Biker Chick

If you’re planning a trip to Boulder, Colorado, you’ve certainly added “visit Chataqua park” to your itinerary. First of all, you could have streamlined that to say “Chataqua,” I’m not sure why you felt the need to make that a wordier task. Sorry, I will stop poking fun at your imaginary itinerary-planning skills (or lack thereof?).

Lately, Chataqua has become even more of a messy conglomeration of tourists than it was before. The main trails have been under construction LITERALLY forever (that’s not being dramatic at all), you now have to pay to park, and this morning I saw that they’ve added a photo booth. Sheesh. I go to Chataqua not for the hike; I go to free solo climb the second flatiron (to sum up “free solo”- it’s climbing without a harness or ropes). Honestly, the hike to get to the base of the slab is the pesky part.

 

Because of the whole “pay for parking” situation (yeah, as IF I would drop a dime on that!), I have started riding my bike to Chataqua. Actually, ever since my shoulder injury mentioned in the past few posts (catch up if you haven’t read them yet. I’ll wait, and even include a page break so that it seems as if I actually waited), I have been biking as a primary means of transportation.

That was the page break that I requested be included on your behalf. You’re welcome. Alright, so back to the meat of this post. Yum, meat, maybe it’s time for a burger break? Do you see why I have issues just sitting down and writing? Because of my increase in biking activity, I am trying to be an overall less awkward biker. Whenever someone passes me (which gives you an idea of how speedy I am), they usually shout out “passing on your left!” (or, passing on your right!), and my first reaction is to move to the side they announce, which thankfully hasn’t led to any collisions yet, and then I awkwardly feel the need to respond, so I yell “ok, sounds good!” which is completely unnecessary.

 

I’ve always found there to be “looks” that bikers exchange with other bikers, drivers, walkers, runners, etc. One of the looks is a look exchanged between bikers biking uphill and drivers passing them or driving downhill in the opposite direction. I used to give the sympathetic look to uphill bikers as a driver- like “aww, it really sucks that you are biking up that horrible hill, but I am sitting in my nice air-conditioned car and thus am unable to feel your pain, but I guess I am sorry you are in pain.” As bikers exchanging looks, it’s some serious empathy. Like, “yo fellow biker, I LITERALLY know EXACTLY how you feel; I just did that horrendous climb, but be motivated by the knowledge that soon, you will be flying downhill just as I am now.” The other is just the look of irritation that drivers give bikers and pedestrians, the one that says “how DARE you make me wait for another light cycle!” as they throw up their arms in indignation. Ironically, when that same driver is a pedestrian or biker, he or she is frustrated by drivers, thinking “how DARE you make me wait for another light cycle!” as they throw up their arms in indignation.

I decided to share the bike-related thoughts rattling around in my brain today, because it is Bike to Work day. I biked to work (because, once again, bike to work day!) basically one million miles (again, no drama here), and stopped at a few breakfast stations en route. I got a bunch of free bike gear from Nite Ize, who also gave me fruit and a Clif Bar, but they lacked coffee which I got later, ironically, at the tea factory Celestial Seasonings. Then I got to work drenched in sweat, which was fine because we are a bunch of fitness fanatics spending the majority of our time in workout garb. I don't have any kind of concluding thoughts for this blog so.... the end? 

 

The Most Boulder Thing

It takes awhile before I can see the humor in something "horrible" that happens in my life. I'm trying to shorten the duration between the event and my ability to laugh at it, however, and I'm doing so in a couple of ways. First, while the unfortunate instance is happening in real time, I remind myself that it will make a good story later. Second, I force myself to talk about these events and write them down. Which is exactly what I'm about to do.

So, first a little bit of background information is necessary. One of my yoga teacher friends sells these things called sanlakpas which are single gemstones that you secure around your neck with a string tied together. The knot is then sealed with superglue, as it is meant to remain in place until it naturally falls off. You are supposed to come up with an intention represented by the gem. While you wear the sankalpa, you embark on your journey to fulfill the intention it represents. Yes, it is exactly what you would expect a yoga teacher to sell.

Being the indecisive human being that I am, I struggled to decide between three stones- labradorite, rose quartz, and garnet. I saw a picture on my friend's website where someone was wearing three which made me realize that I don't even HAVE to decide. I got all three, and before each one was tied on I was led through this little ceremony to seal the intention into the sankalpa. I know.

