We land — the town is won. Received by Don Mariano de Vallejo
, one of the great men in the Lost Capital
, we are guests in every house.
Priests salute us in their walks; barbers and bakers doff their caps; and billiard-players offer us their cues.
Seioras beg for visiting cards.
The dogs which doze in every gutter seem to know that we are persons not to be annoyed by snap and snarl.
, a town all gables, walls, and balustrades — in which everyone owns a corner lotis peopled by folk as quaint and singular as the streets and sheds.
A native builds his house to please himself.
Is he not don and caballero?
Who shall thwart his whim?
No mayor insults a Mlontereyano with rules and plans.
No level lines of road offend your eyes.
Main street, if such a passage can be called a street, winds in and out among a group of villas, dancing-booths, barbers' shops and billiard rooms.
No side walk interferes with man and horse.
An open sewer runs through the town, a cesspool poisons every yard.
Two nieces of Don Mariano
live in a villa with an open drain in front.
Nobody dreams of covering up that drain.
The plaza is as shapeless as the street;