Finanzas personales e impersonales

Los estados de cuenta y demás papeleo de la finanzas personales me producen una flojera enooooorme. A lo que más llego es a revisar cada tres meses la taza de interés de mis magras inversiones. Por eso el último mes ha sido tan atípico:

Después de semanas sacarle la vuelta al montón de sobres que se habían acumulado en mi buzón durante mis vacaciones, le eché un ojo a mi cuenta de ahorro para el retiro. Y pegué un brinco al ver que desde Julio estaban invertidos en una cuenta que yo no había elegido, y que estaba perdiendo dinero. Raudo me apersono en el banco para reclamarle al banquero que lleva mi cuenta, solo para enterarme que ya no trabaja ahí. En su lugar me recibe un gordito risueño y me explica que el otro tipo no dejó archivos de sus transacciones.

- Y por lo tanto -dijo- si usted declara que pidió que los fondos se inviertieran en otra cuenta, tiene que proporcionar evidencia, un record escrito. De otra manera no podemos rembolsarle el dinero que usted dice que le debemos. Lo siento realmente, no hay nada que podamos hacer.

Por un instante me sentí pequeño frente al Goliat bancario, que no daría su brazo a torcer, el banquero de fría mirada clavando los codos en el escritorio. Pero en mi consciencia yo sabía que me debían dinero y contraataqué:

- El hecho es -argüí- mis fondos fueron transferidos a ésa cuenta en ésa fecha. Y si ustedes, Banco Perenganito, no pueden producir evidencia, un record escrito, de que yo solicité ese movimiento, entonces ustedes hicieron una transacción no autorizada. Una transacción ilegal. ¿Entiendes a donde voy?

Cambio de 180 grados. Me llevaron con la Gerente de la sucursal, que me preguntó por mi vida, mi familia, me contó de la suya, me asignaron a un consejero de inversión de los que atienden solo a grandes cuentas, carpeta roja, “Mr. Ramírez” por acá, “Mr. Ramírez” por allá. Me reembolsaron la cantidad que yo había calculado que me debían, y 250 dólares extras “por las molestias”. Lo que los argentinos denominan ‘chupar los calcetines’. Y de que manera.

Luego, este viernes, raqueta en mano toco en la puerta de mi vecino con quien iba a jugar squash.

- Dáme 10 minutos -dice abriendo la puerta- la bolsa no ha cerrado.

Entro a la sala de su casa y observo los últimos 10 minutos de su día de trabajo: detrás de un escritorio con 4 enormes pantallas, llenas de gráficos, números y demás información de la Bolsa de Valores de Toronto. John, además de un gran amigo, es un corredor de bolsa. Mientras hace las transacciones, y con el ruido de fondo de un comentarista transmitiendo en vivo desde el piso de la Bolsa, me explica rápidamente los sube y bajas del día, las tendencias de tal o cual grupo de acciones, un par de transacciones muy afortunadas que hizo en el día, los rumores de política y economía que afectaron el mercado, etc.

Yo consideraba que si algún talento tengo es la capacidad de digerir información, particularmente numérica, pero me sorprendió, casi me abrumó el volumen de información que el maneja, a la velocidad que lo hace... y el hecho que lo haga ininterrumpidamente 8 horas al día, 5 días a la semana. Pantallas, radio, mensajes de texto, llamadas, correos electrónicos. Si hay un nuevo impuesto, si hay fricciones militares en el sureste asiático, si un modelo de celular no se está vendiendo como se imaginaba, si una compañía minera descubrió una veta... todo lo que sucede en el mundo puede tener un efecto en la Bolsa. Me pregunto si yo podría hacer ése trabajo, si sería bueno, si lo disfrutaría. Me pregunto qué se siente saber que el mundo entero es tu ambiente de trabajo, que cada decisión de comprar o vender tiene a los cinco continentes girando alrededor.

En cuanto al squash, el día fue todo mío.

