Whenever I travel outside the U.S. I always look eagerly for the first visual sign that I'm in a foreign country. Sometimes it's the shape of the buildings. Sometimes it's the lack of buildings. Sometimes it's what people are wearing, or saying, or carrying. This time it was the sight of an extremely dead horse on the grassy median of the highway south of Guadalajara.
People dump dead horses there all the time.
The authorities come by and put lime on the bodies and they melt away pretty quick. I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto. Winter in central Mexico is the dry, brown season. There has been no rain since September in the highlands, and many of the trees are nothing more than a collection of bare branches. But the primavera is blooming, a brilliant yellow explosion among the dark green papayas and banana trees.