Uber driver numero uno, Ronaldo, couldn’t find the pickup spot.
Uber driver numero dos, Arturo, couldn’t find me either.
Uber driver numero tres, Jose, found me
Jose no habla Ingles.
Miguel ... I may as well go back to using my high school nickname, what with all the Latino Uber drivers I’ve been getting ... habla un poco Espanol. Badly, and mainly to negotiate the acquisition of tequila and beer.
When I got into high school in 1957, Mom, even then gorging on stacks of New Yorkers, insisted I take Latin. Which I did for two years. But then, knowing I would be moving to New York City at the first opportunity, switched to Spanish. Also, West Side Story was all the rage and I knew that my Maria was waiting, prolly in a fifth floor walk up on the West Side.
So what that the college-bound kids were taking French. Miguel took Spanish and, 60 years down the road, found a new use for it.
The GPS sucked, so Jose and I fumbled our way a mi casa and bade one another adios.
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