Todo estaba bien hasta que agarré el vaso

Pasé el domingo con mi amiga Daniela, pizza y cerveza, muriéndonos de risa, mirando la peli “Koyaanisqatsi” (Life Out of Balance) que es un alucine. Luego pasamos largo rato en mi estudio, sin platicar, simplemente mirando la calle, los skatos, los peatones... Estábamos escuchando Asian Dub Foundation y luego pasamos a los Beatles. “A day in the life”, la he escuchado minuciosamente centenares de ocasiones, pero éste vez, justo cuando Paul McCartney empieza a cantar “woke up, fell out of bed...” llegué a una súbita conclusión: ése fragmento, que al parecer no tiene nada que ver con el resto de la canción, es la historia contada desde la perspectiva del tipo que muere al inicio de la canción. No se porqué me di cuenta tan claramente, pero de pronto la idea se hizo contundente en mi cabeza: “ése fragmento lo canta el muerto”

Supongo que podré agregarle una más a el montón de pistas que proponen los que dicen que Paul murió en el 66.

Ha sido una semana movida, la fiesta de cumpleaños de Copycat el Sabado (estoy aprendiendo que a los blogeros se les llama por su blognombre), Rocky Horror Picture Show en el Hummingbird Center el Martes, Carmina Burana en el Hart House hoy jueves. Además de que sigo teniendo unos sueños larguisísmos, rarísimos, super detallados y más editados y producidos que si Coppola y Spielberg los produjeran. Todos mis sueños suceden en México, en todos sale al menos algún miembro de mi familia, en casi todos sale el mar o la playa. Y son las cosas más monumentalmente raras e imaginativas, que hacen parecer a David Lynch y Fellini aburridos y predecibles.

Pero el evento de la semana fue la conferencia que di ayer miércoles. Ahi va la descripción:
(www.projectworldcanada.com)

Two Steps Risk Management: How to Avoid the Cassandra Complex
Alejandro Ramirez, PMP, Motorola Canada
As Troy was burning down in flames, their citizens butchered by the sword, Cassandra looked at the scene and had a déjà vu. She had not only foreseen the risk, but also communicated it accurately to all the relevant stakeholders. Why then did no one do anything to avoid it?
• Identify the difference between a risk statement and a failure prediction
• Formulate risk that lead to action
• Taking the second step: full risk management

Durante las últimas dos semanas me había estado preocupando de que mi material no era suficientemente profesional, o que no sería suficiente para sobrellevar una hora, que los nervios me fueran a traicionar en el escenario... Porque pese a los años de trabajar en inglés, ésta era mi primera conferencia en un evento así, con desconocidos.

La cosa empezó bien, calculo que llegaron unas 120 o 140 personas, un lleno total, gente parada y todo eso. Empecé a hablar con firmeza y claridad (creo yo), mi plática estaba llena de referencias a la mitología e historia griega, historia canadiense, etc. Y saturada de mi muy particular idea de lo que es el sentido del humor. La gente, afortunadamente se estaba riendo de mis bromas, se sentía el ambiente muy receptivo. Todo iba bien hasta que se me ocurrió agarrar el vaso de agua. Mi mano estaba temblando tanto que el agua se derramaba, y encima al darle un sorbito, me eché un hielo a la boca y lo mastiqué frente a toda la gente, inmediatamente hice un comentario al respecto, dejé el vaso y recuperé lo poco que quedaba de compostura y seguí adelante. Eso fue más o menos al inicio. Obvio es que no volvía tocar el vaso. La gente siguió interesada, siguió riendo, de no haber sido por el maldito vaso nunca nadie se hubiera ni siquiera imaginado que estaba nervioso.

De hecho, ignorando ésos 20 segundos, creo que la conferencia estuvo muy bien. Que es como decir que, exceptuando el flechazo en el talón, Aquiles se la pasó bien en la guerra de Troya.

Between Carnival and a snowstorm

Walking in the blizzard, my boots sinking deeply into the snow, the nasty wind was pounding me with waves of snow from every direction. But knowing that I was just 5 blocks away from home, the discomfort had the same thrill that you get in a roller coaster: you’re glad that you’re in for the ride, and you know you’ll be even happier when it’s over.

I finally made it back into my apartment and I tuned in the news: Highway closures, gridlocks everywhere. Not a good day to be in the road. My phone rang, it was my friend Shawn. He needed a place to stay for the night in Toronto.

- Aren’t you in Ottawa?
- Yes, but my flight to [undisclosed location in Africa] leaves from Toronto tomorrow morning.
- How do you plan to get here?
- Driving
- In the middle of the snowstorm?? Are you insane!? (Rhetorical question, he IS insane).
- The airports is closed.
- Why don’t you take the train?
- I tried to, the tracks are blocked somewhere.

