The bus alternately jolted forward and braked to a stop, the standing passengers swung back and forth on the safety bars and tried to keep their footing. It must be another demonstration, some of the passengers said. Others must have wondered if another cattle truck had spilled its bewildered and mooing cargo onto the roadway, as had happened about 10 days earlier. Because the bus was in the embassy row section of the Reforma, the smart money was on those damning some unseen brigade of malcontents. As the bus neared the Swiss ambasssador's residence they could see more than the usual number of cars parked along the curb and uniformed Mexico City police standing in clumps, heads down, worrying the ground with the toes of their boots, like baseball players gathered around the mound waiting for a reliever to stick another plug of chewing tobacco into his maw and in from the bullpen to go to work.
Next door is the home of the U.S. ambassador, and there was the crowd.
Chauffeurs of limousines their passengers at the gate. The less rich or diplomatically connected parked their own, and those were strung along the curb for at least two long blocks. The door to the high-compound was open and police were passing nattily dressed people through. It occurred to a visiting American sitting on the bus that the ambassador was holding his annual party to celebrate the dandiest protest of them all. Of course, there would be no unruly assembly there on the Reforma.