Still in Mexico, Stephen is coming Monday. Today I was driving when I was pulled over by the local police for making an illegal turn. Ah oh, so many years coming here and I have never been stopped. I was guilty. I was worried. My name is not on the car's registration, and I left my driver’s license at home. The officers were professional in every way.
At home in the USA, I never carry a wallet—but tradition has me carrying a cracked old wallet full of junk in my man bag whenever I am on an international trip.
The police wanted my registration and license. I pulled out my bag and dug in for the dusty old wallet and pretended to look for my license, which I knew was home. But there in the bottom of this stack of 20-year old credit, Costco, insurance and Delta FF cards, I found my long missing 1998 driver’s license. I smiled at the officer. I thought I had fooled him.
He looked at the card and according to Google Translate, he said, “Sir, I will accept your license as you are a guest in our country and it appears to be you. But, you might want to get an update upon your return to your home.”
I said ‘Muy grande gracias.’ I hope that’s exactly how we Americans would treat a clueless visiting Mexican.