So he rented a car and drove through the snowstorm. He arrived almost at midnight, I had friends over, and he entertained us with his adventures as journalist disguised as diamond smuggler in [undisclosed location in Africa]. Or at least I found it entertaining.

I’ve seen Shawn more than 24 hours in the last couple of years, so there was plenty of catch up to do. About the family, his house in Rio de Janeiro, his new dog, living conditions in Brazil, diamond smuggling in the amazons, and the sort.

Then the next day, I realized he forgot to mention something. He came out of the shower, wearing no shirt, and I realized a couple of nasty wounds in the back, just an inch below the armpit. They were pretty recent, they still had the stitches on.

Turns out, the week before, after a full day of dancing and drinking in the carnival in Rio de Janeiro, where he lives since year 2004, he was taking a lonely alley back home when two guys tried to take his wallet. He decided it was a good idea to fight with them. In retrospective, he admits it wasn’t the wisest idea. He could not understand why one of the guys insisted in punching him mildly in the shoulder. “What a harmless fighting technique” he remembers thinking. It wasn’t until he saw the blood, and then a shine in the guýs hand that he realized that he wasn’t being punched. He was being stabbed.

Luckily, the blade didn’t touch the lungs, so he’ll be alright... well, at least as related to this incident. Last I heard from him, in an e-mail from his wife Alex, is that he was stranded in an obscure region of Africa because the plane landed abruptly due to technical problems.

As I write this, the weather is getting mild, but one major highway is closed, as the half melted ice stalactites are staring to fall from big buildings, such as the CN tower.

Which one is a better way to die? By a pointy piece of pointed ice, the size of an adult person, falling 500 metres from the sky? Or having your lung punctured by a knife after dancing the day away in Rio’s carnival? Which one is a better way to live?

Toronto, March 12, 2007

Dead to the ugly!

“Dead to the ugly,
to every single one who is ugly”
Cumbia by Wilfredo Vargas

On the stage of Barcelona’s auditorium Albert Pla sings, cries, dances... but mainly he laughs. At his country, at the powerful, at himself, at the universe in general and God in particular. “Up his ass!” He yells (‘por el culo!’), the crowd cheers and chants with him “fuck his heaven, his angels, up his ass with his divine graaaaaaaaaace!” He once was the enfant terrible of Catalan music. Now in his early forties (or so he looks) he doesńt seem to be mellowing down the slightest bit. Still sharp, still acid.

In a weird way, he makes me think of the friend I met in Puerto Vallarta a couple of weeks ago. We drove together to Guadalajara, his conversation centred largely on plastic surgery: his own and his friends’. Nose jobs, enhanced pectorals, nicer ass, tighter abdominal area. We’re talking about guys. Lots of them. After a couple of hours of mental pictures it started to crawl upon me the feeling that I’m living in a wold where everyone is getting fitter, faster, better. I recalled the numerous adds for men’s plastic surgery, the stories in magazines about Chinese getting operations to be taller, or corporate ladder climbers getting throat interventions to have a deeper voice (deeper throat?) and thus be more successful. I started to get the feeling of being left behind. I looked at myself in the rear view mirror, questioning which part of my face or body desperately calls for an intervention. After those hours of conversation in the highway, it sounded so innocuous, so innocent, so trendy.

But in the back of my head I knew that while I totally approve surgery on everyone else, on myself I would see it as a sign of insecurity. A better nose would be the permanent reminder of a low self-esteem. But maybe its precisely the plantation of my head the part of me that requires surgery, that corner of my brain where I keep so many questionable taboos.

But there again, tonight in Barcelona’s auditorium, Albert Pla keeps on singing. With his skinny figure, his grotesquely large and crooked nose... and his sharp, sharp tongue. He reminds me that no doctor can’t lend wit to someone who was born without one, no plastic surgeon can give balls to a man that doesn’t have. Sorry, it can’t happen. So I laugh along with Albert Pla, I laugh at the world, at beauty, at imperfection... por el culo a ambas! (fuck them both!)

Barcelona, 19 January 2007

Old traditions, new ring tones - in english

In between Guadalajara and Tequila there is a small town called Ameca. To get there, coming from Guadalajara, you take the same road that goes to Puerto Vallarta, but then you take the exit to Tequila. After an hour and a half the blue fields of agave give way to sugar cane plantations, we are on harvest time, so the air is full of ashes as the farmers simply burn the fields to get rid of the leaves and diminutive thorns, and then simply cut the cane, protected from the fire by it’s strong skin.

