One thing I liked about Mexico, other than the 88-and-breezy weather, the swim-up bars, the leche-heavy ice cream at dinner and lunch, the Habanas I did or did not sneak through customs, and reading the hopelessly Borat-esque Cancun Today newspaper over breakfast, was not having to carry my monthly train pass around for a week.
Mind you, the train pass doesn’t actually weigh anything; it’s only made of low-grade cardboard. But it occupies the window slot in my wallet, which used to be occupied by the 15-month terror who staggers around our family room in search of Matchbox cars.
Without having to flash that train pass twice a day, I could return Little G to his rightful place in the window slot. And should I be leafing through my wallet, in search of that last peso (who am I kidding, everyone took greenbacks), any onlooker would see the smiling, happy tyke in my life–not a drab gray train pass that told the onlooker that I boarded a belching steel dinosaur ten times a week.
Oh well, back to normal here in New York, with Little G hidden under the pass again. Sorry, buddy.
