I caught a cab on Avenida Reforma this morning and immediately fell into a conversation about world economics with the taxista. We got onto the subject because yet another protest was making its way down the avenue, blocking our way. "Nuestra ciudad de protesta," the taxista said-- "Our city of protests"... "We even protest when there's too much sun or too much rain. Actually, the politicians would be more likely to do something about the weather than our real problems."

We talked about the ways people around the world make money. We talked about poverty, class divisions, how the rich need the poor to maintain their wealth, how the poor have so little power. We talked about the things people sell on the street corners of the world: counterfeit goods, water, gum, phone cards, newspapers, sex... we came up with a mighty list, and as he dropped me off in front of the immigration office, we agreed that we couldn't solve the world's money problems... "we can hardly solve our own," he said, as I handed him the fare and a generous tip.

On the way back home, this time in a different taxi, the driver and I are silent. Stopped at one red light, a child approaches the open window of the cab and asks for a coin. At the other window, a man holding a gasoline-soaked torch blows fire out of his mouth. His white t-shirt is grimy; everything about him looks dusty, tired. The circles under his eyes are a dark black, the color of coal, and it's hard to tell if they're made by the fumes of his trade or whether they're just an unfortunate part of his features. He blows three or four tongues of fire across the hood of the taxi and begins to weave his way through the cars, his free hand extended for some coins in appreciation. No one fills his hand before the light turns green. He arches his back and then pitches forward, doubled over in a body-wracking cough that ends in an energetic spit. Add one more profession to the list.