These babies aren't going anywhere

I've been wearing them for about a month, and have gotten completely accustomed to their presence. To be honest, I would feel a bit naked without them around my neck. I feel comforted when I reach up and touch them. I had almost entirely forgotten that they were there when I went to the imaging department and the medical center for X-rays when I injured my shoulder.

The X-ray technician asked me the typical questions while strapping on the vest thing that supposedly blocks out some of the radiation, like wether or not I was knocked up and whether I was positive that it was my right shoulder that I injured. She then saw the stones around my neck and told me I needed to take off my necklaces. The look on her face as I told her that I couldn't because they were secured with superglue was priceless. I suppose the majority of people would have ripped the sankalpas off or requested scissors to do so, but I felt that the journey of my intentions were not yet fulfilled. I explained that it was a yoga thing and told her I wouldn't remove them. She heaved a sigh, said it was "the most Boulder thing" she'd ever heard, and asked me if I could fit them in my mouth (giggity). She definitely enjoyed watching me struggle to do so, but I'm sure I would have done the same if I were her.

So for a good twenty minutes or so I had three gemstones in my mouth, secured with my lips, because I believed that they had more work to do in my life. Which is one of the most Boulder things I've ever done.

The Many Adventures of Marisa the Gimp

People are all too eager to inform you about the stages of grieving when you're grieving. Anger, denial, sadness, insomnia, denial again, an inexplicable hatred of all men named Fred... I can see the indignation sweep across many of your faces as you point out to the computer screen that I just totally made up that last one. You sure about that though? My grieving process distinctly includes a phase where I downright distrust anyone named Fred. I guess that phase is only part of the Marisa-specific grieving process.

I am a certified expert by now in the phases of the shoulder-wound-healing process by now, at least as it pertains to me. Almost every day as the healing process progresses, I notice a change in my personality. Conveniently enough, each emotional state through which I've gone thus far can be personified by a Winnie-the-Pooh character. If you are unaware of who this "Winnie" fellow is, and you're scratching your head as you wonder why part of his name contains a colloquial term for feces, you can go ahead and stop reading. This rest of this post will make no sense to you. Also I'm really sad for your childhood if that is the case.

The first few days of my injury, I was Winnie the Pooh himself. He is kindly described by his own best friend Christopher Robin (annoyingly, a kid with two first names and actually a bit of a bully) as a "bear with very little brain," simply because he is blissfully unaware of bees and the hardships of life in general. I walked around in a Winnie-like state, convinced that this shoulder thing was nothing bad and would be healed by a magical woodland fairy and I'd be back climbing in no time. I was much like the lovable cartoon in the episode where he is hurled face first into the hole of a tree where he gets stuck but is completely unconcerned by that since the little tree cave is full of honey, his favorite food (how does he not have type two diabetes?). A bear with a higher IQ may have freaked the F*** out at the revelation that there was limited oxygen in there, and feel panicked and claustrophobic and almost certainly as if death were coming considering the unlikelihood that his friends could get him out of such an insane place with enough time to save him from suffocation. In fact, now I am freaking out about that episode because that is how it ENDS! With Winnie stuck in a honey hole at the top of a MASSIVE oak tree!! I assume he got down safely because he is in the next story. That Christopher Robin has a messed up imagination. Time to take that kid to a child psychiatrist.

Pooh! Things are SO FAR from okay for you!

So about three days in, I found I was still lying on the couch in a sling, and that there was no magical woodland fairy, and I was still not climbing. The blissful unawareness of Winnie quickly gave way to the extreme depression of Eeyore, the sawdust-filled donkey toy with a bow and nail pinning his own tail to his ass (the guy has good reason to be low). I suddenly noticed with shocking definition the intensity of the rainclouds outside. I realized that not only would my shoulder never heal, but that I would never climb again. Dark circles moved into the spaces for lease underneath my eyes with no intention of ever leaving their posts. I was my shoulder injury, nothing was good or even less than horrible, and life as I knew it was over. I was Eeyore. Inconsolable, always beneath an ominous raincloud, and on auto-pilot to ensure my doubt about whether or not a morning was good when anyone pointed out that it was.

I wasn't angry. Rather, I had fallen into a pit of depression as deep as a well out of which I could not see. I didn't want to see or talk to anyone. I felt too sad to do anything other than mope about the things I used to have that were good, and would never be good again. Everyone and everything sucked. This character was probably another indication that Christopher Robin needed some serious help. My Eeyore phase lasted a couple of days, days that passed like a snail through molasses as I stared out the window entranced by the never ending rain.

