47: The Wronged Rights

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * OAXACA, MEXICO * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * [ R Y D E R ] I never thought that fish tacos would save my life. It was quite the story. It went something like this, once upon a time, there was a man named Pedro Gonzalez who owned a small taco shack by the beach. He made the meanest fish tacos, the best I ever had in my life. Every morning I went out to surf, at around 6 or 7 AM, and I usually came back to the shore at around 12 PM. I would make my way to Pedro's shack and order two plates of fish tacos for lunch. And I did the same thing every day for a month now. Pedro wasn't a man of many words. He didn't speak English well, and my Spanish was... well, I knew ‘hola’ and 'gracias', but that was about it. But Pedro knew me, or at least, he knew of me. I was his most loyal customer for the past month. He knew exactly when I was coming, so he would prepare the fish tacos in advance, and by 12 PM, the plates would be on the table waiting fo