Getting to San Miguel

In a victorious battle against stubbornness and laziness, I have decided to listen to all those who mean well (especially Pat, Kelsey, Zoe and Christina), and begin to keep an online record of my summer in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. I guess uploading photos just isn't enough. Entonces...

On June 16, Aljame drove me to JFK at 2 am, and Jamal was good to stay with me until my flight was almost ready to take off at 5:30 am. (The man is a treasure.) The plane sailed into BUSH Int'l in Houston, TX with a slight delay, so I took off running to my transfer gate with barely 25 minutes to spare. My heart pumping, I collapsed at the check-in desk, and - grateful to have made it - presented my ticket, green card, and travel passport to the attendant. Surprised at the aquamarine cover, she murmured a cheerful, "What a pretty color" - but then handed it to the man behind her. My mind raced faster than my feet a few minutes ago. Something was wrong. The man deliberated with another woman behind him, and they made a series of unsuccessfuul phone call to I don't know who. Finally, it became clear that they were unertain I could enter Mexico without a visa. BS. I had called the consulate in NY. There was no visa requirement. But the words of resident aliens are mere whispers in the wind to the ears of Continental Airlines officials on a power trip. With only 10 minutes to spare before take-off, the second woman announced, "Pull her bags!" My plane went to Mexico City. I remained in Texas.

Lord, no, I prayed. I know this is happening for a reason. The man, name-tagged Rodriguez, instructed me to go to the Mexican consulate in downtown Houston to obtain a visa. Meanwhile, they would rebook a 5:30 flight to Mexico. It was 9:30 in the morning. He scribbled the name of the street in pink highlighter on my boarding pass, and turned his back. What? I could barely navigate through this airport - how was I to navigate through Texas?

But nothing motivates action like lack of choice. Following signs and asking strangers, I finally got into a cab. After a ride of about 25 minutes, we swerved off the highway, leaving behind the rising towers of downtown ahead of us. Circling around the blocks of one story houses, the driver finally spotted the Mexican flag ahead of us. This was the consulate? A shabby building a block from a gas station, with no entrance in sight, half a wooden fence, and a line of disgruntled people out front. Vincente Fox and Ban Ki-Moon would cry. This was definetely not New York.

We stopped in front of a laundromat-looking place, but with signs announcing COPIES PASSPORT COPIES in the window. A group of rugged looking men eyed us from the front, while another explained that the consulate entrance was in the back, and that the process could take an hour, or two, or a day - who knew with these visa proceedings? Thank God, the driver offered to wait. Needless to say, I tipped him well.

Going around the photo-copy building, up a rickety wooden ramp, and further on to the second floor, I entered the consulate. My eyes widened at the line of people snaking to get up to the "Passport" windows. There was well over a hundred. Every single one looked Mexican. The memory of hours of waiting in the greencard line flashed in my head. So, that's why I'm here, I realized. God allowed me to see first handed the US-Mexican relations at the border state, excellent background information for my thesis on immigration.

Ironically, only 4 people waited at the "Visa" counter. The administrator sighed in annoyance when he heard my story. "They are confused over there" he said of the BUSH Continental workers. Apparently, I was not the only person in this situation. He stamped a 90 day permit into my travel passport and waved goodbye. No visa required.

Triumphant, I returned to the airport, and changed to a flight to Leon (another blessing, as Leon is 2 hours closer to San Miguel than DF). Sitting in the front seat at the tiny air jet, I gazed out the window, loving flying. Fear and excitement gripped my heart every time the airplane shook with turbulence as we entered another cloud. I was inside clouds! And the mountains, so majestic even from above. Exhausted but exhilirated, I drifted off to sleep.

The voice of the flight attendant asking about sandwich choices woke me. I asked for a vegetarian option. "Oh," she wrinkled her forehead. "We don't do that anymore." Can I say no more Continental? So much for my sincere appreciation of their marketing campaign...

We landed in Silao, which is to BUSH Int'l what David must have appeared to Goliath. Ah, but more aventuras. As expected, while I flew to Leon, my suitcase safely arrived miles away in Mexico City. I explained the situation to the Continental agent, and arranged to have a delivery to CASA. I was just grateful that he understood my Spanish. After many assurances from airport staff, I got into a taxi to San Miguel, to the house of Shelley, the CASA intern coordinator. An hour and a half later,she took me in, fed me salad (another vegetarian) and let me use her shower and a spare bedroom downstairs. I fell asleep across the hall from her four year old, grateful to finally be in San Miguel.