Dear Serena, I understand your pain more deeply than words can express. Just yesterday, I checked into a charming little hotel in Santa Fe. The lobby was drenched in rustic ranch decor, horseshoes, wagon wheels, and a suspiciously authentic cowhide rug. I gasped. My ancestors whispered, “"Otra vez no...” Then I saw it: a miniature train set chugging along a faux-adobe mantelpiece. I collapsed. The tiny conductor waved at me mockingly, as if to say, “Sí, we built this too.” I could hear the distant cries of exploited laborers echoing from the toy caboose. Suddenly, Emiliano Zapata burst through the saloon doors of the breakfast nook, riding a mechanical burro. He handed me a tamale and a pamphlet titled “Freedom Through Faux-Southwestern Decor.” I tried to explain I was just here for the green chile omelet, but he was already unionizing the waffle irons. I fled to the courtyard, where a mariachi band played a mournful rendition of “La Locomotora de la Angustia.” I wept for every decorative spur and train whistle that dares to exist without a trauma disclaimer. I feel your pain, Serena. Stay strong. Con sarcasmo y solidaridad, Pablo