In the next stage I morphed into a character who didn't technically exist in the Hundred Acre Wood (why does that sound dirty?), but potentially could have. I was still Eeyore, but angry Eeyore. Eeyore with turrets, if you will. My response to "good morning" would be to lash out angrily and argue that this morning not only wasn't good, but was horrible just like whoever it was who wished me a "good morning". Then I might grab Piglet by the ears and throw him against a wall. Anyone else want to wish me a good morning?! Huh!? I didn't think so. I wonder if Eeyore ever DID finally lose his mind and get angry behind the scenes. Maybe now he is sitting in an asylum in a straight jacket, rocking back and forth with eyes wide muttering something about how his whole life could have been different if that jerk Christopher finally gave him a tail that didn't require re-pinning fifteen times an hour. Sorry if I just ruined Eeyore for you with that disturbing image. What I meant to say was.... Eeyore finally got some Prozac and went to live with his cousin in upstate New York. He became a motivational speaker and lived happily ever after.

I could have gone another direction and compared my angry phase of shoulder healing to feeling like Rabbit. Christopher clearly gave up any and all attempts to be creative with that name. Maybe that's why Rabbit was so pissed- he just wanted to be called Eugene. Or even simpler, Bill. Anything but a description of what he was. How would you feel if people walked around calling you Boy Child, Christopher!? Inconsiderate kid... Ugh. Anyways, Rabbit was always pissed with good reason because ignorant wistful Pooh would steal all of his honey and then the rest of his food, and other characters ruined his garden "by accident" or would piss him off some other way when he just wanted peace and quiet and to be called by an actual name. Do you blame the rodent?!

I don't care about you or your problems. Just be thankful I didn't name you Bear. You were lucky enough to be named after a poo I had once that you somewhat resemble. That's right. I named you after a poo.

Today I've entered the next stage, which is the phase where I feel slight improvement in my injury and am therefore falsely hopeful and potentially about to do something stupid, like climb. I guess that would be Tigger? He was always causing trouble, that guy, and bringing others with him on his irresponsible endeavors (he was probably 100% responsible for the corruption of Roo- you don't even WANT to know what happened later in the life of the annoying infant Aussie pest- there may be a documentary about child actors whose lives went to hell in which he is featured. Proceed with caution.). At least he narrowly missed becoming another "Rabbit"- he probably only got his name because Christopher Robin sucked at spelling or speaking, and actually meant to call him Tiger. Close call, Tigger- count your blessings.

You know, as long as I never become Owl, the pedantic jerk who thinks he is all knowing and really just gives horrible advice, I'm happy to continue going through the emotions of cartoon characters from Winnie the Pooh. Oh, I also never want to be Christopher Robin. That kid is the WORST.

 This is the REAL Christopher Robin, by the way. Can't you just TELL he has a touch of the crazy??

The Gimp Life: Part Two

I'm throwing myself a pity party of epic proportions, and you're on the guest list! The longer I fester couch-bound and injured, the more I sulk and the less I feel motivated to return to normal activities. Last night was my first time teaching since I injured my shoulder. Prior to arriving at the studio I was amped up and jazzed to teach after such a lengthy hiatus away from my beloved profession and students. Those positive emotions quickly faded once my first student of the evening arrived. The majority of my time donning a sling I've spent completely alone, so I hadn't had time to prepare properly for the inquiries of others upon seeing my fabric arm cradle. Because no one had asked me about my injury, I had also not had time to formulate an eloquent and quick response. Thus, when my first student came to check in and saw me, I had no idea what to say when he asked me what I did to my arm. If people had been asking me throughout the course of my time in a sling, I may have had ample time to come up with a better story. Instead, I mumbled something about falling multiple times on the same area and rambling way longer than the student cared to listen. The next student asked "what did you do?" which I quickly realized meant "how did you do whatever you did to end up in a sling?" because my response of "I hurt my shoulder" was met with a blank stare, because obviously she meant to ask HOW I injured myself.

So, next time you ask someone what he or she did to him or herself, instead ask how he or she did whatever he or she did to injure him or herself, if that is in fact what you want to know. Maybe the askers of these questions want to know both what I did to myself and how I did it. Either way, I never came up with a quippy response. My new go-to response is that I hurt my shoulder fighting ninja (which is the plural of ninja, fun fact) or saving a puppy from the clutches of a rabid kangaroo.

