Six lane arterials lined with strip malls. Subdivisions bordered from each other with high concrete or brick walls. Huge swaths of asphalt in front of box stores. Few things make me feel more alienated than these cookie cutter American suburbs.

Yesterday, we sat behind a big black Ford Explorer with a sticker in the window that read, “God bless our troops, especially the snipers.” We drove, the tinny little compact rental car rattling away between extended cab pickup trucks and SUVs.… continued…

It’s Saturday night at Crossroads, a Mexican restaurant in Tucson. The mariachi band is starting their evening. There are four musicians — there’s  trumpet, a violin, a little five string guitar (a vihuela) and guitarron — that big bass guitar.

The guitarron player is a woman with a wide brown face and a body that matches that of the guittaron — she’s the shape of a matryoshka doll, wide wide wide hips covered in a black skirt with that classic mariachi silver decor down the sides.… continued…