Well, here we are.  Back in Mexico. Three weeks now.  I’m sure Aaron is relieved I actually got on that plane but can’t say I’m necessarily adjusting very well now that I’m here again…might have been a mistake to go home after only having put in 6 months…I now understand that culture shock can rear it’s uncomfortable head at any point during any (mis?) adventure.   Many people continue to tell me that this is a place like no other on many levels… and getting used to the way it “works” again has tested even my reasonably intact patience, tolerance and flexibility.  I suppose time will once again allow me to stop seeing the injustice and insanity of it all and instead begin to see the absurdity and potential humour inherent? Perhaps I caught a glimpse just the other evening during our Spanish class when Mansell burst out in the middle of a lesson, “There’s a guy in the trunk!!”  Our tutor dismisses his observation, noting that they are not “drunk” but simply sliding around in the muck, as it is rainy season and they are on a construction site (referring to the property adjacent to us where a very ugly monstrosity of a house is being built.)  A pause as they consider what the other has said, expressions clearly indicating a growing realization that neither has been properly understood, when Mansell stands up and points out the window to emphasize and clarify,

“NO, there is actually a guy in that trunk.  He just put himself in there!?”

Without missing a beat or appearing to be surprised, our tutor finally understands and dismisses it as “normal” noting, “Of course, he just doesn’t want to walk all the way to the gate… security at the main gate will find him when they do their daily search of the car and the people in it…” and on she went with our “pasado” (past tense) lesson.  See?  In this alternative universe, that is considered normal… need I say it, but that is actually quite absurd…for someone to willingly climb into a trunk and close it on himself just to avoid walking to the gate for the bus, taxi or hitch-hiked ride he would have to take – he was the unlucky one who just could not squeeze into that tiny 2-door car with 10 of his fellow workers already crammed in…

So let me think back and share a few of the many “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot” moments that have happened since returning…We recently watched Tina Fey’s Whiskey Tango Foxtrot movie based on the true story of a US expat journalist in Afghanistan – of course this is no Afghanistan, and thankfully our circumstances are completely different,  but we could so relate to that feeling that this place is very “other-worldly” and has us constantly reacting to and shaking our heads over the insanity and absurdity we encounter… again, could be the culture shock talking…(although I do worry for the day I might come to see this as “normal”…)

Upon first arriving at the house, after a two hour INSANE Uber drive back from the airport, we discovered that we had no internet, no phone, my cell service had been cut off and Aaron’s car would not start (turns out the battery had died from all the functions that still drain power even after the car is off, and it had been off for a while!)… Our bills were four days overdue, having been delivered while we were away (two months past when we should have received them initially, but of course this is all our problem…) and so our service was cut.  Took four months to get internet and phone installed in the first place, and only four days to lose it!!! Then two days after arriving, HR at the company sent us an email requesting the documents for our FM3 (temporary residency visa) permits… she did not have them… we submitted them early last March for processing… she should have them… I’m sure they sat on her desk for the longest time and this inaction caused a huge panic as we were preparing to go back to Canada for summer – we had to get a special letter of permission to leave the country and then be able to return again…reading that email I realized that nothing further had been done to get the cards ready… she was just getting to it and needed our documents to complete it… I was beside myself for a few days while the mystery of the missing identification documents (all birth certs and our marriage license) was investigated…and furious that nothing had been in the works for the two months we were gone… when in June we had the nerve to protest the previous lack of action and the difficult position it had put us in for travelling, we were met with a rather lengthy yet vague explanation of the “process” and our role in it’s failure… which boiled my blood at that time too, as we heroically jumped through their ridiculously twisted hoops to obtain exactly the right legalized documents to prove our Canadian citizenship… and presented the documents to them with plenty of time to “process” into a proper visa… the thought that they may now be lost and that it was going to somehow be our “fault” was nearly too much… turns out the lawyer who drafted our emergency immigration letters still had our documents, had misplaced them briefly, but then found them… so I suppose I’ll consider myself lucky to actually have FM3 cards in hand when we travel again next summer…

