Arrival

Scan my passport into the app? How?

I was dead tired when I arrived at Chicago's O'Hare International for a red-eye flight to Guadalajara. I mistakenly thought that an overnight flight might be fun and different. After all, I've no problem sleeping on airplanes; the white noise of the engines along with the rocking of the aircraft and, boom, I'm out like a baby. 

Valium helps, too. 

Instead of checking in with a polite airline employee at a normal ticket counter -- you know, like God intended -- I was told to use the airline's app and have it scan my passport. My stress-level rose due to the unfamiliar, new procedure. It was the middle of the night and I was already apprehensive and punchy.

Finally, the camera on my phone figured out what part of the passport to scan and I was "in". 

Well, that was kinda cool. I was now an international traveler. 

Even though I was flying on a discount, Mexican airline, I'd paid extra for the extra legroom. I'm 6'2" and "upper-middle-age", so I need it and deserve it. A four-hour flight would kill my back without the extra legroom. 

The flight was uneventful aside from the fact that I forget to bring a pen to use for the customs form handed out during the trip. Also, I forgot how to say "pen" in Spanish. A bi-lingual flight attendant came to my rescue. 

Upon landing, my phone texted "Welcome to Mexico" to me. I then emailed myself as a test and was very relieved to see that I, indeed, had reception. Before leaving, I had checked with T-Mobil three times to ensure I would. I was so relieved. I could, at least, be connected. You never know when you might need to scan a passport into an app or something. 

The first step at the Guadalajara airport was to go through immigration. In halting, limping Spanish, I was able to say I'd be there for 30 days. I handed in my customs form and a tourist visa was handed over. 

The second step was retrieving my luggage. No Spanish required. 

Step three was waiting in line for the customs officials. As I neared the front of the line, I noticed everyone around me were holding forms they'd filled out. I asked the elderly couple behind me if they spoke English (they did) and I asked about the forms. Seeing my predicament, the lovely gentlemen trotted over to a table, retrieved the form, saw that I still didn't have a pen, and produced one. It was a second customs form to be handed to the baggage inspector who I was about to encounter. The line was moving pretty fast. The lovely gentleman helped me fill it out and I made it just in time. I can't remember how many times I said, "Muchas gracias!" to him, but it was a lot. He deserved it. 

A cursory inspection of my baggage was made. My gray-and-blue monk's habit was held up, an eyebrow raised, and I was on my way. 

Fortunately, I'd been told how to obtain a taxi. Just head to the kiosk labeled TAXI, tell them where I want to go, pay, then hold my receipt up to the taxis waiting outside. 

"Voy a Ajijic," I proudly blurted. ("I'm going to Ajijic.")

"Quiniento cuarenta pesos," was his reply, so fast there could have been a sonic boom trailing it.

My perplexed expression caused him to immediately say, "Five-hundred forty pesos," in perfect English.  I fumbled with my currency. "Twenty-six bucks," he added. 

Receipt in hand, a taxi driver had my bags in the trunk with blinding speed. 

"Voy a Ajijic, por favor," I announced, a little more confidently. Then, I added the phrase that would serve me well with every encounter: "Estoy aprendiendo español." ("I am learning Spanish.") It broke the ice and took the pressure off me from feeling so self-conscious. The taxi driver smiled and said I spoke very well. Having studied Latin for three years in the monastery paid off, I guess. My Latinized accent was, apparently, pretty decent. At least I didn't sound like Peggy Hill. 

The 30-minute trip to the small town of Ajijic was uneventful. Even though it was early in the morning, it was completely dark. I noticed that the cab driver didn't have GPS at all, so I had to use my thankfully-connected GPS to find the address, la direccion. He needed to turn right at one point.

"La derecha, aqui, por favor," (Right, here, please) I said, probably sounding like a three-year old.  I'm glad he needed to turn right, because I couldn't remember how to say "left" in Spanish. 

We were bumping down the narrowest cobblestone street you could imagine. The town was pitch-dark and pitch-quiet. Another right turn (thank God) and I was there. 

I'd made it. 

I was greeted and shown to my living quarters. My little casita looked so Spanish and so Colonial. 

I was just so happy I'd made it. 

This trip was really outside my comfort zone. For the past twenty years, I'd only flown to from Chicago to Texas and back to see my family. Now that Mom and Dad had gracefully passed, I was free to travel, speak Spanish badly, and rent a casita for a month.

Later that morning, I stopped by a convenience store for a Diet Coke. I had been up for 30 hours without sleep -- the Valium and the plane ride did nothing to help -- and I was exhausted. 

I couldn't understand the price the clerk told me. It was a simple veinte pesos (twenty pesos).

I felt so out-of-place. I was exhausted and anxious. 

I thought, "What the hell am I doing here?"

I felt utterly despondent.

I wanted to cry. 

I wanted the app to scan my passport . . . and fly me home.