The Instagram message I sent went this way: Querido Ivan, ¿Dónde estás? Llevo un par de semanas preocupado por ti. ¿Dónde estás?… Dime que estás pasando desapercibido. … Dime que no estás en la cárcel ni en un centro de detención de mala muerte. O en el México cuerdo.”

Ivan is the guy who sells cocos frios — cold coconuts — and watermelon, pineapple and mangos from a cart on an L.A. corner I pass by most days. For nearly a year, whenever I saw his bright rainbow umbrella, my mouth started to water. My usual order: two large chopped watermelon cups — one plain for my girlfriend, and one with a splash of chamoy and tejate, for me — handed over by Ivan or his little brother with a “Here, my friend.”

Sounds dangerous right? Like Ivan and his brother are criminal masterminds?

Since the seco

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