Sometimes I feel like finding something to write about in this godforsaken country is virtually impossible. I just wander around in the heat looking for something that is capable of even vaguely pulling at my imagination. Then I sit at my desk wondering why I chose such a dull subject. It was after a few hours of doing just this and becoming thoroughly disgusted at my idleness in doing so that I decided to venture down to the riverbank for some fresh air (relatively speaking).
Here I found not much of interest. Perhaps I could write about the old boats that lazily drifted along the river and occasionally stopped in at our pointless town. Normally their lack of punctuality made this rather difficult, but seeing as the General Obregon was currently docked this might be possible. I might even be able to procure some interesting news from its captain if I made myself enough of a nuisance. We journalists have quite a knack for making ourselves such. Maybe he would have news of the man around whom rumors had been swirling ever since the government had initiated its inquisition: the so-called "whisky-priest."
As I pondered, weak and weary, something managed to tug on my interest just enough to encourage me to shift it out of the periphery of my vision. Two men were having a conversation. I say both were conversing. In reality one of them was having most of the conversation. They soon lost my interest and I turned my attention back to the General. Deciding it was hardly worth the effort to badger its captain I turned to go back home after a not unexpectedly fruitless sojourn to the river. I found myself not far behind the two men whom I had seen talking earlier. They turned in to a dentist's shop after a short while. Here was something I had not yet reduced to the pinnacle of utter boredom in my monthly articles - dentistry. Not wanting to seem intrusive I waited outside to talk to one of the men when he should exit.
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