There isn’t much to see in Ameca. For most of you. For me, there is my sister Lili and her family (and a dog, that clean or not, always smells wet). They take me to a tour of the local college, where Paola my niece is taking tourism. The campus is outside the city, in the open field quite precisely (‘el campus está en el campo’ we would say in Spanish), with an impressive view of the hills. Later we all go to play video games to the central square and that’s where I hear first hear about ‘La Tehuacana’. A local personality.

Many years ago, ‘La Tehuacana’ used to have a very old profession. Or, to use old mexican terminology, she was “the one who wakes up late in the day”. But years have gone by and she is no longer up to that business, now she has a new occupation: she walks around the street selling the local newspaper “El Regional”. Let me correct that, she walks around the streets talking to everyone, finding out what’s new in their lives, giving them advise on relationships, decisions, job, school. And in between conversations she yells in her very peculiar voice “El regionaaaaaaaaaaaaal”.

Paola tells me that some kids went to her and recorded her announcement and started passing it around from phone to phone. Now that’s a very popular ring tone in Ameca. You’ll hear a few kids’s phone ringing here and there “El regionaaaaaaaaaaal... El regionaaaaaal...”

Ameca, Jalisco. January 13, 2007

The Fight Club

This is not my idea of volleyball. The beach is crowded, way too crowded, and mainly families, not a single attractive bikini in sight to make time bearable. I sip my tequila while waiting for my turn to play when my friends start to pick on one of the players they call ‘vampire’. Its hard not to notice his fangs. Naively, I thought it was a genetic defect. But soon I learn he got those implanted a few months ago. What the hell? The guy is almost 40, sounds a little too old to be playing vampire. He says he’ll take them out soon, and casually mentions “a couple of days ago, I was in a fight and I bit this pendejo in the arm, you should have seen him”.

That triggers something in my head, in the last couple of days I’ve heard a few of my new acquaintances mentioning getting in fights as a side comment. I have never, in my adult life, got in a fight. Not even a the pushing and yelling kind. Of course I’ve kicked some ass (and got mine kicked too) in a Tae Kwon Do or a Kun Tao dojo. But never out there in the real world.

And this guys, including Mr. Mexican vampire here, seem to do it routinely, with no noticeable negative effects in their life. I start to wonder if I don’t have it wrong. I wonder if this zero violence lifestyle is so abnormal, unbalanced and awkward as let’s say continuos sexual abstinence. Maybe our mammal instincts would be very satisfied if once in a while we got on casual fist fights with our peers. Nothing tragic, a bleeding nose, a black eye, the sound of your knuckles on someone’s cheekbone, the pain of a blow on the ribs. Once a month, perhaps, to release some steam and define more clearly your ranking on the pack... although in a city, these days is a virtual pack, but we still have one, we still compete and we still have alpha males. What if I’m missing out on one of the most important macho rituals?

Rather than just spit out my theory, I wonder if my friends had their own conclusions. So, I say, continuing Mr. Vampire’s story about biting someone’s arm:

- Funny, I don’t think I’d been in a real fight in my whole adult life.

The biggest response I get is one of my friends looking at me for a second and nodding politely. Everyone keeps on drinking their tequilas, watching the game and duly ignoring my comment. I persist.

- What about you? How long since you’ve been in a fight?

“I don’t know. 6 months” said one. “Two years” said another, proceeding to relate the story of the time he got ambushed by a jealous boyfriend and a couple of guys that beat the crap out of him... and then someone else started telling the story about using his belt buckle to whack the head of an opponent “it sounded like a bell! Ding, ding, ding!” I laugh, everyone laughs and I start to think if sometimes I think too much. My turn to play.

Puerto Vallarta. January 2, 2007.

It was only a kiss - in english

“How did it end up like this?

it was only a kiss, it was only a kiss!”
The Killers

I have been craving for this moment for god knows how long. Basking around in Puerto Vallarta, in my hand a bowl (chabela) of large, fresh and juicy shrimps on a hot and spicy soup with cucumber, tomato, avocado and onion. I’m eating my shrimps as if there is no tomorrow when something my friend says catches my attention:

- ...last evening, this woman kiss me right on the lips

I look at him, spoon in the air, quite puzzled. Since when a kiss has become such a big deal for him? In the last ten years I practically had no contact with these guys, since then there have been marriages, children, divorces, bankrupts, good fortune... Could these years have changed him so much? From careless womanizer into a hopeless romantic who has rediscovered the joy of little things of life? Could life experience turned this guy 180 degrees around into a someone who is moved by a single kiss on the lips?

