I sat on the rooftop of the home of Teresa’s friends, enjoying the Sunday afternoon sunshine. It felt so good I’d almost forgotten the Seattle rain that I’d left behind. I sipped a cool cerveza and poked with a fork at the remains of my chilaquiles —a spicy combination of eggs, chiles, chicken, and leftover tortillas. Rafael and Teresa had gone to watch the fourth game in the ollamaliztli finals at a local cantina, and the woman who had agreed to let us sleep at her home was downstairs serving dinner to her husband and a horde of noisy children. She’d left me alone on the rooftop, lost in my thoughts.