The highway to San Agustin Etla is, for me, much more an ethereal dream of Mexico than the thing itself.  It’s what drifts through my mind when I lose myself in visions of travel – Latin American highways, skies, trucks full of people, colors, chaotic jumbles of storefronts and small taco stands.

So this highway is as much there and present as it is part of that imaginary topography of the mind, that goes conjuring places up in fuzzy-edged memories in which the clouds are starker and more pronounced against a rotund sky, the yellows have the brightness of malarial dreams, and the fields are eternal and dry.