- When exactly did this happen? - I ask

- Last evening, when we were in bed.

My theory about the new born romantic started to show cracks.

- Where you having sex with her?

- Of course!

- ...and you didn’t expect a kiss?

- Well -he says shrugging- I like her enough to fuck her, but not enough to kiss her.

I took a long sip from my beer, while in my head my short lived theory about rediscovering the simple things of life crumbled to dust.

Right then, as if invoked, his cell phone biped announcing a text message.

- ..And speaking of her- he says as he turns the phone to me so I can read the message.

It reads:

“I want to ask you a favour: could you at least fuck me with a little bit of tenderness? ...But anyway... today I’ll spend the afternoon shopping with my cousin. Bye”

Sex is not something Vallartenses get shy about. My friends seem to know everyone in the city, from the mayor to the whores, and for some reason every person we talk to manages to make a sexually explicit comment in the first minute of conversation.

Let’s say we stop to greet the owner of a burger joint. We do the Vallarta handshake, spill out our names and then we move to give way to a couple of black girls walking by the same sidewalk. He says, looking reflectively as they walk away: “what I don’t like about black girls is when you go down on them, the inside of their pussy is purple, really purple”.

Or my favourite one: we are having drinks at a karaoke bar called “the shower” (where I massacred Charly García’s “nos siguen pegando abajo”, the crowd cheered me out of pity), when a young guy with a carefully crafted regetton singer’s look joins us at the table. In the precise moment when he is sitting down I’m trying to recognise a woman’s perfume and I look around saying aloud:

- What’s that smell?

The newcomer looks at me for a moment, then he smells his hands and says

- That’s probably me, sorry about that, I was just fingering some girl.

Then he pours a bit of his vodka on his fingers, rubs them against his jeans and the conversation moves on without a pause.

While I ponder on the relativity of politically correctness, the speakers blast the latest Puerto Rico’s big hit, a dementedly upbeat song that says something like “your body is so hot that you are about to blow up like a Palestinian”.

Puerto Vallarta. Dec 30 2006.

Ramirez’ Christmas 2006 - Mexican schizophrenia

“I’ll return with limbs of iron, dark skin and furious eye”
Arthur Rimbaud

Every year I return to my centre. You might say Guadalajara, you might say the Ramirez clan. To catch up with their stories is a full time occupation. I could spend half of my life just tracking down my brother, my seven sisters, my twentymany nieces and nephews and my 3 grand-nephews.

I could say that in 2006 my sister Lily survived miraculously a highway accident where the truck rolled upside down, she flew out through the passenger window (she had just unbuckled her seat belt to reach out for an Oscar Chavez CD) and went bouncing around the asphalt for a while. Both her and the driver were intact. Well, she had a broken finger and got an ugly knee scar, but all things considered, every member of the hospital said that it was a total miracle that she survived at all. When her daughter Paola watched the video of the scene of the accident, the remains of the truck, and the big blood stain in the asphalt, she started to cry. I couldn’t.

In 2006 my brother Fausto got invited to direct one of the most important theatre companies in the country, I couldn’t see his work (based on the tragical assassinations spree of woman in the Juarez border), but I hear that it got very good reviews.

In 2006 my mother had her first exhibit of her paintings, 5 years after she first started taking lessons, and sold her first painting. In 2006 Beto my brother in law helped a woman to give birth on the hall of a building.

In 2006 my nephew David simply flew away to spend one year in New Zealand before getting into college. In 2006 my nieces / nephews combined got dozens of new boyfriends / girlfriends / jobs. In 2006... boy, is a very large family!

And like year around, like an astronomer in a lonely mountain tries to study the immense galaxy, I use phone, newspaper, e-mail, chat and letters to get a glimpse of the frantic stories of the Ramirez. This year I have to add another media: radio.

