My birthday with the Conqueror and Rebel.

 

I wasn’t paying too much attention to my approaching birthday.  It could be denial, but I think it was really do to all that is going on around me.  Tonya asked what I wanted, and I could not answer.  Anything I would want, the prices will be much higher here than back in the US.  I told her what I really would like is a giant steak, a thick red wine and mashed potatoes with goat cheese.  That sounds great to me!  I proposed that we go downtown and wander around and see a few sights I had wanted to see.

Of course, the day gets off to great start.  I hear Tonya complaining in the other room.  One of the dogs had gotten on the newly reupholstered couch and had a lick fest.  This left a big wet spot, and got Tonya off to a great start.  I tried not to get too worked up over it, and just carried on with my rather boring breakfast of two English muffins and that pomegranate jelly which I am going crazy for.  I check my emails and receive two birthday greetings.  One subject line was from The Rolling Stones, the other from The Coral.  I suppose signing up to your favorite bands mailing lists has some benefits, as they were the first greetings in.

I am not too keen about these ‘lonely’ birthdays away from friends and family, so I have to make them count. Today’s celebration would be one of historical significance and it would also prove to be a first for both Tonya and I.  I wanted to see the resting place of Cortes, the man who almost single handedly destroyed the Aztec empire and definitely changed Mexico forever.   I understand that his place of burial is not a big site for the Mexicans.  Why should it be?  He ruined their country.  Still, for me, it is something to see.  The other main attraction will be the famous La Opera bar.  It is lost in time, and it is famous for a visit from Pancho Villa and him getting carried away and shooting a hole in the ceiling.  Of course, one cannot visit this place without having a tequila to boot.

We park in our regular spot downtown and as we get out of the car, Tonya complains aloud, “Oh no, it’s Monday!”  I am a bit perplexed by her comment.  Yes, of course it is Monday, and it is my birthday.  Why the angst ridden sigh?  I ask her, “Yes, and what is the big deal about it being Monday?”

“All the museums are closed, we won’t be able to get in” she says.

“Cortes is buried in a hospital.  They can’t close that off.” I say back.

“I know, but if we want to go into any of the other places, like the photography museum, we won’t be able to” she says bluntly.  I pause for a minute and realize that a few ‘extra’ stops today may be futile.  Still, I am determined to go see where Cortes is buried.  Who cares about museums?

We start the trek towards the Zocalo.  As we wonder down through the historical part of downtown, we both notice that although it is busy, it is not chaos like it usually is.  We wonder aloud why this is, and deduct that it must the fact that it is Monday and perhaps a bit grey overhead too.  The Zocalo has a makeshift barrier around it and posters promoting an upcoming book fair.  The square is such a great place; it really sucks when they cordon it off for silly events.  As we round the south end, we look across the magnificent plaza and stare at the giant flag waving in the air.  It is a magnificent sight.

It doesn’t take long to get to the Jesus de Nazarene hospital.  Ironically, Cortes helped to create this very hospital way back when.  Mexicans aren’t too jazzed about paying homage to the guy who ruined their culture, so I am not expecting any crowds whatsoever.  We find the hospital, but can’t figure out how to get in.  We stand in an old hallway, staring at a nice courtyard form behind metal bars. “Maybe they’re closed.  It is Monday, remember?” Tonya says. I look at her with frustration, ‘You can’t close a hospital.”  Just then, a man in the courtyard tells us to go all the way around the block to get it.  In no time at all, I am whizzing around the block brimming with anticipation. (It is amazing that as you age, things like this can really get you going).  We find the entrance and walk right on in.  I was always told that ‘If you look like you know what you are doing, no one will question you’.  I put it to practice and walk straight past the nurse’s booth and towards the courtyard.  Tonya asks if I know what I am doing.  I tell her that all I know is he is in the courtyard just stick by my side.

You can find Cortes' bones here.

It is a nice big courtyard.  We are both amazed that such a nice courtyard would be part of a hospital.  As we walk around and take it all in, I wonder what this hospital is all about.  I peek down some hallways and watch a guy refinishing some benches underneath a stairway.  There, right in the middle of the courtyard, facing a huge stairway, is the memorial for Cortes.  Tonya stands and looks at me, “Is this it?”  “I guess so” I reply.  I point to the wall, “There is a bust there and a huge inscription on the wall, so this must be the place” I stand back and look.  Of course, I take a few pictures.  Interesting note;  Cortes had requested to be buried in New Spain, and his bones were moved several times before they came to rest here, taking over 240 years to finally end up where he wished to be.

