When I was little, we lived in a troje (a traditional wooden house) in the mountains outside Mexico City. My father bought it in a small town in Michoacán, and had it assembled on our land. It was rustic and beautiful, and sat next to a dry river bed that filled with water during the rainy season.
The river came from the towns above us, and usually was filled with mud and trash. I however, did not mind. It was a river! I would roll in the mud and imagine all sorts of adventures. All I could see was nature and fun. One day, I invited a friend from the city, and we spent hours in the river enjoying ourselves. When her mother found out, she did not let her visit again. I never understood why.
The river came from the towns above us, and usually was filled with mud and trash. I however, did not mind. It was a river! I would roll in the mud and imagine all sorts of adventures. All I could see was nature and fun. One day, I invited a friend from the city, and we spent hours in the river enjoying ourselves. When her mother found out, she did not let her visit again. I never understood why.