Now that I am prepared to answer the question, of course, I am back to hosting my pity party on the couch. I am not entirely alone, however; my roommate's dog Tigger is and has been keeping me company, whether or not I want him to. Honestly, the amount of attention he is giving me is starting to be a bit much, especially considering I barely know him.

I can only liken him to an over-zealous member of an entourage. By definition, an entourage is a group of people attending to or surrounding an important person. The amount Tigger is attending to me makes him feel like an entire entourage. He literally follows me EVERYWHERE, and if I go into a room and shut the door he sits immediately outside and waits for me.

When I walk in the front door he excitedly greets me. While I sit and vegetate on the couch he sits and vegetates right along with me unless someone comes to hang out with me and then he actively protects me on the couch from the intruder. If I get up to go to the kitchen, Tigger gets up to go to the kitchen. If I get up to go to the bathroom, Tigger is in suit. I'm thankful that he can't talk because I imagine it would drive me insane in no time. "Hey Marisa, how are you? Marisa! Marisa! Can we hang out? Wait, Marisa, where are you going? Come back! Marisa! If you need something I am LITERALLY right outside the door!" It's like, chill, Turtle, I need a two-second break from your constant attention! Thankfully, Tigger is a dog and can't talk. Therefore, he also can't ask me what I did to myself or how I did it.

 

The Gimp Life

Are you alone right now? If no one is around, give your right shoulder a kiss. Then, your left shoulder. If you are in public, lift both arms overhead, interlace your fingers and stretch your arms upwards. Feel the glorious shoulder stretch and opening in your chest region. I'm asking you all to do this so you do not take for granted the wonder that is having the use of both arms.

Last week, in multiple clumsy ways, I fell on my right shoulder in the same spot leading to a wounded rotator cuff landing my arm in a sling. I never until now realized the sheer glory that is having the use of both arms. Literally everything is a challenge. Opening doors, washing my hands, typing, texting, talking on the phone, reading, cleaning...hence why I asked all of you to show some gratitude to your shoulders for both functioning properly.

Both of my jobs, teaching yoga and freelance writing, require that I use both arms. Therefore, this injury has incapacitated me to the point of lying on the couch, unable to do much of anything, for a week. However, anyone who knows me well (or knows me at all) knows that I cannot go that long without writing. Putting my thoughts into written form is my catharsis, and my only real hobby that isn't physical to the point of worsening my shoulder injury.

I don't consider myself a lazy person until I am injured to this point. The sheer challenge associated with every single daily activity snuffs out any motivation to do anything. Even reading seems too difficult. Watching TV requires too much focus. So all I do is lie about feeling sorry for myself, starting out the window while curled up on the couch with my roommate's dog.

Ironically, when I have free time I do not want it, and of course when I don't have any free time it's all I want. I could use this time to educate myself by watching a new documentary or reading a novel, practicing a new language, catching up on calls or taking long mindful walks through the neighborhood. Maybe later. For now, nap time. 

There's No Place Like Home, There's No Place Like Home, There's No Place Like Home

On Wednesday I awoke feeling my absolute weakest physically, and completely drained emotionally.
I'll kick this blog off with a few more pictures from my trip:

My flight to Denver wasn't until 3:00, but expecting things to go wrong at the airport, I decided it would be best to get there four hours early. I packed up my bag Tetris style, checked out of the hotel, and hailed a taxi to the airport. It took about 20 minutes to get there. I made sure I had all of my belongings and then headed in. I glanced up at the list of departures, and I was so early that my flight wasn't even listed yet. In spite of my super early arrival, I was still able to check in and check my bag with United. I walked up to the self-service kiosk which asked me to insert my passport so it could fin my flight. Guess what? My pathetic temporary passport couldn't be read. I typed in my confirmation number instead and it pulled up my information. The next screen asked if I wanted to upgrade to first class for the low, low price of $768. Umm...no thanks. I checked the YES box when asked if I needed to check a bag, and then something poetically ironic happened- I had to pay $26 for the checked bag, and I had to pay with a credit card. I couldn't help but laugh- for the last ten days I needed only cash, and here I was, finishing out my trip, and now I needed a card.

I asked a United agent what to do, and he told me to walk to the additional services office on the other end of the airport. On my way there, I stopped at immigration services to show them my police report so I could get out of the country. See, in Mexico they give you a paper for immigration and you fill out the information on the top part and give it to the immigration officer and then you're expected to keep the bottom half until you depart Mexico. Of course, when my passport was stolen, so was that dumb piece of paper, which is why I needed to file a police report and bring it to the immigration services counter at the airport. I got that taken care of fairly quickly, and then went to the additional service counter for United. They let me pay cash to check the bag there, gave me my boarding pass, and I was off to security. 

