"It was all very dramatic."

Meet Berkeley, the newest member of our team.

She just arrived from Argentina.

Last week, we hopped in a carro publico and headed for IKEA. 

Yes, there is an IKEA here. And yes, you can buy Swedish meatballs "fo' five dolla'."

But, back to Berk. 

The poor thing. 

She had only arrived 2 days before, and I was already trying to cram all 5 feet 8 inches of her into this tiny shell of a vehicle.

Well, really, Berkeley plus myself, the driver and 4 other Dominicans. 

In these situations (the carro publico ones), I sometimes like to pretend that we're playing "Sardines."

It makes the squished-in-feeling a little easier to cope with.

And, since we're all jumbled in together, it makes me feel like I'm winning the game. 

I like that feeling. 

So.

There we were.

Sardine-like, bouncing along, sweating, practically sitting on each others laps. 

When the woman one Dominican to the right of me asked to exit the car. 

(Well, technically she asked it twice. 

The merengue beat from the speakers was too loud to hear her the first time.)

And mi manita Berkeley obliged. 

She grips the handle.

She creaks open the passenger side door.

She gathers her bags.

She puts one foot on the ground.

Vrrrrooooooom! Clip!

A motorcycle clipped the door.

A motorcycle driving on the sidewalk in downtown Santo Domingo.

I ask you.

He crashed to the ground. 

His bike landed on top of his leg. 

Our driver hopped out of his car. 

Actually, we all hopped out of the car. 

The woman had to leave, remember? 

But, then we quickly hopped right back in. 

The motorcyclist gestured, dramatically.

The driver answered back, dramatically.

The motorcyclist lifted up the leg...of his pant.

We look, unsuccessfully, for blood.

The motorcyclist reached into his back pocket and whipped out a tiny notebook and a pen.

Like the notebook and the pen had just been waiting for something like this to happen.

The driver dared him to write down the license plate. 

He is not scared. He knows people with money.

The motorcyclist wrote down the license plate. He pointed again to the skin on his shin.

Another gesture from our driver.

He jumped back in the car.

We drove off. 

Dramatically.

El fin.

xoxo,

kme