It was 1995 I think.
I’m in this little breakfast joint in a town in Guatemala and I’m waiting for my eggs (really good eggs, I remember) and I try reading my horoscope. It is nothing like the horoscopes at home. Home, it’s all promise and freedom and opportunity. In that cafe, it was all duty and responsibility, stern reminders reproaching me in advance for the missteps that I and the other Aries were sure to make later that day. The other signs had similar cautions: Pisces were forewarned against wasting the day with romantic daydreams, Taurus were chided for the rash decisions that lay in wait for their headstrong blundering ways.
Now I miss that grim determinism. At least it gives me a reason to dismiss horoscopes as so much fear mongering. Not so here. Here it’s all about hope and opportunity, seize the day and charm strangers. Everyone wants a piece of you. This is good news?
More flies are caught with honey I suppose. Come to think of it, it strikes me that both zodiac signs and eggs both come by the dozen. Perhaps horoscopes should be included in cartons of eggs?
No, wait… eggs are symbolic enough as it is. Scratch that last.
Superstitious, me? Sure, as long there be sweet, hot cornflour tortillas there to comfort us all, under the constellations.