My trip to the Mitla ruins started in a taxi collectivo, a group taxi, headed to Santa Maria del Tule. I had walked from my home to the nearby periferico, a busy semi-highway that curves around nearly half of the city’s center, and after waiting some time for a bus to my destination, hopped aboard the umpteenth passing group taxi headed that way. I’m no expert, but given that there were four or five in traffic every time the light turned red, I’d say that there is a market glut.
As I closed the door and snapped my seatbelt on, the only time I would be able to do so in three taxi trips that day, I realized to my chagrin the taxi’s stereo was blasting the California alt-rock group Greenbay. At first I wondered it was for the benefit of Americans like myself, but as he honked to signal empty seats at every pedestrian we passed, few of whom appeared to be tourists, this theory was swiftly discarded. I might have asked him if he liked the group, with the hope of jumping into a conversation, but sitting in the back as I was—the front seat was occupied what appeared to be his wife and primary-grade-age son—I would have had to nearly shout over the music, his bellowing horn and the surrounding belches of traffic.
So, sitting silent in the back with my thoughts, I began to fancy that he was listening to American pop music to improve his English, hoping to land a career in an area without such legions of competitors. But then the song changed and, though I was doing my best to shut out the English lyrics, I couldn’t help but listen as the opening lyrics of Blink 182’s ‘Family Reunion’ blasted through the cab: “Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, tits, fart, terd, and twat—I fucked your mom.” I looked at my driver. His son was playing with his outstretched finger and he wore a smile that was oblivious to the profanities issuing from the taxi’s speakers. I didn’t say anything.
At a traffic light on the long, straight main avenue of Santa Maria del Tule, my driver stopped to let me out. I paid him what I thought was owed for the ride, opened the door, and before I could get out, he handed me 2 pesos. The ten-minute ride had cost me $0.80.
As I closed the door and snapped my seatbelt on, the only time I would be able to do so in three taxi trips that day, I realized to my chagrin the taxi’s stereo was blasting the California alt-rock group Greenbay. At first I wondered it was for the benefit of Americans like myself, but as he honked to signal empty seats at every pedestrian we passed, few of whom appeared to be tourists, this theory was swiftly discarded. I might have asked him if he liked the group, with the hope of jumping into a conversation, but sitting in the back as I was—the front seat was occupied what appeared to be his wife and primary-grade-age son—I would have had to nearly shout over the music, his bellowing horn and the surrounding belches of traffic.
So, sitting silent in the back with my thoughts, I began to fancy that he was listening to American pop music to improve his English, hoping to land a career in an area without such legions of competitors. But then the song changed and, though I was doing my best to shut out the English lyrics, I couldn’t help but listen as the opening lyrics of Blink 182’s ‘Family Reunion’ blasted through the cab: “Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, tits, fart, terd, and twat—I fucked your mom.” I looked at my driver. His son was playing with his outstretched finger and he wore a smile that was oblivious to the profanities issuing from the taxi’s speakers. I didn’t say anything.
At a traffic light on the long, straight main avenue of Santa Maria del Tule, my driver stopped to let me out. I paid him what I thought was owed for the ride, opened the door, and before I could get out, he handed me 2 pesos. The ten-minute ride had cost me $0.80.
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