The four men ahead and across are holding a loud conversation in Arabic. One of them makes gestures with the hand motions of a flamenco dancer, and it is difficult to tell if he is arguing or just telling a story. On the table, in front of the man, are a pack of cigarettes and a cardboard box of opened Sprite and Coca Cola cans that seem to resist all our lurching and swaying. He and his friends wear different colors of the same cheap plaid, a common dress I've seen in the orchards. Then again, this time in Spanish: "Senora, what is your daughter's name?" "Ah." "I am Pancho." "I lived there."