Mama cajoled him, stopped his crying, encouraged him back in the saddle to ride on.
And perhaps admonishing him: next time, be careful around THOSE PEOPLE’s driveway.
Finally doing some much-needed maintenance on wooden ceilings.
Phase 1 is the lambriz, thin tongue-and-groove. Next are the beams, in a darker color, for which I splurged and bought an angled sash brush. Which, believe it or not, is a big deal. The only place I could find one was in Tienda Inglesa. Yes, the supermarket.
And, of my goodness, does it make a difference!
The bottom brush is typical of what you find in hardware stores here: with short, coarse bristles that tend to spread.
Perhaps when next up north I’ll wander through Home Depot and salivate.
I like our local church. I don’t know what denomination it is, nor do I care. I also like that there are not many more. Just as I liked Pátzcuaro, Michoacán, for the fact that it had no cathedral in the main square, extremely rare in Mexico.
The very next day, even further destruction from the detoured buses.
What do you get when you divert buses in order to repair the road they’ve destroyed?
Different destroyed roads.
Ah yes, has only been a few days since I posted about an obvious bit of bad planning.
Looking back toward where I took that picture, you can see that it subsequently occurred to someone to make a clean-out access.
My “redux” refers to another 7-day wonder a few blocks up. See here and here.
*Sigh.* At least they tried to fix it.
At Tienda Inglesa, amidst potted plants, posters and banners, motorcycles, video rentals (?), and even lurking dinosaurs, there exists a place to recycle batteries (pilas). Who knew?