Regresso al Otro Lado (I return to the Other Side)

Luis, Pati and I left Tuxpan around 6.30 in the morning, headed for the States. The drive to la frontera was mostly uneventful. We stopped to buy some pottery as gifts, but otherwise, Luis drove, Pati slept and I stared out the window and chatted with Luis.

We arrived at the Mexican side of the border and had to turn in the pass for the car. We walked into the office for the car pass and a short woman came out to help us. She smiled and said that she remembered us from when we came through 3 months prior. She asked if I liked Mexico and chatted away with Luis. As usual, I caught about 30% of what they were saying. But that is a 29% improvement from 3 months ago. She took the pass off the car and told us we had to turn in my visa as well. We went across the way, turned that in and then crossed the bridge to the US side of the border.

I turned to Pati to see if she was excited. She looked excited and nervous. We pulled up to the US immigration point and waited to be waved forward by the three agents at the booth ahead of us. “It’s the same woman,” Luis said. I looked at the agents and laughed. The same female agent who had questioned us three months ago when were had come through to rescue the Jeep was at the booth. She waved us forward. We could barely contain our smiles as we pulled up, but realized that we shouldn’t look too happy or amused, or they might question us again.

Luis handed her my passport, his green card, and Pati’s passport with her visa. The agent looked at them, then us. She turned to me and asked if I was a US citizen. Yes, I replied. Then a look came over her face, which I couldn’t quite read. She looked concerned, or kind of angry. Shit, I thought, she’s going to pull us over again. Or worse. Wait a minute, what could be worse, what was I thinking? And what could they do to us, we are here legally, we have all the proper identification. But I felt like an air of danger stood in the air.

She looked at me again. What, I wondered, what have I done? Do I look guilty of something? Probably. I tend to look guilty in situations like this, even when there is no reason. I guess I worry that someone will find something wrong with me.

“I’ve talked with you guys before, haven’t I?” she asked. Ahhhhhh, that look was confused vague recognition! “Yup,” we replied. “That’s why we were smiling,” Luis added. She smiled at us, then asked Pati a question in Spanish. “You’ll have to go into the office again to get a permit for her,” she said referring to Pati, and then waved us through.

We went into the office and the agent there was a bit of a jerk. He talked with Pati for a while, in Spanish, asking her questions about where she worked in Mexico, where she was traveling to, how long she meant to stay. Luis and I sat in the plastic waiting chairs, listening in to his questions and chatting with each other. Then he typed some info into a computer and went silent for a while. Luis and I continued to chat, Pati stood at the counter waiting for the agent. He started talking to Pati again in Spanish. I didn’t understand what he was saying, but realized it wasn’t good news as Luis got up and joined in their conversation. Turns out Pati needed some form of proof that she had a business in Mexico that would compel her to return to her home country. Her word wasn’t going to be good enough.

Now, being an American citizen, I can understand this, and appreciate it. But being Pati’s cuñada (sister in law), and knowing that we have no ill plans on this trip, I was bothered that this agent was going to slow us down by requiring us to come up with some sort of proof. He gave us a form which told us what we needed, and let us go on our way.

Oddly, that way was into the US, not back into Mexico. Even though she wasn’t legally allowed into the states, we drove into Del Rio, bought a hamburger dinner, got a hotel room, and went to sleep!

On the way to the hotel I saw my first sign in English. It had been so long since I had seen English in any form of print. I had been looking forward to it, waiting to see if being back in the States, where I understood the language, would seem odd or if it would seem familiar. When I saw it, the sign almost made me cry: “Right lane must turn right”. I was back in the USA.

