The morning was cool. On the way back from the center of town I was waiting in a taxi at the light on the corner of Insurgentes and Madero. It's always congested there. One waits for two or sometimes three light changes in order to pass the intersection. Whenever there is traffic delay in Mexico a "centro commercial ambulante" is born. Merchants spring up like mushrooms in the june rains. Sellers ply their wares, jugglers and fire spitters entertain, and windshield washers dribble dirty water on whomever seems susceptible.
There was a drunk selling Metro, a newspaper. It's a cheap rag that features carnage, sexual innuendo, and racy juxtaposition. "Metro,, Metro,,Metro,,", the drunk shouted recklessly shoving the paper into each driver's window. Near our taxi he paused, looked down thoughtfully at his handful of Metros, and then spoke seriously "Puras Mentiras". I chuckled to myself, and thought, sometimes people have moments of clarity that shatter the routine,, then I paused and wondered if perhaps he was wrong.
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