Across the street is the museum of the City of Mexico. On the corner of the building there is a giant serpent’s head.  I had read that somewhere around here the Aztecs had a glorious avenue, where ornate serpents lined the street.  I am not too sure if this is where it begins or not.  Tonya is willing to walk down a few blocks to see if my historical trivia is correct.  Not too sure, as all we see are loads of shops selling foam stuffing in all shapes and sizes.  This is definitely the place to come to shop for all your stuffing needs.

We wonder the back streets working our way back towards the Zocalo.  Each new block is filled with stores for certain needs.  One block is all underwear, one is all shoes, and one is all hair accessories.  After several blocks of cheap looking junk, Tonya says she wants to cut back to the main strip.  Working our way through the hustling backstreets, she comments that she feels like she is in Bangkok.  She says she is getting hungry and I reassure her that we are working our way to La Opera.

Just to see if the ‘Monday theory’ is in full effect, we detour behind the main cathedral to the photography center.  The doors are shut.  As we continue on down the street I conclude, “I get it.  There are not as many people out today because there are no museums open for the tourists to go to.  If we want to come downtown and wander around, we definitely have to come on Mondays”  Tonya doesn’t say anything in return, just a blank stare that reads ‘Sure thing genius’.  

The blind band...the drummer was great!

As we walk down Tacuba, there is an impromptu concert going on.  About a block from one of the subway stations, a group of blind musicians have set up and are playing to the crowds.  I didn’t realize they were all blind at first, but I did notice an awkward guy standing next to the drummer, with a strange grin on his face and he never opened his eyes.  When I saw his fingers fidgeting and they way he had his head cocked, I finally realized he was blind.  I tell Tonya I want to stop and listen.  When I walk around the crowd to view the band head on, I see they are all blind.  They finish a song and immediately the bassist grabs a taco and eats while the drummer explains what is next.  He jokes about the band being ‘Univision’ which gets a nervous chuckle form the crowd.  A woman who was sitting at the back eating during the previous song slowly works her way into the group.  She feels for a mic and says aloud, ‘I want some orange juice.  Someone get me some orange juice’ and she stands poised while she runs her hands over a small electronic drum machine.  I watch her as she stares straight ahead with no sight.  Her hands are delicately adjusting controls and switches as she prepares her sound for the next song.  When she gets the sound she wants, she makes a few sounds on her pad, and the band strikes up again.  I smile at the whole sight.  I admire them doing this, and this brief moment makes me realize how fortunate so many of us are…especially me, and I am so thankful to be able to walk around on my birthday and see all these things.

As we walk into La Opera, I am glad to see that it is not swarming with people.  In fact, there are only a few tables occupied.  A waiter stands up from his stool at the bar and comes to greet us. He shows us to a great booth right in the middle of the bar.  I shake my head, and ask for a booth over against the wall.  I keep staring up, looking for the famous bullet hole.  What am I really looking for?  I am doing quick scans of booths and the ceiling.  I think I spot the famous hole, just as he points at the booth right to the side of the hole.

That's it!  The famous hole.

Inside La Opera

We slip into to the old booth and look around the whole place. It’s great.  I can see why anyone could get all wound up and want to shoot the ceiling, especially crazy rowdy Mexicans.  Our waiter is small but carries a big welcoming smile.  We order a few tequilas.  I notice another couple come in and wonder of right beside our booth. They are pointing to the ceiling.  This is undoubtedly the most common scenario in this place, day in and day out.  Everyone walks in staring up, looking for Pancho’s bullet hole.  It is an easy way to tell a ‘regular’ from a sightseer.  Tonya laughs and says, “Is that it? Everyone comes in to see that?”  Our tequilas arrive, and then we order a few appetizers. 

The queso y chistorra, tequila and yummy green salsa.

I truly enjoy sitting in a sea of red velvet, sipping this tequila and just reflecting on the day.  This is a historic day for me, and I am digging my time in these historic places.  Our dishes arrive.  A plate full of melted cheese with sausage and a tortilla soup.  The food is so-so, but the green salsa is worth mentioning…as is the small plate of pickled onions and wrinkly jalapeno.  These simple pleasures make this place worthwhile.

