Six or eight women worked in there all day, sweating and yelling over the sound of a radio.

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My grandfather hoped to establish a commune in Tijuana

The tortilleria was the world’s jolliest sweat-lodge

They’d give tortillas to us plain — good enough! Or they’d roll a few drops of lemon juice in one, or a pinch of salt, or both. I ate a couple of these mini-tacos while I waited.

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