Nevertheless, the outcome was what I’d expected. This was Mexico after all, and just about every cop could be bought. Some actively searched out bribes. I’d learned this firsthand my first week in the country. A cop pulled me over on some empty stretch of road and told me I’d been speeding, which I hadn’t been. He took my driver’s license as a “guarantee” and said I could either get it back on the spot if I paid him one hundred fifty American dollars, or I could follow him to the police station, where I would have to pay two hundred fifty. It was clearly a scam, I got pissed off, and tried to swipe my license from his clipboard. He accused me of being aggressivo and doubled the fine. We continued to argue until I gave up. I paid him one hundred sixty—all I had on me—which he was more than happy to accept.

I closed the Porsche’s trunk with a heavy thud, slung my daypack over my shoulder, and went to the docks.

5

The boardwalk along the canal was filled with people and a general air of festivity. Gondola-type barges called trajineras lined the bank for as far as I could see. Most were the size of a large van, featuring a roof for shade, open-aired windows, and tables and chairs for picnicking. They were painted a spectrum of colors, ornately decorated, and for some reason bore female names.

I scanned the crowd for Pita—I had little trouble seeing over all the dark-haired heads—but I didn’t spot her anywhere. I wasn’t too concerned. I had my cell phone. If I didn’t bump into her sooner or later, I could call her, or she could call me.

I started along the boardwalk. Merchants called to me from their market stalls, hawking wares that ranged from handicrafts and T-shirts to embroidered clothing, linens, sandals, and other souvenirs.

A walking vendor fell into step beside me. He was short and wore white pants and a white shirt over his padded frame. Smiling, he asked what I was looking for.

“My friends,” I said.

“You want watch? Rolex? You want Rolex?”

“No, thanks.”

“What you want? Marijuana? Pills? I get you anything.”

I shook my head, pulling away from him.

“Hey, man!” he called after me. “Girls? You want girls? I give you my sister! Cheap!”

Another fifty yards on I came to two old women selling banana-leaf tamales. I realized I hadn’t eaten anything all morning, and I bought two, one stuffed with chicken and salsa, the other with refried beans.

I found a bench to sit on and dug into the tamales. Two of the best things about living in Mexico, I believed, were the weather and the food. It was pretty much spring-like year round with zero humidity, and the greasy street meat was made with crack or something it was so addictive.