One late afternoon, tired of climbing Mayan ruins in Xpujil, I decided to
buy a Pepsi Kick, a mysterious, only-legal-in-Mexico mixture of caffeine,
ginseng and some secret ingredients never even listed in the fine print on
the thick black foil covering the entire bottle.
After a few ounces of the beverage I started to hear my paternal grandfather
most likely killed in 1918 in Odessa. In a short time, about six
generations of my grandfathers arrived. Everyone was talking in a different
language, but I was capable of understand every one of them, even Bulgarian.
They were yelling at me and pointing out my problems, which I already know