The faces in the Ciudad Juarez, Chihuahua roadway. Gensler San Francisco has similar goals. Mexico. Monday, eight in the morning and I urge to get to the workshop. I must cross a lane boulevards of ida and another coming, I must be very vigilant before some crazy driver (a) can run over me, no one gives way, nobody is polite. The minutes pass one, two, three, four, up to fifteen, internalised finally a small space to cross crossed resembling a Matador than from the front to the onslaught, escapes from death. I hope the Juarez – Zaragoza route.
I stop signal, approaching the Green unit with white. He is observed at a distance that is somewhat empty, i.e. If there is space available for sitting. I go to this magic box of six wheels where we are all actors in a Metahistory that barely starts. Costs six pesos an hour function, until arriving at my destination. The faces seem indomitable waves, with white foam where there is no turning back to the beach. On the first hole I see there I feel. I just settle I quickly look at two rows of faces of all ages, all I checked from head to foot.
Nobody talks, nobody says anything, variety of nuances, eyes and hair, anger, distrust, but same smell, fear. Without realizing I’ve sat in a place that smells of contingency, both on my right how left are two corpulent types where the tattoo color is King of his arms, chest and neck, everything is like a suntuaria work of high cost. Both are burly, with an expression of neglect and desolation impressive, similar to a pantheon in decline; hard sided, marked by four deep furrows in the forehead, thick fingers, nails with dirt on their shirts is the color of blood, smell blood. While others go up and down, each one to an unexpected destination.