What Day Is It?

7 Jun

Yesterday we tried calling my mom to wish her a happy birthday. The kids were all excited, she answered Skype, the kids squealed, and that was it—our internet connection couldn’t pull it off. We reluctantly gave up and sent her birthday e-mails instead.

This morning Ali noticed that yesterday was the 6th. Sooooo… Happy Birthday again Mom. June 6th would be a good day for a birthday, but June 7th is a great day for one.

We went to the museum today, which I had sort of anticipated as being a hands on type place. The streets here are filled with train cars and all sorts of miscellaneous mining stuff for people to climb around on, but when we walked into the museum the stern looking guy at the guard desk stood up, marched out into the hall, and motioned for us to follow him. He snapped as the kids got their grubby mitts on a phone operators setup and from then on we dutifully followed him quickly through the handful of rooms. I don’t remember a thing about what we saw as I was so busy saying, “No, no, sorry baby, don’t touch that. No, no tocar. Not that either.” Once outside on the sweeping veranda we were able to breathe and enjoy the view over the town and the harbor.

While walking to get ice cream we passed by a gymnasium where some kids were playing basketball. We got our ice cream next door and then went inside the gym to watch. There was a girl’s team practicing on one end and a group of boys playing on the other. The four boys, maybe ten or twelve years old, came over and started chatting us up, asking the kid’s names, rustling their hair, and inviting them to go out and play. Ouest was super excited—she sprinted onto the court, picked up a ball, and spent the next thirty minutes coming surprisingly close to the basket. The girl is strong. Some of the girls came down and helped the kids out too.

Eventually they needed more room on the court so our sweat-soaked kids had to get off. The boys had to get off the court too, so we took them next door and filled them up with a round of agua frescas—much to their delight. They were smiling and skipping on their way back across the street with their styrofoam cups in hand. “Adios Oeste (Spanish for Ouest), adios Lowe!” they called over their shoulders.

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