I wish I had actually looked at my boarding pass before entering the security line because I shockingly ended up with TSA Pre, which is awesome because you don't have to take liquids out of your bag or take off your shoes and coats. It didn't matter much, however, since the line was pretty measly and took hardly any time to get through. In Mexico you don't have to take off your shoes which is SO nice. Once again, I accidentally left my knife in my carry-on and they let me get away with it. I felt SO secure knowing that...

So all of this, mishaps included, still left me with about three and a half hours before boarding. But I had made it through immigration; I was finally on the other side. Perhaps now, as the Argentinian man said, my nightmare had ended.

I decided I should get a smoothie to at least get something in my rumbling stomach. I got one of those insanely healthy green smoothies and my stomach instantly started to feel wonky. I ran to the bathroom and threw up. Naturally, there was a massive line of people and I am not the quietest vomiter so it was a great time, puking while tons of strangers listened in. Whatever, I'll never see them again. I sat, read, listened to music, eavesdropped on the quirky conversations of fellow travelers, and ran to the bathroom once more to hurl up the remaining smoothie. The time went by rather quickly- all of a sudden, it was time to board. I felt the corners of my mouth curl upwards as I realized what was happening. My steps were leading me to the plane that would take me back home after such a trying journey. I did the weird superstitious thing I do when flying and touched the outside of the plane, then stepped on board and found my seat. 

Thankfully, my seat neighbors were silent and didn't get up in my grill. I brought plenty to do on the plane but wasn't aware that to access their free entertainment, I would have needed to download the United app which I obviously didn't. I tried to sleep, but it was one of the "new and improved" planes which basically means the seats are substantially smaller and closer together, there are no TV screens, and my seat didn't go back at all. But I was still on a plane. A plane to Denver. So none of that mattered. 

I landed and headed to the kiosks you can use to scan your passport to get through immigration. Can you guess what happened when I tried to scan my fake looking emergency passport? It read it just fine. Just kidding, it said it couldn't read the document so I had to go downstairs to the old school immigration lines and actually interact with one of the officer. He was incredibly kind though and said he was sorry for what I went through on my trip and welcomed me home. Next was baggage claim, I had to wait awhile for my bag but it eventually made its way onto the conveyor and I grabbed it, told the customs guy I had nothing to declare, and the experience ended. 

One of my friends who was helping me back home while I was in Mexico came to pick me up (that's how you know who your friends are- the ones willing to give you rides to and from the airport) and we drove home, mostly in silence as I was simply drained and felt unable to speak. The sight of the mountains made me grin from ear to ear. I couldn't wait to get back to climbing. 

After this entire epic journey, I felt like Frodo after he (and Gollum, technically) destroyed the ring. I could only think of the scene where Frodo and Sam were lying on the side of Mount Doom as lava flowed around them and they couldn't even muster the strength to stand. 

Except it was just me. 

Now comes the end of my series, and I suppose it's expected of me to reflect on the trip. When I tell the shortest version of the story, most people ask me if I am officially disenchanted by travel, but that is simply not the case. I could take the perspective that my journey was a drawn out series of unfortunate events, but I refuse to take that negative viewpoint. Instead, I just think about the people who saved me. The people who helped me and if they hadn't, I might still be in Cuba or Mexico. It inspired me to have such kindness shown to me, especially by strangers, and motivated me to try to be a better person and help others in kind by paying it forward. I also look back and can now laugh at everything that went wrong. My experience was quite like an Oscar Wilde dark comedy; a comedy of errors which are my favorite type of literature. 

It's time for this blog series to come to an end. But before I do, I want to dedicate them to everyone who helped me, especially Josh, Joel, Greg, my parents, Argentinian guy, lady cop, and Lucy. Thank you for going above and beyond to get me back safe and sound, because there's no place like home.

Some Starbuck's fails from Mexico (this I expect in the States, but my name is Hispanic. You'd think they could get it right):

Bria means wind. 

Of Course

The last envelope was my passport. There, now you no longer have to anxiously wait to hear the outcome. With the passport gripped in my hands, I started jumping up and down, a huge grin on my face, and feeling unbelievably relieved. The lady laughed at my over the top reaction. I thanked her a good 20 times, and then left.

