When I arrived in Brownsville, nearer midnight than dusk, I found a city free from rain, wind or other Hurricane Dean style accoutrements. The radio in the cab to my hotel welcomed me back to far south Texas in appropriate style, as the DJ conducted a long call-in conversation with a female listener in Spanish. I imagined that the words "hombre", "violencia", "policia", and various other phrases of the troubled corazon meant he was telling her that the fellow in issue was no good for her. He finished his advice by having the caller repeat after him. I do not know what they said, though. I have so little Spanish. All I know for certain is that a crooner gently sang in Spanish when the DJ cued the next record. Loss is so often redeemed by music.
The Lou Gehrig story is playing on the television, and I'm relieved that I got a text that suggests a relative's health issue may not be as difficult as the morning had caused me to fear. The experience actually caused me to send a text, which I almost never do. Texts make sense, although they violate my rule that 12 words usually do the duty of 1.
Tomorrow, I attend a hearing, and then head back north. I do not know if I will have time to look for any of those cool sub-tropical birds that hover up from Mexico, lovely beyond words. I read about rental cabins in Vera Cruz state today, and daydreamed about a jungle winter.