Though I speak Spanish fairly well for a gringa, my understanding is less than ideal when the language is spoken at its natural speed. So I eagerly accept the driver's kind offer to hire his friend who he says speaks English "very, very well."

The cabbie explains that roundtrip it will cost 500 peso. With no idea if the price is fair, I agree. Delighted, my driver quickly adds that in addition, I must tip the interpreter.

The three of us hop into the lime green sedan and head south on Route 85 for the 35 minute trip to the gorgeous Cumbres de Monterrey National Park, where the waterfall is located. The busy highway is decorated with billboards, advertising a mishmosh of international products from Coca-Cola and Honda to Don Pedro liquor and Amelie, the French arthouse film.

The interpreter points out two modern buildings that look like rolling dice. "That is the technology high school," he explains. "Many American people go there."

"Really?" I ask him. "Is that a university or a high school?" Ignoring my question entirely he replies, "Yes, sir." At this point I start to wonder about this interpreter. Granted I am not looking my Manhattan best, but I have never before been confused for a sir.

The interpreter explains that he learned to speak English in Chicago, where he worked in a restaurant for 16 years. He is eager to dazzle me with information, and I ask about the cluster of mini mansions on the cliffs to our left. "Oh yes sir," he answers, "that is called Cerro de la Silla. It is where the people who have mucho dinero live." I ask him if those are the people who I saw at the fancy mall earlier in the week. "Oh yes sir, these are those people," he confirms. I ask him who they are and how they earned their money.

"They own factories. They have lots of money. That's why you see them in the mall, but they never spend their money. Regular Mexicans don't have any money because the rich people won't spend it," he claims in rapid fire English.

"Then what are they doing in the mall?" I ask him. Looking like he feels a bit challenged, the interpreter replies "I guess they just like to walk" and looks out the window.

Just in time, we turn off the highway. The narrow two lane road twists its way up the steep hill. The streets are lined with sun bleached walls that conceal modest homes. A few feature crudely constructed "For Sale" signs.

Red and fuschia bouganvilla blossoms frame rusting Pepsi and Fanta signs. Every other building is a taco stand or convenience store. The scene reminds me of a California beach town. Rather than surfers, we see children too young for school playing. We begin to hear what sounds like a fruit auction. "Mandarina, Mandarina, Mandarina. Cinco, Cinco, Seis," a thundering male voice calls out.

We stop briefly and try to enter the parking lot of the resort, Hacienda Cola de Caballo. Immediately, we are stopped by what seems like two dozen police and military officers, who firmly tell us it is "imposible." Why? We are are told "someone important is staying here." Hearing this, the interpreter shows some interest. "It is Bush, believe me," he says groggily. I ask him how he knows. "Bush loves motels. They are very safe. Mucho security. Yes sir, it is either Bush or the President of Chicago."

We drive a few minutes more, then park the cab. I pay 50 pesos to enter and travel to the waterfall on horseback. The park and crystal clear cascading waterfall are positively beautiful.

I find accomodations for barbecuing, including grills and picnic benches. There are also a few souvenir stands and at the very top of the cascade, a refreshment stand with a limited menu. Though swimming is prohibited, a visit to Cola de Caballo offers a relaxing escape, and a rare glimpse of the President of Chicago.