I had one more errand to complete before I could lie in my hotel all day, watching CNN (the only channel in English) until it got too depressing and I switched to whatever Spanish movie was on. Probably the highlight of my TV watching experience over my three days being sick at the hotel was watching Matilda. That brought me back... I thought that movie was the bees knees back when it first came out. 

The last errand I had to complete was retrieving the wire transfer that my friend had sent me a few days earlier. Wire transfers through Western Union from the States to Mexico are, in theory, extremely simple to complete. You can go to a number of locations all over the US (like grocery stores) and simply j the bank employee to whom you wish to send the money, how much you wish to send, and where the recipient is located. Then, all the recipient needs to do is head to almost any bank in Mexico and ask for the money after showing ID. 

This time, I had an ID. Granted, emergency passports look like they were forged with minimal effort by some college kid in his parents' basement. The font on the front is significantly larger than a regular passport, it only contains about three pages, and the photo looked like it was hastily placed on with a glue stick.

At least my new picture was better?

I felt confident that with my official ID, getting the transfer would be a piece of cake. But wait, remember how my trip was going up until that moment? Yeah... not so great. I left the passport place and walked next door to one of the banks. I specifically told the lady by the front door that I needed to pick up a wire transfer from the US when she asked me how she could help. She said that would be no problem and told me to take a number like you do at the DMV. I waited for 20-ish minutes and got called to the counter where the lady there told me they don't do Western Union wire transfers. I left in a huff, walked to the other bank literally next door (because it's so logical to have two banks side by side) I asked if they did Western Union transfers and the guy said no, but to try four other banks nearby. He wrote them on a piece of paper, and I hopped in a cab to the first on the list.

The man drove me to the bank, located inside of a department store selling bikes, mattresses, etc. I came to discover later that most banks are inside of department stores. Why? No idea. I waited in another fairly long line (but at that point in my trip, I was accustomed to long lines) until I was called to the counter. I asked the man if I could pick up a Western Union wire transfer and he said of course, I just had to show the confirmation number and my ID. I showed him a picture of the top part of the receipt that my friend who wired the money sent me. He sent me just the top part of the receipt because that was where the confirmation code was printed. The man entered he entered the code into his computer and said it was the wrong number of digits and that I needed to call my friend and ask him to take a picture of the entire receipt. The receipt was so long it took four pictures to capture the whole thing. I showed it to the man and he just shook his head, saying it was impossible. Of course.

Off to the next bank. This one was hidden in another huge store selling phones, furniture, and other random items. On the wall behind the bank counter was a sign that said Western Union, so of course they would be able to help me, right? No. I experienced deja vu as the EXACT same thing happened at this bank as the one prior.

My energy all but spent, I headed over to the last bank on the list. I asked a saleslady where the bank was, and she told me it was on the very top level. Of course it was. There was no elevator (plus I have an irrational fear of elevators), so I walked up multiple flights of stairs to the top. After I'd ascended the last set of stairs, my legs felt wobbly and I imagine I looked like a newborn giraffe as it learns to walk as I headed to the bank.

Me. 

This time, there was no line. I walked right up to a lady at the counter, asked about the transfer and showed her my passport. I asked if she needed to see the code and she said no, and in less than five minutes she handed me the money.

I'm pretty confident that those other bank employees were completely incompetent. It certainly didn't seem like an extensive or difficult process at all at the final bank. But of course, it was the last bank I went to that I finally got help.

I exited the line, and right then it hit me. I had spent the last little drops of energy and needed to rest. Thankfully, the top level of the store was the furniture section, with little fake bedrooms set up as well as kitchens. It was very Ikea-esque. I waked to the closest fake bedroom and collapsed on the bed. I lied there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rapiest of all Christmas carols, "Baby, It's Cold Outside," followed by "All I want for Christmas is You." Eventually, I regained enough strength to descend the stairs, hail a cab, and head back to the hotel.

I took a nice, long nap and upon waking I figured I should probably try to eat. However, I was terrified at the idea of leaving my hotel room, as something bad was bound to happen if I attempted to do anything at all. But I needed some grub, and I finally had a voracious appetite, so I walked down to the hotel restaurant and stuffed my face with a burger. Not too long after, I puked it up. Lesson learned: start with basic foods before jumping from nothing to one of the heaviest foods out there.

