The Fishers in La Paz, Bolivia

(To see part one of this, scroll down to “Super Target Has Nothing on Eloy Salmon”)

So, I have ascended a few thousand feet in rapid succession, twisting and turning up the mountainous main street that leads toward the Black Market, when we arrive at the amazing edifice that is La Iglesia San Francisco (being a “Kid Brothers of St. Frank” wannabe, I am an admirer of any place named after him).  My ears are sufficiently popped, my mind is racing with the directions that were given to me by my friends, Ashlyn and Kristen (you see, I am not there yet; my shopping adventure still requires some good aerobic exercise which, here, means walking almost straight up), and visions of wireless Internet in my home are dancing in my head.

“Bajo aqui,” I politely tell my main man the taxi driver.  I liked this guy; unlike the usual loud mix of and Bolivian and bad American pop music, this guy’s radio featured a grainy-but-uplifting Christian station, playing Spanish-language praise music and a DJ who led us, the listening audience, in prayer.  So, anyway, he drops me off, which yields the usual honking from impatient folks behind us.  I pay and exit quickly, and then begin my race for my life across the main thoroughfare that will take me past the towering church and up, up, up t0 my eventual holy grail…

… the store.

More, soon, I promise.