So much for the meson in a big city, but you must have a strong constitution to stop in a meson in a small village. It’s not a boarding house any more. It’s a barn, a stench house, a human dump, everything combined. It’s composed of a string of bare rooms set around a patio. It’s the rendezvous of the lazy peon and the weary arriero. Here you see a bunch of burros scattered around the patio, with their arrieros forming groups all around them. You might see a dozen of them squatting down in a circle, talking or hollering or arguing, passing their gourd of tequila from hand to hand, drinking great gulps out of it until their mind is paralyzed and they pass out. And beware of a drunken Indian! The Indians of Mexico are very polite, ceremonious and hospitable when they are sober, but when they are under the influence of the tequila they are altogether different beings and anything but human. They want to raise cain and they want to fight and I soon learned to keep away from them when they were in that condition, although I got in trouble a few times before I learned my lesson.