Of course, it was a mistake to have left my room. I should have ordered room service. When I ventured back to my room, I realized the key didn't work. The front desk dude "fixed it" and so I walked back and tried again with no luck. I repeated this process one more time, and it still didn't work, so the front desk guy called maintenance and sent them to my room. I sat in the hallway across from my door, simply waiting in my state of exhaustion. After a good long while, the maintenance man came and changed the batteries for the lock thingy because of course, I got the room with the lock filled with dying batteries. I went inside, threw up the rest of my burger, and went to bed for about 16 hours, hardly able to grasp the fact that tomorrow, I'd be back in Colorado. 

Illogical Maps and Glass Shards

Man, I am so ready to be finished writing my saga. Yet here I am, hammering out one of the last blogs in this series when I should probably be doing something more productive.

In the last segment of my tale, we left off with me lying in my hotel room watching Coraline and drifting in an out of delirium because of my sheer depletion of nutrients and, therefore, energy. I was truly shocked by the amount I could sleep in my state of illness- I must have gotten 15 hours or more of shut eye. Even upon waking at nine to get ready to head to the passport-pickup location, I felt drowsy and as if I could sleep another 15 hours. The woman at the consulate told me to go to the passport pickup place at 10, as that is when they are typically delivered.

I got dressed, grabbed enough money for the cab, and put the map to the passport place in my pocket. I showed the map to the first cab driver I could wave down, and for a good five minutes he just stared at it, his eyes furrowed in confusion. He informed me that he knew the general area, but had never heard of the business.

The maps I was given in Mexico seriously baffled me. Some gave incorrect directions entirely, while others, like the one the cab driver was holding, had certain sections scaled down smaller than others for no apparent reason. Also surprising was the cab drivers' lack of knowledge of the city in which they worked.

He drove to where he thought we were going with one hand on the wheel and one holding the map. The way cab drivers drove down there was ever-so-slightly concerning, one of them texting the entire time without even attempting to hide it. Our journey to passport pickup place took around fifteen minutes. He handed the map to me, and based on landmarks written on the map, I realized that we had allegedly arrived. I couldn't see the sign for the shop, however, and I should have waited until I actually knew where I was going before I got out of the cab, but I didn't wait. I figured with the map showing exactly which two shops it was between, I'd be able to find it quite easily.

I think I've got you all trained by now to expect that essentially nothing I had to do on this trip was easy at all, and finding the passport place was yet another one of those things. I looked at the map and  saw Bancomer, then directly next to it, according to the map, was the passport place. Once I reached the restaurant on the map, I had gone too far. I felt so unbelievably confused. The lady at the consulate the day prior specifically told me it was between the bank and the restaurant, but all that was there was a row of abandoned-looking buildings. I wandered back and forth for at least 15 minutes, squinting at every sign on every door to see if I had somehow missed it.

I finally caved and asked a lady cleaning outside of a store if she had any idea where the place was. She looked at the map with a puzzled expression and said she had no idea, but that the man selling mangoes on the street corner a few feet to the left would know for sure as he had been the corner-mango-selling-dude for many years and knew the area well. I walked over to him, ready to collapse from my physical weakness and my frustration, and showed him the map. He said that the street on the map used two different scales and so the four lines depicted on the road were meant to be four entire blocks. Why?? I mean, if you are going to make an illogical map like that, at least add a small explanation about it. So, I walked back the direction I had already gone, this time really staring at all of the buildings and looking inside each one.

The four lines next to the highlighted square apparently represent four  blocks

FINALLY, I came across an abandoned looking office building with the tiniest sign written in marker on construction center saying SMC, the name of the passport pick up. I could't even believe that that was the place. Inside was one lone employee sitting behind one lone desk starting blankly at the floor. She asked me if I had come for a passport, I said yes, and she told me they were running late and to come back in a half hour or so. Of course.

I decided to take a little stroll, in spite of the sketchy look of the area in which I wandered. I mean, I had basically no valuables on me, and was ready to mace anyone in the face or stab him or her in an instant if he or she tried anything. My legs were so wobbly from lying around in bed for almost three days straight, so I had to take a seat for a bit and rest. Honestly, I felt like a newborn giraffe as it tries to learn to walk and starts stumbling about awkwardly, all four legs shaking, until it teeters over or run into something. 

I popped a squat in the cleanest looking grass patch I could find and called my friend back home, trying to kill time. Across from me, a wall covered in graffiti with a tall gate chained shut loomed tall. As I looked closer at the wall, I realized that shards of glass were poking out the top of the entire wall. Curiosity washed over me; what could possibly be behind an ominous wall like that. I eagerly waited as I watched an employee walk towards the gate to unlock it. However, he opened it just enough for him to slip through to the other side. 

