This is my taxi driver leaning over and whispering who knows what to a hardworking woman who was just trying to check his tire pressure.

I would like to be a mexican cab driver and make my own lanes and drive in a spirited manner. I won't be able to for another week or so though because my hand is injured. I cut it on an unknown object hiding in the back seat crevices. That's what I get for trying to find a seat belt. I hadn't even been looking for the thing for thirty seconds when the cab, a well broken in midsized station wagon, got pulled over by the cops.

My driver chuckled. Chuckled and then grabbed a wad of pesos from his shirt pocket and walked behind the car. I had no idea what the f was so funny since all I could think about was me, my problems, my unattended luggage, and my plane boarding. He spoke with the cop for all of twenty seconds and came back before I found the seatbelt but right after I cut my hand.

"A hundred pesos," he tells me, "ticket is about sixty dollars." I was getting used to this pesos/dollars interchangeability so I understood what he was saying - he paid the cop ten bucks to get out of paying sixty - I just didn't want him to tack it onto my bill - I wanted to be consulted for all bribery pay outs.

I probably would have been consulted if my spanish wasn't so bad. The driver was kind enough to hold a conversation with me made entirely up of names of cities and tourist attractions. What else do you really need to talk about anyway when the road is before you always?