It's a rainy British evening, and I can't find a roommate who's eaten a burrito. This year, I'm studying abroad in Wales with UNM as my launch pad. I know it's good for me to be in a place where I can say "chinga tu madre" and get a blank look instead of a "puta!" and a punch, but right now I have no idea why. The sea rolls in limp and gray, and everything seems small, dull, and spineless. I dream of green chile.
My current Arabic boytoy looks Mexican, but thinks "pendejo" is really a term of endearment. He is a little pendejo, anyway.
I go to the "Mexican" restaurant, ask for the paella, and the confused eye-lash-less Welsh woman pauses. "Um, number 9 then, it was?" she asks after a minute.
"Ten," I sigh. Poor thing. It's not her fault she's never experienced New Mexico.
You lucky people under your vault of dry blue heaven are now tired of my whining about Albuquerque. However, so are my flatmates who cannot for the life of them understand why I'm so longing for a purple lowrider to drive by my window blasting Spanish rap. They also don't understand how I can get so pornographic in my descriptions of a bean-and-cheese burrito from Frontier, or cheese enchiladas with green chile from Little Anita's.
So go out, stuff yourselves with green chile under the sunlight, and take a minute to think of the starving children in Africa and this whiny Albuquerquena in the UK who has eight months to go before she can again see the Sandia mountains turn pink with the sunset.