It started last Thursday night, in the nook of a wine bar near my house. I was on my way back from a palatable but slightly boring crypto event, not quite ready to call it a night. I got lucky. Soon, I was sitting at the bar, sipping a mezcal Negroni with Andres and his friend. They were from Puerto Rico, visiting Mexico City for the weekend only.
As we joked in Spanglish about my embarrassingly terrible sense of geography, I got a good look at him. Andres had jet black hair, and round black glasses, and a black mustache. He looked like he belonged in a hip, punk record store in Bushwick. The smoky aroma of burning candles, and their flickering orange glow, kindled a warm, gentle energy in the room.
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