Halfway to my car, the sky opened completely and drenched me. I sat behind the wheel and listened to the rain pounding on the roof. “Ciudad Juárez” she had said in the market. What was she trying to tell me? I knew that the town was just across the border from El Paso, and I knew now that it was just a three-hour drive down the interstate. Without knowing what I was looking for, I headed south.

a pocketknife, a tarp, a map, a compass, a shovel, a canteen, a poncho

I drove across the bridge into Mexico, from a slightly large American town to a large Mexican city. I pulled off to the side of the road and sat. I always felt, or at least imagined that I felt, some kind of sensation when I was on foreign soil, perhaps a kind of exhilaration, maybe the promise of something novel. I could not deny that I felt that as I sat there, but it was short lived. Rosalita Gonzalez. How many women named Rosalita Gonzalez must there have been in Mexico, in Ciudad Juárez? I had no idea what I was looking for or even why. Hell, I didn’t even know what I had been doing in New Mexico for the past almost two weeks. I knew that I was being a coward by staying away from my home.

A cop pulled up behind me, got out, and approached my window. “Hello, señor,” he said. “Do you need some help?” he asked in fair English.

“No, officer. I’m just thinking.”

“I’m afraid you will have to think somewhere else. This is a high-traffic area. You are a traffic hazard here.”

“Can you tell me how to get to the police station?” I asked.

“Do you have a problem?”

“No, I just need the police station.”

“Do you want the city police, the state police, or the federales?”

I had not thought the matter through. “The federales, I guess.”

He gave me directions. It was not close. “Park in a lot,” he said.

“Okay.”

“If you park on the street for too long, a cop very much like me will take the license plate off your car.”

I looked at him.

“Americans like to ignore parking tickets and just drive home.”

“Parking lot. Thanks.”

“Are you okay, señor?”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

I drove the route suggested to me, my country to my left, within sight almost all the way, until the road veered right and away from the Rio Grande. Another left turn and I was at the headquarters of the federal police. I took the advice given and paid a quarter to park in a lot. The building was not nondescript, but there was nothing distinguishing about it and hardly worth describing. Inside there was less of a bustle than I had expected. There was no counter but a desk behind which sat a small woman in street clothes.