After we finish up, we walk around the corner to go see what exhibition we may be missing at the national museum.  We stand and look at the banners.  Looking at each other, we ask “Ever heard of them?”  No.  Oh well, guess we aren’t missing anything, especially since half of the banners are just advertisements for the museum itself.  The sky is getting really grey, but we decide to stroll through the Alameda and see if there are any good bootlegs DVDs to buy.  We come across a guy sitting on a stool, with a flimsy plastic table.  He is selling dog tags (literally) and pressing them with your choice of slogan by hand.  We get three small bones, one for each dog.  It’s my birthday, but they are getting treats too!  After he’s pressed the three tags, we get back to the car and start back home.

Perfect timing.  We get home and take the dogs out, and as we unlock our door on our return, it starts raining.  The rain and gloom starts to take hold, and what was a somewhat good mood starts to fade.  I feel a bit down.  The prospect of my big steak and thick hearty wine is getting washed away.

I talk to my dad for a while, and do some internet chatting.  I actually end up arranging Ultravox albums on iTunes to pass the time.  I get worked up if the right pictures of sleeves are not coordinated correctly, along with the proper release dates.  This actually takes up quite a bit of time, since it is their entire 80’s output.  Sadly, to add insult to injury, after I complete getting everything in order, I randomly click on songs to see if the correct image is shown.  For some reason, they are not.  I’m frustrated.  I think back to what my brother said today, "Listen to some Van Halen today.  You share the same birthday as Diamond Dave!"  I tell myself I have to blare some Van Halen before the day is done. I go to the bedroom and plop down on the bed and just lie there listening to the rain.

At 8:30, Tonya comes in and says we should go to a nearby restaurant for a meal.  We do.  The place is empty.  We ask to sit on the porch and are both horrified to be sat in the middle of a ring of flat screens showing Monday Night Football.  Tonya insists that I eat a steak.  I eventually breakdown and order a New York strip, served on a charred wooden platter.  It comes with another platter of sides, including potatoes, peppers, corn, garlic, chimichurri sauce and a few others.  Tonya orders fish.  It was not what I had envisioned, but it is OK.  Without a doubt, we could have done better at home.  Tonya says we will do it right whenever I want.  We have a nice long conversation, and finish up with a piece of corn cake.  

I didn't get the steak I was longing for, but then again, I didn't expect the Mexicans to do it 'Texas style'.  It was still a nice day and we both got to see some things we had never seen before.  Now-we are going home to watch some crappy episodes of a pathetic TV series that we love to watch.

Tight Fit

This city moves so fast and is filled with so many people that entertainment and bemusement is readily on tap at all times.  As trite as it may sound, it dawned on me last night that the wonders never cease…if you think you may have seen everything, you’re wrong.  There is always a new incident that will top the last. 

Within a 12 hour period, I was truly amazed at two seemingly insignificant happenings that really struck me with amazement.  To most, or to the average guy standing on the street it most definitely would go unnoticed, simply written off as ‘that’s just the way it is’, but for outsiders, it is a moment of true amazement.

Take the ‘parking guy’ down by the square today.  This particular guy, he works the strip in front of the bank.  I took notice to this guy a while back because he is one of these street guys who actually likes to color co-ordinate his outfits.  Many times he wears bright colored shirts to match his shiny, yellow high tops.  He’s also got his ear pierced three times, which to me, seems odd for a simple guy who bums change by telling you when to ‘whoa’ and when to ‘go’ with your car.

Standing in a doorway, I was watching him hail down cars and direct them into a place to park, as well as helping them pull away and drive off.  In between his commandeering duties, he lugs a bucket up and down the line of cars parked along the curb, and pulls one of two dirty rags out to ‘wash’ the selected car.  He’s got two rags, one for the tires and one for the car.  I watch him wash 3 cars, and start to take note of his current system of cleaning.  I glance away to watch some of the people drifting through the square, then look back to the guy washing cars in front of me.  For whatever reason, I was just watching him dip his rags in to the bucket of dirty water, and he would stand with a somewhat strong and proud stance, and wring a rag over and over, then pop it in a certain way, then lay it on the car if it was not the right rag for the job.  I was amused at the way he wrung his rags and the ‘dance’ he did with them.  As I was watching him do his routine again, I saw that split second moment when it all pays off.  He cleans the tires, and then drops the rag into the bucket.  He takes the other rag and wipes off the windshield and hood, then drops it into the bucket.  He leans over, grabs rag number one and rings it out over his bucket.  He leans over grabs his second rag and does the same. 

