Tuesday, March 14, 2006

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...

Saturday, March 11, 2006

Fly by

One day, early on in my time here, Sergiolito was playing outside our front door. I was sitting in the family room watching tv or reading. Suddenly he comes running in and yells, “Tia! Tia! Ven! Hay un aeroplane! Ven!” (Aunt! Come here! There’s an airplane in the sky! Come here!”) I listened for a second as I walked out with him. Yup, I thought, that’s an airplane passing over us. But then I had to wonder why Sergio was so excited. I mean, he’s four years old, so a lot of things get him excited, but a plane? Then I realized that I hadn’t heard any planes flying over us since we had moved here. And I still haven’t. So to a four year old, this was a huge event.

Noise in Tuxpan

We’re going back to the States for a short visit. And one thing I will be very happy to have there is the silence which eludes me here. Right, you say, Portland is a pretty big town, yes? So it can’t really be as quiet as a small country town, right? Sure, I reply, Tuxpan is a tiny town with few of the modern conveniences Portland has. But somehow this town produces more noise than almost anywhere I’ve ever lived. Not in sound level, but in quantity and length of duration.

First of all, I live with two kids – aged 2 and 4 – so there is some built-in noise that I can’t blame on the town. Fair enough. But there is plenty more than two rambunctious youngsters making noise in this town.

Roosters. Whoever came up with the idea that they only crow at sunrise obviously didn’t live around roosters. They crow whenever they feel like it. Morning, noon, night. And there are a lot of families here who own a couple of them for their egg producing abilities. I presume they aren’t kept as alarm clocks.

Cars. Sure, every city has cars. But the cars here aren’t in tip-top condition. So they are noisy. And the roads are in similar condition, some of them are still made of piedras (rocks), so rambling wrecks tend to send up a lot more noise than you’d imagine.

Music. Everyone loves music here. And there are a lot of live bands in this town as well. Tuxpan is the town of fiestas (see below), and every fiesta needs music. So we hear live music all the time. There is a band which practices a few times a week just two doors down from us. The church, which is a mere half block away, regularly chimes the hour plus all three quarter hours. And every once in a while, with a schedule I have yet to figure out, there is a 5 minute chorus of the church bells chiming. Sort of a call to prayer, I guess. (In fact, it is ringing out as I write this!) Plus the pastor of the church seems to have a passion for playing church-y music on the loud speakers early in the morning every so often. And those who have the money for a nice car or home stereo need to show it off when they are driving down the street, or when they are relaxing at home. I love music as much as the next person, but I also like to be able to control the volume.

Fiestas. I repeat, Tuxpan is the city of the eternal party. It says so on their city seal. Really. And I can vouch for this. 365 days in the year, 385 saints to be celebrated. You do the math. Plus birthdays, weddings, christenings, holidays, you name it. We recently had a church fair parked outside our door for two full weeks. It was cool because the kids could walk 40 paces and have a ton of fair rides and games to play. Plus there was some fabulous bad-for-you fair food to be eaten every night if we wanted. The downside was that the fair shut down each night around midnight, and it made noise up until that hour. For some reason still not quite understood by me, around 6 in the morning there would be a live band (you really can make a living as a musician here!) playing music along with the church bells and someone would be setting off fireworks to celebrate the fair. Six in the morning. Right outside our door. It was a fun two weeks.

Street vendors. Commerce is different here than it is in the States. A lot of people sell food out of the front room of their house, or have converted that room into a tienda to sell whatever they think they can make money on. And if they don’t have an extra room, or if they think they will get more business by bringing the product to the consumer, they become street vendors. We have ice cream trucks, vegetable and fruit vendors, prepared food vendors, and pan (bread) vendors all wandering down the street during the day, using their voices or horns to announce their arrival. Plus bottled water vendors (no one drinks or cooks with tap water. Instead you purchase those big 5-gallon bottles of water and pour out whatever you need when you need it.), propane gas vendors (no such thing as city-supplied natural gas), and garbage collectors make their daily rounds. Each one has a specific bell or call so you know who is passing and don’t run out with your bag of garbage only to see the propane truck passing by.

Families. Family is a big thing here. Luis’ sisters don’t really have friends outside of their immediate family (not sure if that is a Vazquez family trait or a Mexican trait), so they rely on each other to fill that spot. Quite often we will come home to a family room full of family, watching tv or a movie, eating, or just chatting with each other. Since we have a nice big family room, our house is a popular gathering spot, and we can fit a lot of people in. And Luis' family is not the quiet, "wait for the first person to finish talking before you jump in with your two cents" kind of family. I think Chuckie Cheese might be more tame some nights.

Even with all of it’s modern, noisy conveniences, I don’t think Portland can live up to this amount of noise. So I’m looking forward to some quiet time in a big city.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

International Man of Mystery

We went to our coffee house in Guzman today after the gym. Luis and Felipe were talking, I was staring out the window watching the traffic pass. A car pulled up across the street and parked. A woman got out and I immediately tagged her as American. She and her partner walked into the coffee house and ordered drinks. They sat at the table next to us. I realized that her partner was definitely American as he was talking loudly and in American English. She had an accent which I couldn’t identify, but spoke English quite well. I didn’t want them to know I spoke English, so I kept quiet.

