To a seatbeltless kid afforded panoramic vision from the backseat, both landmarks are visible from either city, so long as the angle is right. Across the border on the Texan side, the city of El Paso horseshoes itself around the Franklin Mountains, adorned by a monumental star made out of lightbulbs that appears to punctuate the city skyline when seen from across the desert outskirts. On a western mountain range, there is a sign emblazoned in white monolithic letters across one of its hills:īible Hill, I grew up calling it. Beyond the metallic mesh, I remember the mountains. Closest to the ground, campaign banners for Vicente Fox and municipal slogans in muted white and olive green colors jut from street lights and telephone poles towering above them, I can always pick out the signs of at least one Del Rio corner store or Pemex gas station - the national chains higher still stand the Fanta and canted Domino’s billboards, by far the sleekest designs.
Signs near and far dart across my window at variable kilometers per hour. So my memories of the city’s urban landscape wade back to my earliest years, when I still lived in Ciudad Juárez. By the time I was a teenager, I mostly remember staring up at the car headliner, taking advantage of each commute to get desperately needed sleep. He wonders what he would write.Įarthbound, I spent a lot of time looking out the window as a kid while my parents drove us around. At solid skies marred only by his trail of line-shaped clouds - the opposite of ruled paper. He wishes he could bomb them with some sense! At least then they’d look up.
Clouds zip by and he cranes his neck back then down at shadows cast over mountains and dunes and multitudes of crowds. In his small cockpit, he allows himself childish liberties.
Lelo volante license#
I IMAGINE THAT a poet working on a provisional pilot license must fly differently than most.
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