No, the motorcycle wasn’t fixed, in fact was further away from being fixed than it was when I brought it in four hours ago.
This always happens, they find more and more stuff wrong with it and go back and forth to the parts store. I wind up drinking beer in the squalid workshop and dithering about until the whole day is gone.
The squalid workshop. I’m very comfortable here, squalor is my stock-in trade. Sometimes I visit with a six-pack even when there is nothing wrong with the bike.
Carlos El Maestro. A very likable fellow.
Mostly I come for the art.
To continue (these posts will dry up bit when I finally catch up to the present day). Anton Lizardo turned up at the end of about twenty kilometers of road through an area of sand dunes and sand dunes. Occasionally I caught glimpses of sand dunes beyond the sand dunes. Anton Lizardo turned out to be a one-story sand-blown town of 4600 inhabitants, fairly shabby, innumerable small tiendas, couple of seven-eleven-type stores, some taxis, a working beach covered in fishing boats, a naval academy, a main square with kids playing football, no visible means of support other than the fishing boats.
The beach is a working affair, many small fishing lanchas. It is not somewhere you would go for fun, though there are a bunch of seafood restaurants.
Did someone say naval academy? Yes, Mexico’s Annapolis is right there in Anton Lizardo. Though the complex borders the town the two do not appear to have much actual interaction. The marinos are penned up, much to the disappointment of the Yellow Limper. You see that, the clever device by which I hook your interest and force you to read more of my blog. Who, or what, is the Yellow Limper? Devilish aren’t I?