Pedro Infante, Cielito Lindo

Moving stuff from place to place is hard, but human chains, (pardon my french) are the shit. Blankets, buckets, bottles of water, all gliding through endless pairs of hands. Coordinating, pacing, to the possible feat of accomplishing something huge rather than making them impossible if, for example, someone were unloading 12 trucks by him or herself.

As we were moving stuff along, jokes were made. Mexicans are unique in that sense. No matter what we're doing, or what the situation is, some of us just manage to crack a joke and people start to laugh. Whether it was because some of the mats were wet, or because some people were too slow, no one was saved from humor yesterday. The mechanics were easy: someone started it along the line, others just built upon it, and the result was a constant burst of good energy passed on. Hoorays were in order as some shiploads ended, food was offered. "Who wants a beer?", someone yelled. Of course, some yelled back, "Us!!" Giggling, they were given water instead.

Cheers were made, national spirit arose. Cielito Lindo, was sung by all of us as colorful, soft mats were moved from hand to hand: From someone far away, to us, from us, to someone else. That I believe, is the root of all healing.