Postales del Paraíso
License Plates
The moving van picked up our furniture in Seattle and we headed out, hoping to make it to Mexico before the furniture arrived. Before we left Seattle, Cathy found a company in Laredo that claimed to be able to export/import our car to comply with the Mexican laws, so we forwarded them copies of our passports, car title, registration, VIN number, a check for $500, etc, etc, etc, only to find when we arrived that the company address that they provided turns out to be a warehouse on the wrong side of the tracks stacked to the rafters with enormous bales of raw cotton and nobody there had ever heard of any car import company.
After a few anxiety-filled hours we tracked down the company, paid them several hundred dollars more and then drove across the border and checked into a hotel. They then followed us across the border and took the car back to the U.S. The plan is that they will take the car through customs and immigration in the morning and deliver the stamped and approved vehicle to us sometime tomorrow. We're currently waiting anxiously. If I thought more than a month ago, that mailing copies of our passports and personal information as well as all the documentation on our car to an unknown address three thousand miles away on the Texas border was a leap of faith, it now pales in comparison to driving across the border to an unfamiliar town in Mexico and handing over the keys to our car to a perfect stranger. But moving to Mexico requires more than one leap of faith, and this is just the latest in a series. We'll find out tomorrow if our naivety was justified… it's a long walk back to the border.
The only problem with checking into a hotel in Mexico with a pet is that they are not allowed. So, the dog is relatively small, and we zipped him into a piece of our luggage and got past the front desk, unfortunately the dog stuck his head up just as we passed a security guard on the way up to our room and they kicked us out. So, at risk of suffocating the dog, we stuffed him into another suitcase and successfully smuggled him into a different hotel on the other side of Nuevo Laredo. So far, we've been unsuccessful in getting the dog to pee in the bathtub so we're trying to figure out how to once again smuggle him past the front desk tonight and again tomorrow morning to take care of his necessities.
If you don't hear from us again, you'll know this didn't quite work out as planned. Otherwise we'll be in touch when we get "home".
Day 2
No car. No returned phone calls. Can’t get ahold of the import company to let them know were no longer staying at the hotel where they dropped us off. The dog has to pee (again). Starting to worry.
Day 3
After two days of waiting in the Nuevo Laredo hotel our car was delivered to us with an additional 250 miles on the odometer (the border is less than five miles from the hotel), less half a tank of gas, completely devoid of any thing that was not bolted to the interior, (owner’s manual, registration, ice scraper, maps, toll receipts, flashlight, oil change sticker on the windshield, etc. etc). It did however include an official looking document stating that the vehicle had passed a customs inspection and we now have five days to obtain license plates that are only issued in the state in which we will reside. It’s now Tuesday afternoon so if we leave in the morning, we should arrive in Ajijic on Thursday evening leaving us all day Friday to obtain the license plates. Simple!
So we drive into Guadalajara on Friday morning to the address provided and after two hours of finding ourselves in yet another wrong office, in yet another wrong building, we are told that the license plates are actually issued in Tonala but an appointment is required and an auto emissions certificate must be submitted with the license application. The emissions test must be done in the place of residence, which is of course Ajijic where we began the day. So, someone makes an appointment for us at 7:00 AM on Monday in Tonola and we drive to back to Ajijic and get the emissions test.
At 7:00 AM on Monday it’s still pitch black (the sun doesn’t rise until about 7:30), it’s pouring rain, and we find ourselves driving up and down every unmarked, impossibly narrow, cobblestone street in Tonola trying to find the right place. The address that we were given turns out to be a police station and they can’t figure out what a couple of bewildered old gringos are doing standing in the rain and the dark banging on their door at 7:00 AM. They gesture vaguely that the place we want is several blocks away. So, we get back in the car and drive to the wrong place and sit there for half an hour wondering why no one else has shown up.
