(…) It was crazy to refuse treatment like that, just crazy. But he had. And that meant he was illegal – go to the doctor, get deported. There was a desperation in that, a gulf of sadness that took Delaney out of himself for a long moment (…). He tried to picture the man’s life – the cramped room, the bag of second-rate oranges on the streetcorner, the spade and the hoe and the cold mashed beans dug out of the forty-nine-cent can; Unrefrigerated tortillas. Orange soda. The oom-pah music with the accordions and the tinny harmonies. But what was he doing on Topanga Canyon Boulevard at one-thirty in the afternoon, out there in the middle of nowhere? Working? Taking a lunch break? And then all at once Delaney knew, and the understanding hit him with a jolt: the shopping cart, the tortillas, the trail beaten into the dirt-he was camping down there, that’s what he was doing. Camping, living. Dwelling. Making the trees and bushes and the natural habitat of Topanga State Parl into his own private domicile (…).
T.C. Boyle (The Tortilla Curtain)
PS : In 2011, for the first time in many years, data suggest that more Mexicans exited the United States than entered it.