"Too slow for a shooting star, isn't it?" I asked her. I’d never seen a satellite cross over us before, but it reminded me of a very slow moving meteor.

"Yes, but still moving too fast to really watch for very long."

Behind us, on the boardwalk, the sounds of festivities could be heard rising as the hours grew late. Acapulco, Mexico, November first: The day of the dead. Soon there would be a parade, more music, and the festivities would begin in earnest. We’d arrived the afternoon before, traveling to Mexico on a whim at the end of our tour of Europe.

There were carnival lights along every road; mannequins of skeletons, paper mache skulls and caricatures of death were everywhere. Wherever she wandered, there was something that inspired a new interest. She wore a perpetual expression of awe on her face. I had to remind her on a few occasions to close her mouth.

The night before, when we had dinner, she seemed rather surprised at the plainness of our meals.

"I thought Mexican food was spicy!" she exclaimed, poking at her dinner with a fork.

"Well, it is, I guess, but it's a lot more plain than we have it in the states. Very Americanized."

"Still good, just not what I expected," she said, happily munching away.

"If you really want spicy, we'll have to go to Jamaica sometime. If you've never had real jerk chicken before, it's something that you have to experience."

"I’d love to try it," she said, smiling with her eyes.