He doesn’t drop the rag back into the bucket though.  He reaches up and removes his hat.  This is not part of the routine…what is he doing?!  I cannot believe what I see.  He takes the dirty rag he was just washing either the tires or the car with, and starts to wash his face.  He wipes it over his head, then his brow and then rubs carefully under each eye, then his chin. Did he just do what I think he did? Yes, he did.  That filthy rag, used to wash at least those 3 or four cars I saw him do, was dipped back into the septic water and though wrung pretty good, used to cleanse away the dirt and grime on his face.  I suppose replacing dry grit and grime with pre-used, wet filth is refreshing in an odd sort of way.  I am guessing this what a Mexican on the street does, and to others…nah, no big deal.

The other incident which made me shake my head occurred the previous night.  We had to go and eat out because the maintenance guy at the house forgot to turn the water on.  Of course, we had no idea until it came time to cook and…the faucet handle is turned and we stand staring at absolutely nothing.  “F*ck it. We’re eating out”, was the simple statement Tonya said as she shows me the faucet that does nothing.

It is dark, and we are driving up one of the main streets in the neighborhood.  It should be no surprise at the fact that the size of streets varies wildly here. A single street can easily stretch and squeeze, drastically changing its appearance and accessibility within a few short meters.  This particular street we have to slowly drive up is an old stone street.  It is not big enough for two cars to pass.  If you come head to head with another car, one of you must pull over hoping your mirror doesn’t get crushed against an old stone wall, and hope that as the other guy passes, his mirror doesn’t hit you either.  In most case, when two cars pass, it is done very slowly, and usually one of the drivers has their head crooked to the side on which the pass is taking place, to monitor the delicate move.  What really sucks is when you pull over and wedge yourself into a tight spot to let the oncoming guy pass, and then some chump behind you thinks he will take advantage of the situation, and blast through leaving both you and the oncoming car looking like retards.  Worse still, is when there are a string of cars who breeze through with total disregard to the two original drivers trying to politely make way for one another. Mexico.

The notion of the tight squeeze was nothing new.  It is typical here.  If you drive at all, be prepared for this.  Yet last night was a first.  What happens when two guys and a car all need to share a tight part of the street?  I witnessed this very scenario first hand.  I was the driver.

We are slowly working our way up the dark street.  Bouncing along the old stone road, the headlights catch a figure moving slowly along the wall to my right.  I slow down so as not to make him think I am going to run him over.  He throws a glance over his shoulder to take a quick assessment of how he will allow me to pass and how much time he has.  I spot another face coming towards us, on the same side.  He is walking down the street.  We are all closing in on each other.  The street is lined with big stone walls.  There are no driveways (per say) to step into.  This is like a narrow cattle run we are all in.  I know I can’t do anything so, I slow to almost a crawl, and I watch.

The headlights are providing an impromptu spotlight on tonight’s two stars.  They are watching one another as they get closer and closer.  Each guy is waiting to see what move the other guy will make first, just like an old west gun draw.  They are within a few feet of each other.  I can clearly see the guy’s face that is coming in the opposite direction.  He is looking directly into the face of the guy we are behind.  They both start to slow, waiting for someone to sidestep.  We are now almost stopped as this precise moment occurs.

They are face to face. They both come to dead halt. I am stopped too, with my headlights shining on the squeeze.  For a moment, all is still.  The two guys twitch, each unsure of which way he should move so they can pass, and eventually allow me to pass.  The guy in front of me stands totally still.  He’s carrying something but I can’t tell what it is.  It is the fella coming the opposite way who makes the move.  He looks over the guys shoulder in front of him to make sure I am stopped. He notices the car dead still, and then does an awkward sidestep, as if he is somewhat embarrassed or perhaps conceding he is the weaker for making the move aside.  He skirts passed the guy in front of me, then turns sideways with his back against the wall and scoots slowly passed us.  I start to move slowly, and Tonya utters a very quiet and concerned, “Careful.”

