Rafael and I weren’t being called names, but we were getting looks. And it was easy to see why. Suddenly the stories I’d heard of Aztlan go-gangers geeking other kids for their breathers made sense. All around us, the smartly dressed citizens of Tenochtitlán were wearing breathers that looked as though they’d come from a jeweler or a custom bodywork shop. Some were shining chrome or candy-apple red, while others looked as though they had been laminated with silver—or even gold. Many were set with precious stones, including sea-green jade and multicolored opals. A few glittered with the fiery flash that only comes from a real diamond. Others were hung with lace or trimmed with embroidered velvet. The shapes and forms also varied—a number were molded to look like the masks you see on ancient Aztec and Mayan sculptures, while others bore delicate filigree work that took the form of stylized feathers, intricate geometric shapes, or delicately tinkling bells. Compared to these, our breathers were functional and plain in the extreme. They immediately marked us as fashion-unconscious—and as tourists in Tenochtitlán.