taxi

On Saturday night, I went to the movie theatre. In addition to having to explain which of the six showings of Hombre de Acero I wanted to see, I forgot that I also would need to select the specific seat I would sit in. Seeing I was a bit slow on the uptake, the ticket seller asked, “You know this movie is in Spanish? Is that ok?” I laughed and offered a blushing, “Si.”

I found my way to my seat: G10. It was right in front of two teenage girls that repeatedly kicked my seat and right next to a large man who was hungry (but forbidden snacks repeatedly by his girlfriend). He was bored with the movie and kept huffing gusts of air in my direction. I couldn’t doing anything about his condition and desperately wished he’d snort in another direction.

The movie was no problem to understand. And, it promised a happy ending, so it wasn’t too scary for me. Being in Mexico made me realize that Superman is American; though alien, he was raised in the United States; he is a part of our culture. Do other countries have super heroes?

After the movie, I grabbed a few groceries at the supermarket in the same complex and then tried to find a taxi home. Battling the more aggressive and strategic (at one point they surrounded me with family members) Mexican families also trying to head home, I was defeated and, frankly, a little scared. All of the taxis coming in were dark; they were taking no one more for the night. Someone would come, they promised. But I knew I was not fast enough and was outnumbered, so I headed off in the dark. I waved at dark taxis. I begged into the window of one. Finally, I convinced a clearly tired man I was desperate, and he took me home, charging me the regular fare. I was so impressed and grateful, I tipped him the same as the fare.

As he was about to return the money, thinking I didn’t understand the cost, I thanked him heartily for being so good and so fair. He smiled, helping me with my bag and peeking in it to see the grapes, bread, bottles, and boxes he’d helped me to carry home.

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