Puse 2 minutos el onimusha
Vi que el tipo tiro la de joseph joestar
Y lo tuve que cerrar porque sino me va a hacer dropear el the blood of dawnwalker jsjsj
In America I was taken to a warehouse called Costco.
At the door, a woman checked my friend's membership card.
At last, I thought. A checkpoint. A travel pass. Finally, this country has proper gate protocol.
Inside, the ceiling was so high that weather felt possible.
They sell mayonnaise in containers I would describe as architectural. Forty-eight eggs at once. Trousers next to televisions next to a kayak.
Old women stood at small stations, handing out free food on toothpicks.
I asked my friend when the festival ends.
He said, "It's Tuesday."
The festival does not end. The festival is the store.
Then he bought me a hot dog and a soda.
It cost one dollar and fifty cents.
I assumed I misheard. I checked the receipt.
One dollar. Fifty cents. The price has not changed since 1985.
I was alive in 1985. Everything I have purchased since then has betrayed me at least once.
Gasoline. Rent. Rice. All of them broke their word.
The hot dog did not.
I asked how this is possible, and I received a story I did not believe until I confirmed it.
The founder, before he stepped down, told the next chief what would happen if he ever raised the price of the hot dog.
He said, and this is recorded history: "If you raise the price, I will kill you."
Scholars believe he was joking.
The price has not moved in forty years.
I leave the conclusion to you.
At the exit, a man checked our receipt and drew one line across it with a highlighter.
A seal. A magistrate's signature, approving safe passage.
I bowed to him slightly.
He said, "Have a good one," which I now understand can refer to a day, a life, or a hot dog, depending on need.
In my country, we honor merchants who keep the same price for generations. There is a shop in Kyoto four hundred years old. We treat it as a national treasure.
Costco is forty years old and sells tires.
Give it time.
Empires fell. Currencies died.
The hot dog holds.
A nation is its promises.
I paid one dollar and fifty cents.
The promise held.
En Escocia odian a Inglaterra por una guerra de 1296. Y quieren que nosotros no los odiemos por una de 1982.
Hice la cuenta y podemos odiarlos hasta el 2756.
In Texas they told me to stop at Buc-ee's for gas.
I have been to shrines. I have stood in temples that took two hundred years to build.
I was not prepared for the gas station.
There were one hundred and twenty fuel pumps.
I counted them because I did not believe them.
A man beside me was filling a truck the size of my first apartment, and he was not filling it because it was empty.
He was filling it because he was here, and here is where a man fills things.
Inside was a hall so vast I lost the horizon.
A wall of jerky. A wall of fudge I did not know the country produced.
A brisket sandwich handed to me by a man in a beaver costume.
And I want to be clear, the beaver is not a mascot.
The beaver is a saint.
The people speak of him the way my grandmother spoke of the mountain behind her house.
And the bathrooms.
I had been warned about the bathrooms and I had dismissed the warning as the pride of a loud people.
I was wrong to dismiss it.
The bathrooms are famous across the whole state and they have earned it.
I have slept in worse hotels. I nearly bowed upon entering.
A janitor was polishing the floor with the devotion of a man tending a garden he loved, and when I thanked him he said "welcome in," which I have since learned is what Texas says instead of hello, and also instead of I am glad you exist.
I went in for gas. I was inside for ninety minutes.
I came out with fudge, a shirt printed with a joke I do not fully understand, forty dollars of jerky, and a feeling I can only describe as having been to church.
I did not need any of it.
I needed all of it.
I have walked through the great cathedrals of the old world. I lit no candle there.
I lit no candle at Buc-ee's either.
But I did fill the truck.
And I understand now that in Texas, this is the same thing.
Emociona que Willian Pacho haya podido parar a Olise y Harry Kane en la Champions y hoy no puede frenar ni seguir el ritmo de Raúl Jiménez y Gilberto Mora que lo pasan por todos lados.
Es realmente el mejor deporte de la historia. Qué deporte del carajo.