We saw a “WhattaBurger” hamburger place and pulled up to the drive-through. I was hungry, but I was also tired, so I thought a bacon cheeseburger would do me fine. No fries, no soda, just the burger. Pati said she wasn’t too hungry either, and I knew Luis was tired since he had been driving all day. Luis ordered my burger, ordered a cheeseburger meal for Pati, then ordered himself a triple-meat, triple-cheese burger meal. I guess he was hungry and tired! The girl at the drive through told us our total and told us to pull up to the window. I started laughing! Holy shit, I had forgotten about US prices for food! Our total was $18 and change! We told Pati how much it was in pesos - $180 - and she was floored. Food, I told her, was cheap in Mexico. Other things, like cars, tools and the like, were cheap here. It’s an odd trade off.

The next morning we woke up and went to have breakfast at IHOP. We walked in and were greeted by an employee. “How many,” She asked. “Three,” I replied. “We have a 20 minute wait, because [mumble, mumble]. Is that ok?” “I’m sorry, why is there the wait?” I asked. “Our cooks are backed up so they asked us for it. Is that ok?” “Oh, heck no!” And we walked out, stunned.

Now it’s not like there was a huge amount of people waiting to dine at the world-famous IHOP restaurant in Del Rio, Texas. In fact, there was only one person in front of us. One person, not one group of people. I couldn’t believe the hostess was actually telling us that the cooks couldn’t keep up with the flow of business. Maybe they had had a bunch of people show up all at once and there was a back-log. Maybe they were just digging themselves out of it. But to actually turn business away because your employees are tired of doing their job? You’ve got to be kidding me!

We ended up going to a local pancake place. We sat down and ordered coffee. Even though it wasn’t the Peet’s coffee I love, I knew it wasn’t the Nescafe (No-es-café as I lovingly call it) which is the only option in most Mexican restaurants. Luis and I opened our menus and decided what we wanted. Pati opened hers, stared at it blankly, and asked “que es bueno?” (what’s good?). I told her that everything was probably good as they had omelets, pancakes, and the like. She continued to stare at the menu blankly.

Suddenly I had a moment of déjà vu. When I had first gone down to Mexico, Luis would ask me at restaurants, “what do you want” and I would have no answer because I wasn’t sure what anything on the menu was. I looked back at my menu and thought about what Pati might like. An omelet would be a good option. I suggested one and described what was in it with a little help from Luis. “Hay tocino, jamon, hongos y queso en esto”. “’ta bien”. When the food showed up it wasn’t very good. I wanted to tell Pati that it wasn’t the best example of American breakfast, that she should wait until we took her to Violet’s in Portland. But I let it slide. I figured she would not really remember this one meal as it was her first, and we still had to go back to la migra to get her permit so she could come into the States legally. I figured that would be more on her mind than how good or bad this meal was.

We finished breakfast, called Luis’ friend Tavo in Ciudad Acuña for his fax number, called Pati’s husband in Tuxpan so he could fax us the documentation we needed, then waited. The documents were faxed, Tavo drove them across the border to us, and we proceeded to la migra.

Since we were already in the States, we parked the car outside of the office and walked in. We were met by an agent who asked us what our business was. “We need to get a permit for her,” I said, pointing at Pati. “Technically you need to be entering from Mexico for that. Since you are already in the US, I can’t let you go into the office. You need to go back and enter from Mexico.”

What? Even though we are here, we are bringing back the documents you asked us for not 12 hours ago, and we are entering from the country which you freely let us walk into, you are telling us to go back to Mexico first?

Of course, this man has authority on his side. Of course I cannot tell him off. Of course I need to politely say, “oh, ok, thank you” and walk out. That wasn’t an easy thing to do. But do it we did. We had no choice.

Five minutes later we returned. The agents had changed places and there was someone else whom we had to explain our situation to. However, since we were technically entering from the Mexican side, there was no problem. We walked into the office and were waved over to the next available officer… who happened to be the same one who sent us back to Mexico.

