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!

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.