I continue to move very slowly behind the guy on my right.  After a few feet, the street expands only slightly, due to the next house building their wall a bit closer in than their neighbor.  When I say “a bit”, I literally mean a stones width, only inches.  Perhaps a four inch difference.  It is obvious that the guy in front of me is somewhat relieved.  He now has a chance to let me pass, thus proving that he is not actually being followed.  He peers over his shoulder back towards me.  He is smiling.  I see him motion with his hand down by his side, to pass.  I inch up and we see one another face to face.  He smiles, and I do the same.  He too, is almost prone with his back against the wall to allow us to pass.  When we do, both Tonya and I laugh about what just happened.  “Poor guys…no one knew what to do” she says.

That was great.  I thought this was genuinely awkward moment for these two guys passing one another on this dark, tight street.  It was obvious from their actions that they had no idea on what to do because there was a car involved.  We all know the saying about ‘this town ain’t big enough for the both of us’, but now I am taking a new one with me.  This street ain’t big enough for the three of us.  It also just reaffirmed my feelings that I think I like this neighborhood.

Independence Day

Things are gearing up for the big celebration tomorrow.  It is the first Independence Day celebration since Mexico’s Bi-Centennial last year.  In what might be considered typical Mexican fashion, many of the celebratory flags and banners from left year were conveniently left out to weather for a whole year.  One might think they were on such a high that they want to celebrate 200 years all year long.  It is time to celebrate again, so all the weathered and forgotten remnants are suddenly in vogue again.  Suddenly though, as I write this a storm has descended on Mexico City.  Perhaps the revelers who have been getting in the party mode for tonight may have their parade rained on…literally.

This could be a good thing though; it may mean we are not subjected to the constant sound of a never ending array of fireworks all night long.

This will be my second Independence Day to observe during my time here in Mexico.  Thankfully, I was fortunate enough to be here when they celebrated their 200 years of independence. It was nice to see how proud these people were (and always are) of their country.  Silly me, I always thought that May 5 was a big deal.  No.  May 5 is only important to college students back home, or to anyone looking for an excuse to get legless.  Why should they make a big deal over a battle with the French, when they could save it up and celebrate being free form Spain, the people who destroyed their ancient civilizations?

The sudden storm knocking tangerines off the tree.

In truth, as the sudden storm sets in and the party people in Mexico City have their evening filled with a downpour of rain and hail, I stand at the door watching ice bounce off the stones and look over to see Tonya, standing in the other doorway with a towel draped over her laptop.  She is trying to keep it dry as she is finishing downloading the season finale of ‘Damages’.  She pulls back inside, pulls the towel off her computer and smiles as she says, “Awesome!  I got it!”  It appears that we will be celebrating tonight too.  We have the final episode of her favorite series. Tonya is thrilled at her photo finish with nature, ‘That was awesome.  I wasn’t getting wet, but I was standing there watching the hail and feeling it bounce up”

I have been questioning myself lately, asking “How do I really feel about being here…and what is the purpose?”  I am tired of this question because it plays on an endless loop inside my head …constantly.  In truth, I think I feel kind of numb.  It dawned on me the other day that I am an observer here.  I move through the city and mingle with the people.  I don’t have any real friends and no real conversations.  I feel lonely when I think about it.  It is odd being away from the people you know and the relationships you have established.  Now, I am just the outsider.

It is the language.  I won’t say it is a barrier, because it isn’t.  I choose not to take it to heart.  A few days ago Tonya asked me, “You have been here over a year and still don’t speak Spanish.  Why not?  Why haven’t you learned?”  For a brief moment I felt stupid at the fact of spending so much time here and not interacting more.  I sat quietly as I drove and thought of her question.  “You know why?  Because I tune it out”, I replied when I came to realize the truth.  “I dislike it so much, that I am able to be immersed in it all day and I just tune it out”  I explain to her that for my whole life in Texas, that being constantly surrounded by Mexicans who refused to speak English you just learn to ignore them.  You shut them out.  Growing up, it was the Mexican kid who held everything up in class because he would not speak English (yet he would funnily enough be in the Spanish class).  It was the non-speaker who got the boss mad, because everything would come to a halt to find someone who could translate.  It was instance after instance of a self-imposed language barrier from the other side that has helped to reinforce the ability to ‘tune it all out’.  Year after year it adds up.  After over 40 years, it is not so easy to change your attitude.  Also, this is definitely not the Spanish you learn in school.  This is 100 mph stuff with ‘R’s that are rolled with such ferocity that it is intimidating.  It is really intimidating for a kid who had to take speech therapy in school because he could not say his ‘R’s properly.  This language is a huge elephant laughing staring at me from the corner of my room.  It is true, I never had a desire to come to this country…and I have already clocked in over a year and a half!  The whole thing seems like some crazy dream.  “Never in your wildest dreams...” could not be truer.

