It is 1997 and artist Miguel Calderón has convinced a cab driver in Mexico City to take him to Tijuana, 4,000 kilometers north, more than 30 hours by car if you drive non-stop to the U.S. border. They have been in the vehicle for a while and make a stop that Calderón records with his lens: the cab driver is turned towards the arid mountains and forms a perfect arc with his urine. Behind the driver, the green Volkswagen in which they move. The meter has not stopped running. They get back on the road. Calderón is trying to convince the man that contemporary art is worth something.