The driver of a derelict-looking taxi finally saw me waving. As he ground his gears, putting his vehicle into reverse and backing up to the curb for us, I saw him surreptitiously tucking a string of what looked like rosary beads into his pocket. He’d probably pulled them out to pray when the earthquake struck. The sight reminded me of Hector, the driver who had recommended the sports bar, and his fearful cringe after making the sign of the cross. Catholicism might be officially banned in Aztlan, but it was far from dead.