I tell myself I will do better.  I tell myself I will start taking the language seriously.  I want friends.  I want to be able to talk to the tortilla guy, flipping his stacks of hot tortillas into paper, and folding them in a neat stack for his next customer.  I want to talk to the pimply guy who stands on the street and prepares corn in the midst of traffic, horns and in a haze of exhaust.  I want to know what is going on around me.  Instead of just smiling at the cop on the corner and saying ‘buenos dias’ everyday, I want to be able to stop and have a real conversation and laugh.  I really would like to be able to talk to the one-eyed Indian who sells his wares at the market.

Sitting in a café the other day I meet a girl who is a native.  She’s studied abroad and lived in London.  Her English is fine, though she says shyly that she is not that good.  She is amicable and a group of us are talking about all sorts of things.  The conversation turns to “Why did you come here?”  (Believe me, this is a question almost everyone asks…not even counting myself)  Before the answer is given, she is asking a more pointed question, “Why don’t you speak Spanish?”  She cannot understand that I come from Texas and don’t speak Spanish. “Why should I, coming from Texas?  We speak English there.  In America, we speak English…”  Her simple question irritates me to no end.  She adds plainly, “If you are living here, you have to learn Spanish” She seems a bit perplexed.  She cannot see my volleyball sized eyes rolling at her comment.  I pose the question back to her, ‘Why then, don’t the millions of Mexicans in the States speak English?  If they are going to live in America, why don’t they speak English?’  My reply seems to ruffle her a bit and she seems a slightly upset at my retort.  Tonya tries to diffuse the situation in a hurry.  It sets my mind reeling again, and immediately my impenetrable linguistic wall goes up.

It is truly amazing at the number of Mexicans who really don’t know how it is in the States.  They seriously cannot believe it when you tell them signs are hung in Spanish in almost every department store, signage is in Spanish and even recorded messages on the phone telling you what number to push if you want to carry on in Spanish.  At home, in the USA, it is a never ending battle to keep your own language alive on your own soil.  It is disheartening and surely understandable why one would be at odds with ‘wanting’ to speak Spanish.

I carry on as the outsider.  I am the ‘Guero’.  I am used to hearing that everywhere I go.  At least I understand that!  I acknowledge the semi-derogatory term used affectionately.  I am OK with being the ‘guero’.  It is what I am and who I am.  I am the ‘whitey’ in amongst the darker ones.  I am the guy who gets his car keyed.  I am the outsider who gets “pig” scrawled on the windows of his car.  I know what it is to be the one who doesn’t fit in.  I smile and I say the few things I know how to.  I treat those around me friendly and warmly.  I respect the fact that I am on someone else’s turf.

Then something happens that makes me smile, like when the friendly one-eyed Indian smiles and speaks some English to me or when the guy in the market who sells all the spices smiles and waves at me.  I may not know how to talk about soccer with these guys, or how to share a joke with them, but their simple smile and wave does wonders for me.  It is those simple moments which make it all seem OK.  I am not such an outsider after all. 

We walk out of the grocery store the other day and I spot something written on the back window of the car.  I don’t pay too much attention at first.  I am used to the Mexicans writing on our car.  However, as I pull my keys out and start to open the door, I laugh.  I tell Tonya to look at the window.  She glances at the message, “That’s nice” she says.  I can’t control the huge smile breaking across my face.  There, scrawled into the dirt on our back window is a simple message; Buenos Dias Texas

It is an instance like this when I think, “It’s OK”.  I look around to see if perhaps the detective in me can figure out who might have done this, but in a parking lot full of Mexicans going to and from, it could be anyone.  Maybe the author left long ago and just felt like being friendly.  Maybe they have relatives in Texas (good, very good possibility).  Maybe they just saw our car and thought, “Geez, I feel sorry for the miserable gringo sod who has to drive that thing around” and in a brief, fleeting moment they scrawled a simple message that would have a resounding effect one me.  The strangers passing greeting made my day.

To the Mexican who wrote on our car; Thanks for brightening my day, and causing me to pause and rethink my thoughts about your country. You made my day.