Right, I remember now… must have zero expectations to survive this…

Last Tuesday, we arrive home after battling thick after school traffic (takes me 2.5-3 hours to simply pick up the kids from school right now with the traffic…) to find Alberto, our guitar Maestro already here.  I hurry the kids inside to wash their hands, change and grab a quick bite to eat and then I chat briefly with Alberto to buy them time enough to accomplish all this.  “How was your summer?”  “The traffic has been terrible, hasn’t it?” “Would you like something to drink?  Tea, Coffee, Water?”  That last question, benign as it seems, set in motion a chain of events quite unexpected.  He lit up when I suggested tea.  “Tea – green tea!” he requests.  Knowing I have no green tea, I suggest black tea instead.  This suits him and so next I wonder,  “What do you take in your tea – milk and sugar?”  He shakes his head “no” and gestures to the left, his hands forming the shape of a cup and indicates “just tea” in that cup then moves his hands to indicate another air cup on the right, “and ice” in that one… hmmmm…. not wanting to betray too obviously my naivete, wondering if this is another Mexican thing I don’t get,  I cheerily agree and Mansell appears, ready for his lesson.  As the two of them get started, I disappear into the kitchen and begin to puzzle over how to deliver “just tea” and “just ice”.  I presume he means “iced tea” and maybe thinks I’ve offered a processed bottle of iced tea? (of which I have none.)   Ok… how does one make Iced Tea in a hurry?  First, must steep some tea … then must cool it … would he be expecting sweet tea? Lemon too?  I am weak with stifled laughter, as I consider how I’ve come to be in yet another ridiculous circumstance…serves me right for trying to be so damn Canadian.  Caleigh and Hudson are watching me race to fill the kettle, steep some tea, little hands catching their own spilling giggles as I scramble to put together “just tea” and “just ice”, so thankful I actually made more ice  yesterday…once I think I’ve got it,  I draw in a breath, chuckle and head out to deliver his drink… he puts the glass to his lips and starts to gulp, gulp, gulp. Nervously I say, “Well, it’s a thirsty kind of day isn’t it?” He pauses to catch his breath and exhales happily, “That’s my favourite drink of all time!”  “I’ll remember that,” I assure him.  “Thank you,” he says and as his arms are full of guitar, I offer to place what’s left of the drink on a nearby table. Mansell grins widely at me, perhaps impressed that I passed this latest “lost in translation” test,  and it’s truly all I can do not to crack up, so I escape quickly and leave them to their lesson, praying he doesn’t ask for a second glass!

It’s our little secret.

Oh,  I was rudely reminded of tipping “best practices” when the two men delivering the mattress we purchased would not leave the house.  For 7 blissful weeks at home I had a break from giving money to every person who even had a thought to help me out… I understand that wages here are so low that tipping really helps balance out an income, but honestly, sometimes the constant expectation of a tip, especially when no real help has been delivered, is frustrating.  I directed them to the basement door to bring it in and was on my way up the stairs to collect their tip, having forgotten to pop some change in my pocket before meeting them, a bit rusty with the routine.  They catch me before I head up, show me the receipt (which happens to be written entirely in Spanish) and insist that money for a drink is written into the agreement… WHAT?!.. I play the “dumb foreigner, speaks and understands no Spanish” card and say I don’t understand and go upstairs to “call a friend”…having a Spanish speaking friend in your back pocket is very useful here, to help you translate, to call their bluff…  I’m ticked but I know what they are doing; they think I don’t understand that a tip is “required” so are trying to illicit a tip under a more official, “mandatory” pretense… and they will not leave… so I throw 20 pesos at them and tell them to get the hell out of my house… these ones were a little too bold for my liking.

Ah, yes, and there was the time just last week I took the dog for a quick spin before taking her with me to go pick up the kids – I’ve taken to having her with me when I’m driving around; I’ve recently discovered that Mexicans are, in general, quite unnerved by dogs. She’s my furry private security, reasonably priced, quite portable and big, black and scary to many.   On our way back down the hill to the house, I hear all this glass smashing behind me.  I spin round and honestly do a double, no triple, take.  Back at the top of the hill is a little white car being helped(?) over a speed “bump” by another little white car… the glass crash was the previously perfectly intact headlights of the car behind busting into pieces as it pushed the other car over…talk about lending a hand, er, bumper!?  Or someone just snapped, tired of waiting for the car in front to work it’s way over the bump? Either scenario is perfectly plausible… I honestly never know what I might see or encounter here…anything could happen.