As they sat down he said, “so here is what happened in Israel.” How odd, I thought. Here is an American man sitting in a coffee house in Mexico, talking to a woman about his trip to Israel. She responded, but was speaking more softly so I couldn’t pick up what she said. As I tuned into and out of their conversation I heard him talk about “the Chinese”, and “in Asia” as well as more talk about Israel. I started to wish it was a bit more quiet in the coffee house so I could hear what they were talking about.

Then I heard him say “you just say the government stole it and it’s ok.” I started to wonder what they were talking about. International crime? “Of course, we’re going to give some of it back to the country,” he said. It’s got to be crime-oriented, I thought. Luis had over heard their conversation a bit too, and we talked about it on the way home. Yes, he said, they were talking about crime. And the American guy was an idiot for talking outloud, assuming that no one else in this little coffee house in a small town in Jalisco, Mexico would know English. He said that because this guy was white, no one would assume that he was doing anything illegal. People would look at him and think he was a businessman who earned enough money – legally – to spend time here in Mexico. Sure, I responded, it happens all the time in the US - look at how much white collar crime goes virtually unpunished.

Little Shocks

I was on the beach in Manzanillo this past weekend. There were a number of gringos there, and out of curiosity I watched them. One couple bought a few trinket-y bracelets from one of the vendors who wander the beach. Each bracelet must have cost about 10 pesos, because the couple paid the vendor $2 USD. I had to stare at the dollar bills for a second or two to recognize them. They seemed odd and out of place.

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Up from the depths

Is it possible that all the working out I’ve been doing could be bringing up deep-seated feelings from long ago? I’ve been going to the gym five days a week and working out lifting weights and using Nautilus machines for 1 1/2 to 2 hours each day. And lately I’ve been feeling more raw emotionally than usual. Today Luis was giving me some criticism on how I was doing one of the exercises – I was using too much weight, he said, and I was risking hurting myself – and I just felt myself slipping into feeling frustrated and wanting to cry. I didn’t, I held myself together, but it took a bit to exorcise that feeling. (No pun intended, btw.)

I’ve never worked out this frequently before. So I ask those of you who have – could I be working out some ancient issues that have been stored in my muscles and fat for years?

Si, hablo espanol!

I got a nice compliment from Luis this past Sunday. We were visiting friends of his in Guadalajara – Amador, his wife Hilda, and their kids. As with all gatherings here, various family members showed up over the course of an hour or so. As each one came in, they were reunited with Luis and introduced to me.

Amador’s father came in and was the ultimate grandpa, round, chubby, and constantly smiling. As he shook my hand he asked, “Como estas?”. I replied “bien, bien. Y tu?”, then quickly corrected myself and said “y usted?” (My mistake was using the familiar “tu” when I should have used the formal “usted”.) He politely ignored my mistake and asked with a bit of surprise in his voice, “hablas español?” “Un poquito”, I replied. Luis chimed in and said what he usually says about my Spanish comprehension, “ella comprende mucho” – she understands a lot.

As more family members showed up they also inquired about my Spanish understanding. Luis proudly told them that we had had a whole conversation in Spanish on our drive up to Guadalajara, which was true. I was kind of surprised that he was bragging about me that way. His usual manner is to tease me about what I do and don’t know – “no sabes nada!”

Then he told them that I was learning Spanish faster than he had learned English. Of course he said this in Spanish, but I understood what he was saying and only asked him to repeat it in English so that I heard him correctly.

For those of you who have heard about the language barrier from me, you’ll understand what kind of effect that had on me. I was flabbergasted. And I was proud of myself. All this time I had thought that I was lagging, that by 3 months here I should know more, be able to have longer, better quality conversations. And here Luis was actually complimenting me and telling me that I was doing something better than he had! I felt quite proud, and not a little bit surprised.

After that I sat and listened to their conversation. Every once in a while the topic would turn to me, usually in some relation to Luis, and I would listen harder and try to pick up what I could, and respond when I could.

At one point Luis was talking about his brother Jorge who lives in Sacramento, CA. I’ve met Jorge a number of times, so I kind of know what he’s about. This story concerned a time when Luis was living with Jorge. One evening Jorge brought a girlfriend home (before or after their date, I don’t know). He then went into the bathroom or his bedroom and left the girl with Luis for a few minutes. They started talking and she asked Luis how old he was. Thirty-three, he replied. She commented on how odd it was that Luis was 33 and the youngest of his family and Jorge was 45 and the oldest. At this point in the story, everyone at the table laughed, as did I. Jorge is 54, but quite prideful, so 45 years seemed to fit him better for that date.

But the best part of that story is that I understood it in Spanish.

So not only had I had a conversation in Spanish that day, I had also understood a story told by someone else, and got a huge compliment on my comprehension from my man! A good day all around.