The Fairy Godmother and the Uber Car. Mexico.

I had arrived at the airport and it was time to make my way to the city. I was glad to have downloaded the Uber app before leaving and once outside in the cooler-than-the-sauna-like-air-of-the-coast, I looked for a driver.

I am consistently enchanted by the way this works. How is it that there is pretty much always a driver a few minutes away from wherever I am? And how is it that I can actually see the little cartoon car get closer and closer to me? It feels like a bit of urban magic and it delights the heck out of me.

Waiting by the curb, I get a message from Dario letting me know that he is almost there - but I already knew that, thank you little cartoon car - and that when we meet, I need to get into the FRONT seat. Also, that if anyone asks, I am to say that I am his godmother.
Godmother.

Now that’s weird.

Thoughts of Sleeping Beauty come to my mind and I shoo them away.

Focus, Laura, focus. But still, godmother.

Once settled into the front seat and out of the airport, Dario explains to me that there is a law against Uber drivers picking up passengers from the airport. “We can bring them, but not pick them up,” he explains. “That’s reserved for the taxis.” He then goes on to explain that when he picks up people at the airport he is constantly dodging the police (throws his chin at the police car in the lane next to us for good measure) and that this is why he asked me to sit up front and just in case, pretend that I am his godmother. Which to me was a strange choice of relatives but what do I know?

Now we’re driving and it’s going to be a while and well, I am sitting in the front seat, like a good godmother would. I guess we’re going to have a conversation because what the heck do you do if you’re in the front seat?

I summon my inner extrovert - who was really looking forward to quiet time in the backseat - and ask him how long he has been driving for Uber.

“Just two weeks,” he said. “I had the car sitting there and so I thought I would make a little money once I clocked out of my regular job.”

We still have a long way to go and I know how to do this. “What is your other job?” I ask.
“I am a police officer” is his response.

I look at him. Surely he’s kidding. Didn’t he just tell me that he was regularly dodging the police cars? I am waiting for a smile, for a “Just kidding!” but nah. Eyes on the road. Serious as heck.

I ponder the irony. I try to say nothing.

I fail.

“So, are you saying that you spend half of your day being a policeman and half of your day avoiding policemen?”

It’s his turn to ponder. It takes him a moment or two.

Then he laughs and turns to me and bursts out: “I had never thought of that!” He thinks it’s hysterical. I can tell he’s going to be telling this joke over cervezas later on.


Me, I’m baffled.
The rest of the ride goes by smoothly and as I get out of the car, I am once again enchanted/shocked/awakened by this life south of the border.

Godmother, though?