Aside from Canada and perhaps Iceland*, all cultures have redeeming qualities. While Brits excel at misplaced snobbery and snotty sarcasm, I’ve rarely heard them described as "skilled" drivers. Combine that with the directional lobotomy of learning to drive on the left side of the road, and it's clear: James had overcome staggering odds. He was displaying authentic skill when snaking his power steeringless Combi through Chumula’s tight, steep streets!
Any stereotypical NASCAR fan would envy James’s reading ability--while publically embracing ignorance and pronouncing James's wealth of literacy (readin’, ritin’, and...rithma...addin') as "faggy".** Now, imagine their horror (and repeated flurry of the word “fag”) when they see that he also boasts a superior mastery of the temperamental clutch and idiosyncratic gears! He displayed both skills flawlessly, in reverse, while liberating us from the extortionist's inclined parking lot on Sunday.
James knew his Combi. James understood Mexico’s roadways. James was our captain. No one even suggested another helmsman until days later, when midnight fatigue corrupted judgment and our new navigator's assignment ended with a close encounter with a semi!
James knew his Combi. James understood Mexico’s roadways. James was our captain. No one even suggested another helmsman until days later, when midnight fatigue corrupted judgment and our new navigator's assignment ended with a close encounter with a semi!
