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. I felt sorry for myself and wondered why I had ever left God's country.
'I wept that I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.' I don't know who said that first, but it is part of our cultural heritage and should be.
It happened to me.
Not quite halfway, where Miguel Alemбn crosses Calle Aquiles Serdan at the fountain, we encountered a street beggar. He looked up at us and grinned, held up a handful of pencils -'looked up' because he was riding a little wheeled dolly; he had no feet.
Sergeant Roberto called him by name and flipped him a coin; the beggar caught it in his teeth, flipped it into his pocket, called out, 'Gracias!'- and turned his attention to me.
I said quickly, 'Margrethe, will you please explain to him that I have no money whatever.'
'Yes, Alec.' She squatted down, spoke with him eye to Eye. Then she straightened up. 'Pepe says, to tell you, that's all right; he'll catch you someday when you are rich.'
'Please tell him that I will be back. I promise.'
She did so. Pepe grinned at me, threw Margrethe a kiss, and saluted the Sergeant and me. We went on.
And I stopped being so finicky careful to coddle my feet. Pepe had forced me to reassess my situation. Ever since I had learned that the Mexican government did not regard rescuing me as a privilege but expected me to pay for it, I had been feeling sorry for myself, abused, put upon. I had been muttering to myself that my compatriots who complained that all Mexicans were bloodsuckers, living on gringo tourists, were dead right! Not Roberto and the Lieutenant, of course - but the others
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