There was an American bar in the Red Light District of Zona Norte. I occasionally went there to watch American football and drink myself stupid in the company of overweight, old white men. In a lot of ways it was like being home, except I could smoke inside and all the girl hookers were Central or South American.
On some of those nights, I called a friend stateside because I knew he was watching the same game. Except I was always too drunk and when I awoke in the morning I had text messages asking me if I was okay and telling me to come home.
You’re scaring me, one of these read.