Dash across the border

Upon entering Mexico, foreigners receive a small and rather useless immigration form. Apparently this form is required to leave the country again. Nobody told me this, nor was this mentioned anywhere on the form. So begins my first story, in which I trekked across the airport to the immigration office and proceeded to bribe my way out of the country, since I lacked the cash to pay the official fee and had no cards with which to extract more money. I definitely would not have been able to do this in the US, but in Mexico all it took was placement of cash on the counter, direct eye contact, some leading questions, and silent understanding. I left the immigration without any remaining cash, but with the documents I needed to check in to my flight.

The rest of the flight went without problem, and in Pittsburgh I met up with Doug, Ronli, and Jenny and we proceeded to drive towards Cincinatti, stopping at a Motel 6 on the way. Sometime around 2:30am someone began pounding on the door next to ours and screaming to her not-so-significant other. This continued for about an hour and a half. Eavesdropping, we learned that this woman was seven months pregnant, whoever was inside refused to accept that he was the father, and that he should open the door "so that she could punch him in the face" [sic]. Finally, Doug called the front desk, a security guard rectified the situation, and all four of us (and presumably them two, too) were able to sleep in peace. The next morning, a heavily tattooed woman in a beater was seen in a pickup truck driven by a skinny, smoking tattooed man with a shaved head. Tires screeching, they rode off into the sunrise, leaving behind a cloud of dust with only their shared future ahead of them. I wish them only the best.

Wedding number one in Cincinatti and wedding number two in Pittsburgh were wonderful. Much alcohol and food was consumed, air guitar duels were fought, and jollity was had by all. I saw many friends I had not seen in over a year, and some I may not see for at least another.

Returning to Mexico, I had a five hour layover at O'Hare during which I hopped onto the El to meet with Neil and Mari for lunch downtown. I got back to O'Hare only 40 minutes before my scheduled departure, but to my dismay I learned that my flight had been delayed 2.5 hours. Miffed, I joined the crowd of Mexicans surrounding the payphones and joined their strife in attempting to call friends and family in Mexico. Few of us had much luck, as my calling card seemed not to work from a US pay phone. I soon became the designated dialer of the group, since I could interpret the English operator instructions. While on the line for one call, a young woman handed me a Minneapolis number and I lent her my cell phone. So I met María, who was returning from visiting her boyfriend in Duluth. It was her first time out of Mexico, and she was rightly confused by the delays and gate changes thrust upon her, not to mention being in an airport in the first place. She understood no English. Excited to practice my Spanish and make a new acquaintance, I became her guide, along with a small group of elderly ladies who were similarly confused by the situation. After more delays and gate changes, we finally left O'Hare 4 hours after our scheduled departure. María and I maneuvered some seat switches to sit together and I continued translating crew announcements and refreshment offerings, and tried and failed to summarize the plot of the inflight movie, "Breach." Later, we helped each other through customs and calling taxis. Yay for new Mexican friends!