“Taxi.” I stopped a tourist cab before it could drive off. “Habla inglés?” I asked the driver, a man in his fifties with a mustache. His head was cleanly shaven. His shirt looked like it had seen better days.

He looked from me to my suitcases, then nodded. “Un poquito. Where do you want to go?”

Sweat trickled down my back as I took my time checking the license on the right window, the taxi number plate to see if it was an official cab. The last thing I needed was to get into a pirated one, or worse yet, be kidnapped and held for ransom. But the taxi looked as official as they came.

I handed him a piece of paper with the address of the hotel and what I would be willing to pay for the drive, mentally thanking the shop assistant for her advice to settle for a price before getting into any taxi in Mexico.

The driver looked the paper over, then nodded again. “Muy bien, pero le advierto que ahora mismo hay mucho tráfico por allí.” When he saw my confused expression, he explained. “Lots of traffic here, but I take a shortcut.”