Leaning against the wall of a Motel 6 room, I see a thin, oblong gentleman with a purple bandana wrapped around his head, long gray hair falling down, a thick beard, and tiny rimless square photochromic glasses. In short: one of those characters I like.

Intrigued, I enter the room to admire his crystals and prepare the usual pleasantries used to entice exhibitors into exhibiting themselves.

When I turn around, he has vanished—replaced by an immediately unpleasant woman who looks at me with suspicion and doesn’t leave me alone for even a second.

Mariana is also Brazilian—so much so that I wonder whether it’s a coincidence, or if in Brazil they’re all called Mário, Maria, and derivatives.

No, I don’t want you to take my portrait, she declares.
If it were published, I would feel very uncomfortable. Who are you? Who do you work for? What do you want?

Well, I think—certainly not a photo of you, witch.
But I have to admit: the staging of this bedroom is the most beautiful I’ve seen so far.

Can I take a picture of that corner?

Suddenly, she lights up with pride.
Oh yes, please! This year I put everything into the setup!

And in the blink of an eye—that’s it. Mariana and I are suddenly best friends.