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?