If Puerto Escondido is a hippie town, Salina Cruz is a city worker. Everything has the taste of Pemex. Sunday dies. The center is filled with a multitude of cushy positions that are also installed on the low ridge on which it is assumed that the pedestrian must cross.
Nearby to the east, is the beach La Ventosa. The name could not be better. Right now, with the top ray of sunshine, I always take off the hair of the face and smooth leaf notebook, which will not let me write. If you're going to swim to the beach, as they say here, really is a must, because the air does not stop. In a few moments is a polvorón become a glaze (or Donita depends on the size). Entering the water is necessary to remove the sand that gets everywhere just to stand out. Sand, like water, are powerful country, bring oil. The refinery is not far away. That is hard to see well, and with smoke and grime comes out and sends it to the sea, has not lost.
As elsewhere in the country, where people are trash. Always eat: by the sea, into the sea, back to the sea front. There is always someone, child or more, with the bag of something with chile. Everyone knows where the bag ends. Of course, the beach is semi-desert, fantasy or maladjusted recluse, which are the same, the end lunatics. There are groups of families splashing, and for some strange and mysterious reason, everyone has the decency to let the shirt or blouse or shirt or button up shirt sleeves rolled up. Some girls are so decent that they get with all their pants, just uploaded a little calf. Everyone is so Pasadita weight on one hand how good they are left all set to swim.
To get there I had to have taken the "urban", a Chimeco about forty or fifty years old, full of stamps and memorabilia hanging.
Falling afternoon, if one no longer enough this truck, take a collective, a Tsuru to which they put forward three steps back and two, plus the driver, of course. The back three easily become four or even six, when they bring children. And that comes from picky and delicate, as do seven back, plus the front I alluded a moment ago.
The night here is pretty, the riches of the sea (ie, the oil floating on the water) melt into the shadows. The air does not cease, nor the cumbiolas (Do not tell me they are also called jukeboxes?) Of the tiles on the roof, which does not inspire the bard left at home and hear the roar of Neptune.
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