Sometimes it works

8:49 a.m.
There's a fear here not seen in the United States. It's in the eyes of the niña who asked to trade a peso for a sticker. In the face of the store owner at seeing an American walk through the open door. In the actions of a seemingly careless bus driver weaving in and out of heavy traffic. He hides behind Mary and a pair of plush dice beneath a black light just before 10 when his shift will finally end. Even our well off Mexican mother speaks to us of our plans for the weekend with a subtle terror in her features. I would tend to assume this is related to religion, but these people believe with everything in them. Yet in their faith, they shake. I wonder what it is they fear for. Perhaps the fact that I have to ask is a testament to how American I really am.

10:22 a.m.
I like the jagged movements eyes make when staring out the car window.

11:41 a.m.
Dear Jorge Lopez,
Your successful family's business ad picture looms above a broken down barrio, and within that same panorama sits a small boy begging for pesos. Were you aware?

12:48 p.m.
I have a strange kind of kinship with my feet. I'm looking down at them and have the impulse to apologize for everything I've put them through. Right now they are covered in scars, scabs and tan lines. They don't complain much.

12:52 p.m.
We are all just kids on an inflated field trip. What do we know?

1:42 p.m.
A 6 hour bus ride later, I am relunctant to part from my headphones and window seat. I am such a loner sometimes.