Inevitably, the conversation went on like it had countless times before, in some variation or another, inside every city car or taxi coming from the airport that sped past the village by the highway on its way to the beach.
"How can they stand the heat? Even in the shade it must be around 40 degrees..."
"They're used to it," someone would surely reply, eventually, perhaps after a discussion went on at some length about the conditions of the poor indigenous sitting outside in shacks of broken wood, or who stood by the road hawking aguas frias or coconuts to the tourists.
They're used to it. They get used to it. They've lived just this way all their lives, they don't know any different. They like hot weather, even! They can't stand the slightest whiff of cold air. They love it.
Ed Sortoson stared out the window as his wife's shrill voice filled the compartment of the small taxi. Ed wondered for a moment over the taxi driver's level of English, and then put it out of his mind forever. He was suddenly overwhelmingly carsick.
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