One of the things that really impressed me about my wife was that on our first date, she was right on time. Having gotten to know her better over the years, I have come to the conclusion that it must have been some kind of mistake, she must have thought that the agreed upon time was really an hour earlier. Not that I am complaining . Much. Actually, I have grown to like the relaxed Latin American view of time. I appreciate being able to show up good and late for my in-law’s birthday parties, graduation ceremonies and early Sunday mornig menudo feasts. The truth is I have never been a particularly punctual person, as dozens of former employers can attest. But I do like to arrive at the theatre before the movie starts, which during our courtship and dating phase posed some real problems. I would try so hard to get to the show on time, but my plans were always thwarted by last minute tag alongs (“My mother and three brothers are coming with us. They’ll be here very soon.”), gastronomical emergencies (“I have hunger. I feel faint. Let us stop and ask for ceviche and fresh waters”) or ugent and important sidetracks (“My older sister lives near to the cinema. I must give to her my bean salad recipe.”) Things got to the point where I was resorting to devious schemes such as lying about the movie schedule, or pretending to want to see her choice, El Hombre de Caballos (the Horse Whisperer), while secretly hoping to catch Austin Powers an hour later. To no avail. I outsmarted only myself. We arrived too late for the comedy and ended up sitting through the last half hour of the romantic melodrama, then watching the whole thing again. Oh, the things we do for love! On the bright side, some of the movies we saw were so bad that missing half an hour was a mercy. For example, los Rugrats. Being late for a mediocre movie is one thing. Being late for an overbooked international flight at the height of tourist season is quite another. Which nearly happened to my usually unperturbable old drinking buddy Kurt not too long ago. He has been coming down to Mazatlan twice a year for some time. Kurt is an orderly, punctual person who has worked for the same firm for over twenty years ( hence the generous vacation time ). He comes here to relax, unwind, take off his wristwatch, turn off his cellphone and pager, and ingest enough inexpensive seafood and cervezas to offset the cost of the trip. Little did he know what he was getting himself into when he invited my wife and myself to lunch before heading to the airport for his return flight home to the rat race. The shrimp were divine,the

panoramic ocean view sublime, the ambiance charming, the conversation scintillating and the beers so cold and delicious, it was not easy to tear ourselves away. We let the clock run way down before asking for the bill. At precisely that moment my wife leaped into action and flagged down an old family friend who just happened to be driving by in his yellow taxi. ( For those unfamiliar with the taxi system here: the yellow taxis can only carry passengers from the airport into town. They are strictly prohibited from carrying anyone from town to the airport, or around town. Conversely, any non-yellow taxi is only allowed to take passengers from town to the airport, not back. Go it? You cannot, for example, ride out to meet someone’s flight, and return in the same cab. These rules are zealously enforced. Naturally, taxistas take a very dim view of anyone encroaching on their piece of the airport pie). When a non-yellow taxi noticed a yellow taxi loading gringos with suitcases, he came to a screeching halt and demanded to know just what in the confounded heck he was up to. Our friend whispered that he would drive around the block and come back for us. By this time, Kurt was not exactly panicking, but I think it’s safe to say that he was very eager to grab the next passing hack and pay whatever it cost to make the plane before takeoff. Still, my wife is adamantly and persuasively frugal to a fault, and she insisted we couldn’t insult her friend by spurning his offer of a free lift, so we waited a few more precious minutes until the yellow taxi came back and we furtively boarded. We were cruising down the road congratulating ourselves on all the money we were saving, when that persistent and annoying little non-yellow taxi pulled up alongside us. He must have gotten on his radio, because we were suddenly surrounded by a swarm of angry non-yellow taxis, honking, gesticulating, and ultimately forcing us to the side of the road. As we sheepishly removed ourselves from the apologetic yellow taxi, my wife whistled at a passing ranchobus headed for Concordia, planning to pay a few pesos, disembark at the airport exit on the highway, then wing it the last few kilometers from there. Kurt was not going for it. By now, I would imagine that all he wanted was a calm, peaceful and, above all, legal journey to the airport. I can’t wait to hear his version of the adventure when he arrives in July. The last I saw of him, he was getting into a non-yellow taxi, like he should have in the first place if he’d known better. Me? I was running after the ranchobus while my wife was leaning out the window shouting at me, “hurry yourself!” Advice she might consider following herself once in a while.