Worn from the harassing, soul-tearing phenomena of unrequited love, the travelling Vagabond felt the only exit from the influence of a blonde little charmer in Hawaii was to betake himself to the land of fighting cocks, frightened bulls, and frenzied brunettes--Mexico.

In reaching Mexico City, where the sky is always blue and the air as sparkling as a pailletted gown, the Vagabond found little to deter his progress save a herd of lethargic cattle at every turn of the road, and, amidst every cluster of thatched huts, dozens of farrowing pigs that would scuttle under and around his car with uncivilized abandon.

Far from uncivilized are the natives, for, in their disdain of modern conveniences and the furious speed of polo-shirted tourists, they flaunt a sophistication far more tangible than the bored expression of those who have lived a life of smiles and champagne--theirs is a sophistication sprung from the steaming earth, the planting of their crops, and the legends of their ancestors and their ancestors' gods. They are calmly content in their ignorance, and even if they were given the means whereby to learn of the modern world, the traditions of centuries would keep them as narrow minded and oblivious to the ways of others as the speed of the Twenticth Century narrows the viewpoint of cosmopolitan society. If sophistication, then, is a sign of civilization, the Mexican native is far from uncivilized.

In such a circuitous manner the Vagabond mused as he entered Tamazunchale, unfortunately in no way similar to New York's 52nd Street night club of somewhat the same name. Tamazunchale, meaning in Huastecan no less than "Where the Governess Is," is notable for a large sign, on one side of the most dingy of thirty very dingy huts reading "Dentista" in large letters, but behind these huts grow tangled masses of orchids.

Tamazunchale is some 500 feet about sea level. To reach Mexico City on a vast plateau 8000 feet in the air, it is necessary to close one's eyes and drive madly around the side of precipitous mountain slopes. Of course characteristic of the Mexican temperament is the fact that the mountain road was begun from Tamazunchale and from Mexico City, the center portion, and by far the most harrowing portion, being left to luck and the last. Aside from the fact that the road is unpaved, that great boulders are apt to crash down from above on the slightest provocation, and that droves of burros usually pick the narrowest part of the road they can find steadfastly to ignore any blasts the wayworn traveller may coax from his fatigued horn, huge, dense clouds settle themselves on the road the better to view the scenery of the valley below. Yes, the Vagabond decided, it is better to close one's eyes; one can't see anything anyway, and the little one can see is far better left unseen, if only to avoid a nervous breakdown.

Leaving the territory of the phlegmatic mountain dwellers, the dirty trousered, bare-chested men and the Mother Hubbarded women, the road enters Mexico City through suburbs slightly worse than Harlem, slightly better than Philadelphia's Lombard Street. Toward the center of the city, the Vagabond found himself engulfed in screaming traffic that approached from a million different directions at once. To the Mexican driver, the horn is far more important than the brake, and the velocity and direction of his vehicle depend solely on the whim of the man at the wheel. If Rhode Island motorists are the worst in the world, Mexicans are far and away the most idiosyncratic.

It was a tired Vagabond who hit the hay that evening, but the fever of Mexico was already in him, and he knew the days to come were to be filled with events worthy of an entirely unfamiliar land.