Thursday, February 2, 2017

C yoU Next Tuesday at the Consulate

Alright, I know a decent amount of you reading this series of blogs are jonesing for this next segment and the one or possibly two to follow, so I'd better sit own and get to it. Those of you who have been pestering me to just finish my tale already, know that it is working.

I awoke at seven for my appointment at the consulate which wasn't until nine. I figured with all that had been going on and with the luck I'd been having, I should probably be as early as possible. So, front desk lady was the same one who manned (or...womanned?) reception on the day earlier, the day of my arrival. When I first checked in, I told her I needed directions to to consulate for my appointment the next day. Instead of just Google mapping it (yes, that is not a verb. Now there's not just "googling," there's "google mapping"), she decided to ask four employees if they knew where the American Consulate was. They all just shook their heads and shrugged. So, finally she looked it up and printed me a map and handed to me with no further instruction. I found the first cab I could and asked him to take me to the place highlighted on the map. Cab Driver Paco was a kind but far too chatty individual, which is something I have trouble dealing under normal circumstances and even more so when I am depleted of all energy from illness and cranky in general about what I had to go do.




Fifteen or twenty minutes or so lead us to the destination on the pathetic little map from the receptionist. The destination, however, looked like an abandoned strip mall, leading us both to believe the consulate was elsewhere. Paco asked another cabby in the parking lot if he knew where the United States Consulate was, and he just shook his head and said he knew where the Canadian one was. I guess Paco decided that a Canadian Consulate would be just as good for meeting my needs as the United States one, so he drove me there. I ascended the stairs of a tall white building while Paco awaited me outside, and I asked the Canadians where my consulate was. They said it was a good couple of miles farther down the street in a building called Europea (which turned out to be a shared structure between the United States Consulate and a liquor and smoke shop. Classy.

I felt super prepared. I brought the last of my cash which happened to be just enough for cab rides and the emergency passport, as well as a copy of my stolen one (hold on a moment while I go wipe away my tears at the remembrance of my lost stamps), and my passport photo with my face that apparently needed to be fixed desperately.

Since I had an appointment, there was no wait. I waked right up to the counter and this heavier lady with one of the strangest accents I'd ever heard greeted me (honestly it sounded like a weird combo between Irish, Scottish, and Boston with a touch of New York). I could tell INSTANTLY she hated her job. Dealing with her was much akin to dealing with an angry DMV employee (let's call him Marcus in this example) who hates his job with a fiery passion and just found out that he is getting a pay decrease tomorrow. To make matters worse, his wife is filing for divorce, he left his lunch at home and he forgot that he put his wallet on top of his car and drove away. Things aren't going well for Marcus...Anyhow, imaginary Marcus' attitude is the same of that of the consulate lady. The first thing she asked me was for my passport photos. She took one irritated look at them and told me I needed to go have them retaken before returning, as the pictures I brought were Mexican sized (which was like, a centimeter shorter). She also told me to put some super random amount of pesos in an account at a very specific bank called Salander for the courier service (that would hopefully deliver my passport the next day) before returning to see her. And she was just so chipper about it too!

Ah, the beautiful trash heaps of Cancun

I had come to expect bumps in the road in everything I attempted to do, so I wasn't horribly shocked. I hailed a cab and asked him to take me to a place where I could get photos taken (because do you think the lady told me where to go for that? Nope. And she just told me to ask a cab driver where to find one. Her position on my list of favorite people list was quickly rising to the top [sarcasm]). So he took me to another sketchy looking strip mall and asked a man standing in front of a door if he knew where a photo shop was. He stroked his chin pensively and then led me to a tiny shop around the back of the mall. Then he said something about how the owner was his friend and his "brother from another mother" and that he would take good care of me, but that the shop wouldn't be open until 10. Of course.

So, I got back in the cab and told the driver (thankfully, a much less chatty one) if he could take me to the bank to do that weird account thing. I had no idea what was going on, but the lady behind the counter seemed to, so I just went with it. Cab driver guy and I then returned to the photo shop and waited until about 9:50 when I walked over to see if they had opened early and, shockingly, they had. The weird dude from earlier's "brother from another mother" did, in fact, take good care of me. I told him I needed United States-sized passport photos, so he took my picture (without heckling me about my face that needed fixing) and told me to wait about ten minutes. 

I spent about ten dollars on the pictures, then headed back to the consulate. Now I was ready. Now I was prepared. Except for one, tiny little issue. 

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