A little car with a big shadow. A car that’s been places. A car that’s seen things. They call it the bochito in Mexico. In other places you might know it as the Volkswagen Beetle, but once it crosses the borders it picks up a soul, maybe even a past life or two. The bochito doesn’t hurry. Never did. It hums along like it’s got all the time in the world, like time is just another dusty road stretching out past the horizon. You’ll find it painted taxi green in Mexico City, squeezing through traffic like a harmonica riff between verses. You’ll find it in faded red, sunburned blue, colors that look like they’ve listened to a lot of stories and didn’t interrupt. This car’s been a family member. First car, last car, sometimes the only car. It’s hauled groceries, heartbreak, guitar cases, and a couple of generations who didn’t ask for much, just that it starts in the morning and gets them where they’re going eventually. The engine’s in the back, like it’s pushing the past along instead of pulling the future in. They stopped making them years ago, but the bochito didn’t get the memo. Still rattling around Puebla, Oaxaca, places where machines don’t retire, they just keep going until the road says otherwise. Mechanics know it like an old folk song; three chords, a little grease, and you’re back in business. There’s something honest about it. No screens, no warnings, no promises. Just metal, wheels, and a small stubborn heart that refuses to quit. It’s not fast, it’s not fancy, and it never tried to be. That’s probably why it lasted so long. Either way, tip your hat when you see a bochito roll by. That little car’s been carrying Mexico’s everyday poetry for decades now -one clatter, one cough, one long drive at a time. watercolor on paper contact ibarraloana@gmail.com