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!

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.