And what the hell was I doing there with my pocket camera? I thought there were boxing matches at the Álamo that night. The poster in a laundromat said there would be boxing matches.
So I drove out there. They patted me down at the entrance, my feet spread and hands against the wall. But hell, I’m used to that. Nice crew. Somewhat apologetic, I presume because of my apparent age. After checking my knife with them and paying my cover, I walked into an extravaganza of Mexican hip hop accompanied by a laser show.
I had to be at least three times older than anyone else in the place, and there were a lot of people in the place. At the top of my lungs I asked a couple of kids to direct me to the boxing matches. Nice kids again, but they laughed a little too hard. I gave up, retrieved my knife in the entry, and left. I did not bother to ask for a refund of the cover charge. There is no such thing as a refund in Mexico. Not ever, no matter who you are dealing with. Once you hand over your cash, it is gone.
Apparently, I read the poster incorrectly. This was back in February 2010 when I had not even been here a year yet. That poster, for example, could easily have been two years old. I never went back to check. Why bother? You make a mistake, you pay. The world is easily understood in those terms.