“I can’t talk about this right now.”
I’m not upset that Colin wants to figure out when I can take our tire in to be repaired, but I’m driving; my mental faculties are already being stretched. The roads in the city are riddled with potholes and manholes, the covers of which I have witnessed tipped open or missing completely. A pack of street dogs kept pace with traffic on my way home a few nights ago. A number of men sell bags of dinner rolls out of bicycle baskets or pick-up trucks. Buses, oh the buses, old American school buses with new paint jobs crawling up hills, belching exhaust, stopping at really poorly placed bus stops. The speed impediment of choice is speed bumps, and the nicer neighborhoods scatter them like bird feed, and I understand why when cars come careening downhill, around curves, half in their lane, half in mine. Though I’ve seen a number of “Jesus Cristo Salvo” driving school vehicles on the road, I’ve heard that one doesn’t need to bother with learning how to drive before getting a driver’s license here.
So like I said, we’ve got a tire that needs repairing–a nail wiggled itself loose and now we’ve got a temporary patch. It might not be priority #1, but it’s close.