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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 |
