Egipto

Eskenderia is

Smoldering. Broiling. The weather report says it’s 87 degrees Fahrenheit. The cab driver says it’s 90% humidity. I don’t speak. It’s too hot to move. Unthinkably hot to think. My armpits are Bunsen burners. And my underwear is bayou boggy.

It’s Stinking. Whiffy. One breath and my senses are overcome by the aroma of drying saltwater fish, virile body odor, and simmering trash. 87 degrees simmering.

There’s no gloss in this town. Everything sweats. Panting and grinding and hustling.

It’s life. Not the life in that greeting card. Nor the life in that film poster. But the one that sustains and nourishes. The one that’s grimy, grungy, and gurgling.

The life with no excuses and lots of regret.

It’s the wrinkles on my knuckles.

The sweat on my brow.

Eskendria is.