Mexico keeps popping up today, I don’t know why. I was
sitting in another one of those bland government offices waiting for my number
to be called so I can ask a question I already know the answer to. The lady I
speak with asks me to confirm my date of birth; she tells me it’s the same as
hers. We both chuckle politely. I get up to walk away, a guy walks into me,
almost trips me up, his bright yellow t-shirt blazoned with ‘Mexico’ on the
chest.
I drive to a nearby mall and decide not to have a burger
but a chicken-filled taco instead. Something subliminal must be going on. People
on a nearby table are talking about how the food in America is nothing like
this and that ‘real Mexicans’ make it and sell it on the roadside. I inevitably
have to use the ladies room. On the stainless steel door frame, stamped in
black, I spot a few numbers and the words ‘Made in Mexico’.
If the Mexican football team were still playing
in the World Cup I would put a bet on them. We’re only half way through the
day; will there be more I wonder?
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