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if he was, this woman was not interested. It was going to be a long five hours.

CHAPTER 3
    Despite Señora Marron’s machine-gun command of her native language, the helter-skelter passage through the maze of baggage claims and customs reminded Caroline of herding cats. At one point, it seemed as though twenty people were in twenty-five places. Caroline lost both girls once in the gauntlet of duty-free shops and Karen again in the ladies’ room.
    â€œOkay. From now on, we are inseparable, right?” Caroline linked her free arm in Annie’s. “Annie, you hook onto Karen. And we don’t let go of each other, got it?”
    â€œGot it.” Karen giggled, pointing toward the newsstand just ahead where Señora Marron was zeroing in on Blaine Madison. “But it looks like it’s too late for Daddy.”
    â€œSeñor Madison, we will keep together, did I not explain on the plane?”
    Startled from his study of the Wall Street Journal, Blaine switched from an initial scowl at the market numbers to surprise at the interruption, then on to mischief with a rakish lift of one eyebrow. “I’m waiting for my daughter, Señora. It’s also against the rules for fathers to go into the ladies’ rooms, no?”
    The señora’s huff of irritation deflated through her flame-red painted lips. With a short nod, she clapped her hands over her head and summoned the group to her, clucking Spanish like a mother hen until all her chicks, both big and small, made a straight line through the same turnstile and customs desk to the terminal pick-up area. There, puffing hard in the thin, diesel-laden mountain air, they handed over their bags for the second time that day and boarded a once-silver bus with the Virgin of Guadalupe swinging from the panoramic rearview mirror.
    After the driver slammed the gaping side of the bus shut and climbed into the faux tiger-fur-covered seat behind the wheel, a young man stood up in the front of the bus, a microphone in his hand. His black hair was as straight and unruly as it was thick, and his smile spanned the entire width of his face.
    â€œBuenas tardes, señores y señoras, and welcome to Mexico,” he said into a static-riddled public address system. “Although I am told that I look like the guy that chases the gopher in Caddyshack , I am actually just Hector Rodriguez, who will be your tour guide until you leave the country of the cactus and eagle. And this is Guillermo Josef de Aldama.”
    With a twinkle in his dark eyes, the guide—who did look a little like a Mexican version of Bill Murray—waited for all the syllables of the driver’s name to sink in before adding, “But to us, he is just Bill.”
    Wearing a tropical shirt much like the one Caroline had donned earlier that morning, Bill waved in the mirror. Then, his mustache-crowned grin fading, he eased the bus into the mainstream of through traffic.
    â€œBill will be driving us from here to the coast and . . .” Hands flying to his hips, Hector swung them in a little circle à la Macarena. “. . . Acapulco.”
    The teens on the bus erupted in a cheer.
    â€œBut we must do our history before we play, no?”
    To the collective “Awww” of his audience, Hector shrugged. “Ni modo. It can’t be helped. All play and no history makes Hector a dumb boy. Besides,” he added, “no history, no paycheck for me.” He rubbed his fingers together, his expression a mirror of mischief that could not help but elicit the goodwill of the group.
    The bus started up and around an overpass, with Hector holding on to the pole behind Bill’s seat and swinging with the flow. “But you will see that Mexico City is more than just history. Tonight we go to Banditos, the hottest dance club in town for peoples your age.”
    Again the youngsters hooted with enthusiasm, feeding the impish light in Hector’s gaze.