I got over my curiosity, checked my watch, and decided I'd head back to SMC to see if the passports had arrived early. About five minutes after I walked in the door, a truck pulled up to the store. The man came in with a stack of envelopes. He laid them on the desk in front of the lady at the desk. She looked through them one by one, my anxiety growing exponentially as none of the envelopes contained my name. She continued to sift through, and I began to panic.

The Lady Cop

In the last epidsode of Marisa's Misadventures in Mexico, we left off at the United States consulate. I waltzed back into the sad little office in the sad little building and laid the photos in front of angry lady. She had me fill out the most monotonous forms you can imagine, and then asked me how I'd like to pay for the passport. I asked if I could use a card (since I had all of the information on a card back home) even though I already knew the answer. The woman started shaking her head at me before I could even get the whole question out. So I laid all the money I had on the counter. She then oh-so-lovingly informed me that there were two issues: first, some of the cash was in pesos, and some in dollars. It had to be entirely in pesos. Second, I was EXACTLY ten dollars short because I had spent it on my second set of passport pictures. What kind of insane cosmic injustice is that?! At that moment, I wanted to throw a cinder block at consulate lady. Unfortunately, none were lying around. I asked her if the bank would let me accept a wire transfer as long as I brought my passport copy and she just shrugged and said "hm, probably not." Can you even wrap your mind around how wonderfully helpful she was?? What an angel.

I now realize why the consulate was in the same building as a liquor store- after the horrendous experience all I wanted to do was down some tequila, even though I would have puked it right up.

So I stormed out and walked across the street to the bank. My friend had already completed the wire transfer on his end, I just had to pick it up. I walked up to an open banker and told her my name and said I needed to pick up a wire transfer. She said she needed to see an official passport first. I showed her the copy and guess what she gave me? Yup, the "look," and probably one of the worst ones I'd gotten on the entire trip. I tried to explain to her the insanity of the situation, and how it was a stupid Catch 22 that I needed an official passport to get the money that I needed to get the passport. Her vacant expression told me she had long ago mentally checked out of that conversation. I could feel slight panic begin to well up within me. It was really, truly looking like I was out of luck and would have to cash in my life in the US for one in Mexico.

The other task I had to do before leaving Mexico was file a police report to show them at immigration at the airport. So I figured I may as well do that since the police department was nearby and it was something I could shockingly do for free. I went into the wrong part of the building and they told me where to go, so I entered some little room and a lady asked how she could help. I began recalling my tale, describing the robbery in the best Spanish I could muster. As I told the story, I could feel the tears welling up behind my eyes. I tried so hard to keep the food gates closed, but alas, the tears came careening down. She gently patted my arm, and after my story I told her what was going on right now with all of the passport nonsense and how there was no way for me to get a wire transfer. She looked at me with a gentle, calm expression and told me to tell someone in the United States to send money to her, since she had an ID. She let me snap a photo of her license (which showed a great deal of trust if you ask me) to send to whomever would wire the money.

My parents wired money to her, and she and I walked over to the bank together. Since I had just been there trying to get money, she told me she thought I should wait outside lest I look suspicious. While waiting outside, it was taking a bit longer than I felt it should. I started to worry that I had been screwed over again and that she had taken the money and gone out some other door. Right as that thought hit me, however, she returned with all of the cash I needed. I gave her one of those hugs that you REALLY mean, the kind you give someone when they have done something truly above and beyond (like, saving me from an eternity in Cancun).

Oh, one last little tidbit about the horrible consulate woman is how unnecessarily rude to me when I asked her if, since I was in the consulate, I was technically in the United States. She gave me an unnecessary stink eye and told me that that was just a dumb myth (but with her weird gross accent it sounded like "mitt"). Way to burst my bubble, lady. Some people...

Anyhow, with the proper amount of money in hand, (thankfully I had a different lady helping me this time and she was MUCH nice) the only thing I had left to do was raise my right hand and swear that I didn't do anything in Mexico to jeopardize my United States citizenship. She then told me where to go to pick up the passport which would arrive in 24 hours. Then she just HAD to add "although, sometimes the delivery truck gets a flat." Thanks for those words of encouragement...

I was still sick as dog, vomiting water and anything I tried to eat, so I spent the rest of my day lying in bed in my hotel room watching American news which depressed me, so I switched to Coraline, which is probably one of the creepiest movies I have ever seen.

Creepiest. Movie. Ever.

So, did the passport arrive on time? Tune in next time to find out!