I gritted my teeth, walked up to him, and with a smile said “we’re back!” This time, Luis thought it would be better if I did the talking since I was a citizen. So I told the agent that we needed the permit because Pati was visiting the States with us for a few weeks. He asked Pati a few questions in very American-accented Spanish, and told us the same thing the agent from the night before had said: we need proof of your employment. I pushed the file of faxed paperwork forward. He flipped through them and asked Pati how long she was planning to stay in the States. Two or three weeks, she replied. “I’m going to give you a permit for a month, is that enough time?” We said yes, then he gave us the speech about how serious they take it if people turn their permits in late or not at all, blahblahblah, don’t bring someone into the States illegally, blahblahblah. Ok, ok, we’ll be back, don’t worry. He handed Pati her permit, we paid $6 for it, and left la migra.

Finally, we’re on the road! We stopped to fuel up and get drinks. Pati and I went into the store while Luis pumped gas. “Que quieres tomar?” I asked her. She looked at the drinks and asked what was good. I looked the drinks over and told her about Starbucks’ coffee drinks, pointed out the teas, and told her about Sobe drinks. There was one with strawberries and one with strawberries and bananas. “Te gusta fresas?” Si. “Y platanos?” No. “Ok, esta” and I grabbed the strawberry Sobe for her. We returned to the car and headed out of Del Rio. I told Luis about my realization in the restaurant that Pati wouldn’t know what she liked unless we helped her. “Tell her in Spanish,” he said. I turned to her and explained in my best Spanish that I knew what she was feeling about food options because I had gone through the same thing when I came to Mexico. And I told her to ask me if she didn’t know what things were, I’d be happy to help her out.

We headed out of Del Rio and into the Texas scrub. Sanderson, Texas, where we left the Jeep was 120 miles away. We planned on stopping to see if we might run into Jade, who we left the Jeep with, to see if anything happened to it. As we drove through the plains, I remembered our trip back to rescue the Jeep. It was cold and dark and I was tired. But this time we were driving in the daytime, so I could see the beauty of the landscape.

We arrived in Sanderson, a cute town that looks ancient, with adobe houses, and old wooden ones, and very little else. I scanned the houses to see if I might catch sight of the Jeep, but I had no luck. We came to the gas station where we had met Jade and pulled in. There was a pimply boy at the register. I asked him if Jade still worked there. Yes, she’ll be in tomorrow. I asked for a pen and paper to leave her a note, but thought better of it and asked him if she had mentioned the Jeep to him. Yeah. Did she still have it? Yeah, it was in her front yard. Luis asked if she had gotten it fixed. The boy didn’t know. Ok, tell her we stopped by if you see her.

Kind of another odd interaction at that gas station, but whatever. We continued on.

Five miles outside of Sanderston, we got pulled over for speeding. Oops. The cop walked up, asked for license and registration. Of course, before we left Tuxpan, Luis had looked for his drivers license. He couldn’t find it. He swore he had given it to me for safekeeping since he didn’t want to carry it around with him. We looked in the two places where it might have ended up, but it wasn’t there. We looked all over our room. Multiple times. To no avail. Now a Texas cop was asking for it. As I handed over the registration, Luis told the cop it had been stolen. He made a show of looking through his wallet. And there it was. I gave him a “you’re kidding” look. He handed it to the cop and the cop went back to his truck to issue the citation.

“It was in your wallet this whole time?” I asked. “Yeah”. “I thought you had looked in there.” “I had, but it was hidden away.” Oh, ok, hidden. Ok. Well, at least it had shown up when we needed it.

“I think that’s the same cop who stopped to check up on us when we were on the side of the road with the Jeep,” said Luis. “Yeah? Ask him.” So when the cop returned, with a $143 ticket – Luis asked him. It took a minute and some explanation of the situation three months prior, but suddenly the cop’s eyes lit up and he said, “Yeah, that sounds familiar.” Crazy small world. First the Mexican car officer, then the American immigration officer, then the Texas cop. “Sorry I had to write you the ticket,” said Officer Hamilton. Well, that’s how it goes.

And we continued on into the Texas plains...