One more 'gringo loco'

After collecting my beast of a bag—by choice, mine has no wheels—I walk through the airport, scrupulously ignoring the men who shout ‘Taxi’ at me. Only take authorized taxis, I’ve been advised. At the authorized taxi stop, I buy a $15 ticket and climb aboard a sparkling new PT Cruiser—a 2008, my driver tells me in response to my feeble ‘Me gusta su carro.’

Taxi drivers are always willing to talk, I figure, so I try some basic Spanish. It goes well, helped by his own competent English, and soon I learn he spent two years studying in New York, or at least I think that’s what he says, and that he spends six months of every year there, or something like that. I continue to ask him questions in my halting Spanish, and he humors me with answers, though he speaks my native language with much more confidence than I his. While we’re talking I mention that I plan to take a bus tomorrow to San Miguel de Allende. He tells me I could still catch one tonight—it’s about 7:45 p.m.—and save money on the hotel. Will it cost more to get a ride to the bus terminal? I ask in Spanish. In English he deadpans: “Fifty dollars,” then laughs. After a moment, I join him.

After warning me to deal only with people at the counters, my friendly cab driver drops me off. The bus terminal, a large semi-circular building with glass panes facing the street and ticket stalls of various bus companies lining the wall, is buzzing with activity. But no one, as far as I can tell, pays more than cursory attention to me, the sole gringo. After reading the large destination signs of a handful of stalls, I find one that offers a ride to San Miguel de Allende. ‘Cuanto cuesta un autobús a San Miguel,” I ask, rough Spanish for: How much for a ride to San Miguel? Two-hundred and fifty pesos, he answers in Spanish and continues at too rapid a pace for me to understand. I catch only ‘mañana’. The bus won’t leave till tomorrow. Shit.

Inwardly, I curse my taxi driver. ‘He just wanted to get rid of me, so he could find another fare,’ I think. ‘He probably knew there was no bus tonight.’ ‘But he seemed sincere... maybe he was just guessing about the bus.’ ‘Either way I’m stuck, damn it.’ As my mind cycles angrily through irrational scenarios of deception, I walk to the largest of the stalls and ask if there are any buses leaving tonight for San Miguel. They point me to the end of the semi-circle, where, to my relief, I find a company that runs a bus to San Miguel. It doesn’t leave for two hours, but I’m happy. I even recognize that, for a while there, I was just another gringo loco.