It was a couple of nights before Christmas, I was driving and surfing the radio stations as always (I hate that I can’t get ride of that habit!) when for some reason I decided to stop in the news. The broadcaster said something like “this morning a messenger from a car dealership got mugged and robbed, they took more than 400 thousand pesos in cash and several cheques from Omar Ramírez Díaz”. It took a couple of seconds for my brain to focus on the news, and replay the spot on my head and connect the dots, my nephew, besides his new obsession of building muscles (that is giving very god results by the way), got a job at Honda as delivery boy. They got the name wrong on the radio, it was Omar Díaz Ramírez. So I immediately called my sister:

- Hi how are you?

- Fine, everything alright, how are you? - she answers

- ...and... is Omar fine?

- sure fine, just fiiine.

- Isn’t he scared? Or hurt?

- About what?

She didn’t know.

In many families, that would have dominated the conversation in Xmas. But for us, all together in the Uralde house, (the only one large enough to hold all of us), it was only a side conversation. He was pretty unharmed, just a couple of punches on the face and the ribs. Omar himself, his father Marco or my sister would give the details to the group they were talking to, comment on the corruption of the judicial system, recall a few similar anecdotes, and move on to the next topic, one of a thousand topics we covered that day.

I got a laugh when Omar was opening one of his presents, it was a trendy shirt, and someone asked “is it bulletproof?”.

I would like to comment on the mayhem, noise and chaos of forty something adults and kids walking around the living room, arms full of presents, giving some over here, getting some from over there, hugging, talking, unwrapping, joking... wondering when will the evening end for heaven’s sake!

But that happens every year. What I rediscovered this Xmas was the Mexican schizophrenia as an effective tool to relate to the world.

Seemingly, schizophrenia can be caused by a situation when an individual gets consistently mixed signals, let’s say that your mother constantly tells you drink is bad but your father gets often drunk. Or your partner is constantly criticizing a behaviour that at the same time encourages by non verbal means. Worst is, when the contradiction raise in between your own judgement and the society you belong (or want to belong) to.

Leonor’s sang froid when talking about his son’s recent encounter with danger (boy, do I make it sound dramatic!) Is more than simple resignation to the hazards of the big city. Is more than a shrug to forces she can’t control. It belongs to the same realm as many of us Mexicans deal with corruption in our country. With a mixture of acceptance, resistance and struggle. With a schizophrenia developed since the day we born, helping us to deal with a reality that sometimes we don’t like, without going insane every hour and every minute, without the overwhelming sensation that we must change everything or die. Most of us try to change things a little, while keeping peace of mind. Here and there, there are activist, some journalist, some figures (Digna Ochoa, Francisco Toledo) that try to go further, that do a bit more. And that represents a personal sacrifice, an unbalance that the rest of us admire and appreciate.

But for the rest of us, with a set of values many times incompatible with the environment we’re immerse in, schizophrenia is the only way to peace of mind.

The sane ones, the rational ones can perish!

Guadalajara, December 25 2006.

THE COW PARADE - in english

Every year Guadalajara welcomes me with an interesting public art display. This year it was the turn for dozens cows all over the city. Well, not real cows, fibreglass ones, our very own edition of the famous international cow parade. My 3 favourite ones:

- Leonardo Da Vinci’s Vitruvian cow. Located behind the Cathedral, and designed, not by Leonardo, but by one of my mother’s friend artist, this fibreglass and steel sculpture paraphrased Da Vinci’s “Vitruvian Man”, but with a cow instead, it’s eight limbs reaching out for the perimeter of the circle enclosed by a squared frame. Simply inspired.

- Muu-nerva. By some accounts, the real symbol of our city, the sculpture of greek goddess Athena aka Minerva. She represents the wisdom of the city, which supposedly is the cultural capital of the country. Her proud figure, holding a shield is know to everyone in Guadalajara(although because of her proportions and her shield is better know to the locals as “the fat lady with the frying pan”). Now there is a second Minerva. Well, this is a Muu-nerva. A fibreglass cow in the same position and with the same weapons as Minerva.

- Matute Remus was a well known engineer, teacher and politician from the 50's. His most famous achievement (although by far, not the best), was to shift a large historical building a few metres towards the north, so an avenue could be built. He was so confident about his work that the day the building moved, his family was on the upper floor, waving to the crowd from the window. There is a sculpture of him on that street, right outside the building, pushing it with both arms. Well, now there are two sculptures. Now there is a cow helping him to push.

Guadalajara. December 10 2006.