Speedy Gonzalez

There’s a long list of things I’m not good at. And while driving is not on that list, driving below the posted speed limit is probably in the top ten. I think it’s pretty obvious that since I’m a better driver than most, I should be allowed to drive fast. Roads should have different speed limits for differently skilled people. If you’re a moron you have to drive more slowly. If you’re over 65 you have to drive more slowly. If you’re a woman… then I’m sure you’re an excellent driver and have never made a mistake behind the wheel in your life and could probably drive circles around Mario Andretti. And I promise I wrote the previous sentence of my own volition and was in no way threatened by the LR or any other woman in my life.

Unfortunately, policemen tend not to agree with my stance. Despite my heavy foot, before we moved out here I had not gotten a speeding ticket in five years. And believe me, it wasn’t for lack of trying. There were moments where I neared warp speeds on the New Jersey Turnpike. Out here though, my out of state (on the U.S. side) or out of country plates double as a great big giant speed trap target. I got two in the first two months we were here, but in what I would consider dubious circumstances. Thankfully they were both on the U.S. side.

Cue the ominous music.

Enter stage left Mexican Cop on motorcycle emerging from speed trap.
Now, I obviously have no problem admitting when I’m speeding, but there were two cars going faster than me on road one (the road that goes to the bridge to the U.S.) when the motor bike cop pulled out behind me and turned his siren on. I pulled over, put on my dutiful apologetic cop face, and mixed it in with a heavy helping of confused American gestures. I wasn’t really worried, it’s Mexico after all, and everything’s cheap. How expensive could a ticket really be?

He spoke a little English, which made things easier, and did the normal cop thing, telling me how fast I was going and blah blah blah. Then we got to the problem. Apparently in Mexico if you get a ticket they take your drivers license until you pay. The cop was very polite, and even showed me the other drivers licenses he collected that day as proof that he wasn’t scamming me or anything. I don’t think I need to explain why this could be a giant problem for me. But I will anyway. First, I was driving towards the U.S. where the possibility of being stopped by CBP (that’s Customs and Border Patrol for all you uninitiated folk) going either into the U.S. or back to Mexico later existed. When being asked for ID, saying “The Mexican traffic cop took my license” ranks slightly below, “The Notorious D.O.G ate it.” Second, even if I got back home without a problem, there was the problem of getting my license back. Not to impugn the Mexican police who I’m sure are all fine and upstanding individuals, but we do live in a place that leads the world in murders, and of those murders over ninety percent go unsolved. So my faith in getting my license back if I let it out of my sight was not exactly strong.

I was in a bind. I wasn’t about to give the admittedly very nice and understanding policeman my license, and he wasn’t about to just let me drive off without a ticket…or so he thought. It turns out that the LR’s job is not without its perks (it better have perks, I mean they made us move down here so they have a lot of making up to do). For example, they have a roving security team to make sure that their employees are safeish. So I very politely told the cop that I needed permission before I could give him my license, and asked if I could call my employer (not technically my employer but whatever he didn’t know wasn’t going to get me arrested). He said sure, and I called the LR, who called the security people who were dispatched to come rescue me (and by rescue I mean politely explain to the policeman that there was no way in hell he could have my license).

At this point I suspect that Senor Policeman decided that I was not really worth his time. Without too much more fuss, he handed me my license, told me to slow down, shook my hand and drove off. So, Mexico isn’t all bad, in fact it marks the first time that I have ever talked my way out of a ticket.