The Mexican Laredo Hotels are indescribable: no water, no food, no drains, floor covered with ants. We leave tonight for Monterey to await Dick’s recuperation.
We are so dirty, so worn out, so poisoned, so sore and wretched, such a Job’s company. That is what camping in Mexico means.
From this window, I see across the river the U. S. flag floating from dignified buildings. So near, so longed for. Heaven’s door closed.
It is a blow.
I feel lost, very homeless, very unloved, very unwanted.
September 17, 1921. Monterey, Mexico.
Of course Dick has not got trachoma—the doctor who has lived in Mexico 20 years recognized it at once as the most ordinary Mexican eye disease prevalent among children. I shall probably get it too. Meanwhile here we are, recuperating. The Hotel has at least got baths and hot and cold water. One is so reduced in spirits, so humbled, so unspoiled, one hardly dreams of higher bliss than this!
I had not even the energy to get into the Plaza and see the Centenary procession. Dick and I got up on to the deserted and neglected roof garden.
There one views the jagged mountain ranges by which the town is surrounded. It is really rather beautiful, but my spirit is across the border, I am existing here under protest; sullen, bored, inactive. I have an affection for the United States. I want to get back there.
Though they treat me like a steerage emigrant it makes no difference, and after all, what am I but an emigrant? A first class, specially reserved saloon, emigrant—but none the less a simple homeless emigrant, asking humbly for admittance.