Abrazos gratis

The past three months I have been involved in an epic war of good versus evil, right versus wrong, Mary versus Apple. Having just fought and lost the battle of Reforma 222 the previous day, I schlepped back to the site of my defeat for round two, armed with a CS code and belly full of tasty treat to encourage patience with the same Mexican tech support solider that I had but 24 hours prior verbally assaulted to no avail.

The battle continues to wage but I have faith it will one day end in my favor. At least it better.

I exited the three towered mall onto Reforma and into the street crowd of shoppers, suits and cyclists. Back to Insurgentes Metro for me with no detours, no stops, no mercy. But just before I reached the turn at Calle Génova I noticed the Cultural fair tents were open even though it was 7 p.m. on a Monday. Odd. I had biked over on Sunday at 2 p.m., the height of the Mexican lunch hour, to find the tents closed. I was hungry but no pay de queso or barbecue for me, I had thought. Not that the particular food mattered. I just liked the idea of treating Reforma, one of the biggest avenues in D.F., like your neighbor's backyard with the grill fired up spewing a charred smell from the burned black bits of marinated meat that inevitability fall between the grate and a stranger that looks like your great aunt offering you exotically named deserts or pasta salad (though no lettuce is ever involved) swimming in mayonnaise paste and does anyone need anything from the store? cause I have Jim on the phone and actually, could you tell him to bring some coleslaw if he could because we just ran out and the kids are fussing for more slaw dogs.

But the event lost its luster without the sun on my back and my bike at my will and my friends by my side. So back to the metro, I guessed. But I wanted, always want, a mental piece, a permanent photo map, of the avenue: its art and people and vendors hustling about the road that I am sure I do not go to nearly enough. People lingered around tents and crosswalks and as the light dimmed I should have turned back but was met by a 20-something-year-old-artistic-type-guy holding cardboard with sharpie scratchings that read: "Abrazos gratis" or "Free hugs." This is not the first time that I have seen such a sign but for one reason or another my heart swam through ice that melted when a woman from the crosswalk went shamelessly into his embrace.

Watching him, asking for nothing but, instead, offering kindness to strangers, a spot of happiness in all the dirty, disheartening events that may or may not be your day, well, it got me.

I wanted to tell him. I wanted a hug. But I turned away and walked pensively past the perpetual crowd on Calle Génova and towards Insurgentes metro.

I thought about how I had judged an author but a month ago for a similar act. He had told the story, given the background, done all the research but when the time came for him to act, he gave up halfway through. I had scoffed as I set the book down thinking, what is the point of telling this story with that kind of ending?

Good question.