.

No es bueno.

After the van finally turned down another street and my hands relaxed their death grip on the seat, the driver stopped; he had finally overtaken his quarry and he stopped! He opened the door, grabbed some change out of the change box, said (in near perfect English, which made me jump) "Wait a minute, I'll be right back!"

And then he left. Jumped off the bus. Left the door open, the lights on, the engine running, and the tall white kid inside.

I felt like a target, maybe just a little... But he was gone for five minutes, and he came back with a brown paper bag. I didn't question it, I was just happy it was him coming back; I kept having visions of someone else jumping on and driving away, and I wasn't quite sure if I was going to have to fight someone or if I was gonna get stabbed.

So we were on our way again, and this time, he talked to me. He asked me, again in nearly perfectly accented English, where I was from. I moved up and sat beside him (certain buses here have a seat in front of the entrance stairs, right in front of the windshield; this was one of them). He asked me a total of three questions in English (again, very very good English) "Where are you from?" "Are you a student here in Merida?" and "Do you like it here?"
This was, as I found out, the extent of his English. Perfect, yes.

Expansive... No.

But that didn't stop our conversation. Had I been here five weeks ago or six weeks ago, had this happened when first I arrived, there is no way we could have spoken; now, while my fluency is still far from perfect, I was able to hold a relatively intelligent conversation about everything from age and likes/dislikes to careers and politics (he was interested in Barack Obama!). We talked about family and girls and friends and languages... Meanwhile, I'm still on my trip to the Centro, and we're getting closer. We talked about school; he graduated from three different colleges here in Mexico in three different degrees; one was business, one was literature and one was, if I have this right, commercial photography. I'm almost one million percent positive that's what he said, but who knows. Anyway, that's not important; I had learned from the age question exchange that he had me trumped; 40 to 22. I thought that with three degrees he should maybe not be driving a bus, but he informed me that he makes as much if not MORE driving the bus than he would if he were able to obtain a position in any of his three disciplines.

That seems just wrong.

His name was Maolo, and I'll never forget how fantastically nice and friendly and intelligent he was, once I get past his leaving me in a lit-up bus in an un lit barrio.

We finally got to the Centro, but kept talking for a good ten or fifteen minutes, until his wife came up and yelled at him to hurry up and clock out. He grinned at me and said (another English phrase, one we commonly use in fact!)

"Women, eh?"

I liked Maolo.

I walked the four blocks to the Gran Plaza, the main square of El Centro. It wasn't nearly as crowded as it normally is, but, still, a good amount of people floated around. I found my friends at a bar, waiting for me; we left and they decided to go to... Another bar!

Me and Leah (a girl from the group) decided that that just wasn't necessary, instead opting to walk around for a bit. We walked back to the Catedral, the giant cathedral ion the Gran Plaza, but it was closed. We walked around in the square where we saw this guy doing these spray paint pieces; I have to show them to you somehow, because they are AMAZING. He uses spray paint, occasional stencils, napkins, his hands and a small stucco knife to create these stunning landscapes or star scapes; ocean views and cascading waterfalls... It was just amazing. I have pictures of the same guy actually, taken a couple weeks ago in one of my albums, but I can't remember if i Put it up or where... Oh well. I'll get some pics of these things.

We watched him for a while, making his art and selling it, until Carolyn and her visiting mother and brother found us. They just got here last week, and they're here til Monday I think; they don't want to leave either, and I think they might try to change their flight.

We walked around with them, talking about home (They're from Cinci!) and just enjoying the cool night air, listening to the music from the various cantinas and street performers, just... Existing, i guess. It was very tranquil, very peaceful. We found a little shop that sold some sorbet, and we each got a little cup. As we sat outside with our various flavors (orange, chocolate, strawberry, lime and one that tasted insanely similar to fresh baked cinnamon buns), a guy came up to us holding a saw.

Out of nowhere, in the middle of the night in a foreign country, five white people are approached by a local wielding a freaking saw.

But, as I am here writing this, I am pleased to inform you I was not hacked to bits, nor attacked in any way; instead, he produced from the depths of his many shirts (as I'm sure he loves seeing the uncomfortable expressions of Gringos) a nylon strung bow. He then proceeded to play "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" on a saw, not missing a note or pitch change. It sounded perfect... After our mouths closed from their dropped state, he played Yesterday by the Beatles, again inducing our lower jaws to hang slack.

This guy was fantastic. I've heard the saw used as a musical instrument before, I've even heard them in concerto, but never as cleanly and perfectly pure as this. It was fantastic. Then we mugged him and ran away.

No, I jest, we tossed some coins in his hat and applauded so much he blushed and I think said "