I resurface from the underground and run eager to leave the stagnant air of the subway behind me. I forgot how toxic the first inhale of Mexico City’s outside is. Disappointed, I walk with the nose pointing towards the street, when the invisible fragrance of grilled corn reaches my nostrils. I’m already in the contamination free zone and before reaching home I pass through the market. When I lower my hand holding the cob, its smell leaves space to its contenders. The perfume of the flowers melts with the stench of the raw meat, this is the Mexican contradiction.