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In downtown Mexico City on the side of one of the main Plazas namely the Zocolo sits an old musician. He is purched on a small wooden stool almost propped up against a grey stone wall. Next to the wall in the background stands a metal grill protecting a kept private garden. The musician is an ageing local dressed in a blue shiny puffer jacket jeans and an off-white shirt. His hair has been cut close and is grey at the front and sides. As he holds the fairly worn trumpet up to his lips his cheeks inflate and the wrinkles and expression lines become apparent in his dark face. His large yet agile fingers lie over the buttons of the trumpet tinkling away. As locals pass by they hear the local classics that this Mexican is playing.