“I have to buy new cowboy boots and a molcajete,” I tell my husband. “Boots, sure but – A what?” he shakes his head at me. We’re in San Antonio, at the Mercado just a few months before our departure for Belgium. The smell of fresh churros permeates the air. Girls in frilly colorful dresses and boys in sharp black suits decorated with silver buttons perform for an equally sweaty audience. Tejano music has attracted the audience like moths. They sit watching the show and fanning themselves in their t-shirts and shorts. During our previous expat experience, I had left

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