For those of you unaccustomed to a foreign country, this may come as a surprise, but to those familiar with them, please let me know if this strikes a chord. As I pull into the Soriana parking lot, I am greeted by a man in a bright orange vest of approximately 75-95 years of age (the man, not the vest). He is there for no other purpose than to give a large toothless smile, provide a pretense of vehicular protection (remember his age), and to greet you for a second time on the way out in hopes for a propina (tip, or in this case, handout, considering a tip is generally rendered for services performed, whereas this man's services, real and imaginary, are neither performed nor appreciated).
Now, a parking lot by any other name, is still a parking lot, until you travel overseas. Then you find out that a parking lot is also a restaurant, a bank, a strip mall, and more recently in Mexico, where the shootings and random acts of violence are on the rise, a heavily patrolled war-zone. Not only are guard towers a regular sight, but S.W.A.T. teams, armed soldiers, and patrol cars are considered common fare and a comfort to the Sunday afternoon shopper.
