The bullet hole is carefully preserved with a brass washer around it. But wait a minute. So, astonished exclamations all around, and we meet Don Miguel. And I believed him. On Sunday March 11 George and I headed out.
Coincidences are the bread and butter of Mexico.
Then we ran into Rafael, a man we met a year ago when he worked at the Trotsky Museum, which he abandoned for a life as a writer. I'm set to see Marcos on horseback. Traffic has been cordoned off. The streets are filling with people, like us walking toward some astonishing vision. Be-feathered Indians dance to drumming.