I caught a Lyft to the airport. The driver was young, he seemed rattled, maybe he’d had a long night driving. He spent twenty minutes sending and receiving voice messages with a woman, both speaking in a language I didn’t identify, possibly Armenian.
We stopped at a red light. His conversation partner hadn’t replied for a bit. He asked where I was going. Southern Mexico, I said, an article for a travel magazine about farmers and regenerative travel.
“I’ve been to Mexico,” he said. “Twice, for girls. It’s like Thailand, just cheaper, know what I mean?”
He didn’t say “girls,” but this is a family newsletter.
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