Eventually we find the correct building, walk inside, announce that we have a 7:00 AM appointment, and with a sigh of relief sit patiently for our number to be called. Several hours later our number is called and we are asked for our passports, visas, immigration documents, title to the car (two copies, front and back), copy of registration, proof of residence (phone or electric bill with our name on it), marriage license (original only, no copies allowed – go figure). We are then told that no license plates are being issued today, and that we should come back tomorrow at the same time. When asked why this is necessary we’re informed with a wink and a smile that today is Labor Day.
While we know that Labor Day as celebrated in the U.S. is not a holiday in Mexico it would not be until later that we find out that the real reason no license plates were being issued that day was because it was pouring rain and nobody wanted to stand out in the rain checking VIN numbers and performing the required inspections.
We arrive once again at the appointed hour the following morning (no rain!) and then wait another hour for the process to begin. Eventually we’re all herded out of the building and the team of inspectors proceeds to go down the line and systematically check everyone’s paperwork and inspect all the cars that have been obediently lined up in the field outside, license plates removed, hood open, keys in the ignition, owner standing in front of the car with appropriate papers in hand. When it’s our turn the lead inspector declines to look at the required documents that we offer to him, or inspect the car, and instead smiles broadly, “Oh yes!" he says with a look of recognition, "I trust you had an enjoyable Labor Day!” he nods as he hands us the approved certificates. We are then informed that it will be approximately another two hours before the cashier arrives and we can pay for and be issued the license plates.
While waiting we decide to see if we can find a cup of coffee, so we head out knowing that there are no Starbucks here, but hoping to find a little tianquis or street market. We find one almost right around the corner. This one is small, maybe 15 or 20 separate stalls where the vendors are just beginning to set up for the day. There are several fruit stands, a baker, butcher, a fish monger, and a breakfast/lunch counter run by three abuelas. We settle onto our torn vinyl stools and order coffees from across the cratered and duck taped, formica countertop and then set back and watch as these three grandmothers prepare their shop for the day. Extension cords hang haphazardly in front of food splattered postcards and photos taped to the cracked tile wall behind the counter. Chilaquiles salsa bubbles in a blackened pot on the roaring propane burner, layering with the alluring aroma of broiling tomatillos, and the scent of fresh cut cilantro. One abuelita quickly minces tomatoes and onions in the palm of her hand using a knife that’s almost a machete (no cutting boards here) while her sister temporarily unplugs a light from a dangling extension cord to plug in an old Hamilton Beach blender and purees a mango peanut butter salsa to perfection. Boiling hot water for our coffee arrives in mismatched ceramic Christmas mugs along with an open bottle of Nescafe thoughtfully placed in front of us so that we can prepare our own coffee just the way we like it. When I ask for cream someone points to a pitcher of milk at the other end of the counter that was delivered straight from the cow across the street about an hour ago.
The oldest abuela, I would guess she was in her late 70’s, alternates between engaging her new arrivals and tending to a battered pot, steaming and bubbling on the stovetop. With a large wooden spoon she’ll put a dollop of the white creamy froth onto the back of her hand, taste it, add something else from an array of plastic bags on the back counter and then patiently stirs, repeating the process until she seems satisfied and then tosses the spoon in the pot, just letting it boil. A few minutes later she dips a styrofoam cup into the liquid and then stepping back from the stove pours it in a long slow stream into another cup. She then pours the steaming froth back and forth between the cups from ever increasing heights like a Turkish coffee maker in the bazaar. She pours a little bit onto the back of her hand, as if testing the temperature of a baby bottle, tastes it, smiles, and gestures to me if I’d like to try it. This, it turns out, is oatmeal, Mexican style. Made with the same thick milk from the neighbor’s cow that I used in my coffee, it is slightly thinner than a porridge, has just a hint of cinnamon and it is served as a drink. It is warm, impossibly creamy, immensely satisfying and absolutely delicious. I notice that several people at the counter are watching me, smiling, obviously amused that this old gringo is so enthralled with something as simple and common as oatmeal for breakfast. I toast them all with my last swallow, thank our newly found grandmothers, and we leave to see if the cashier has arrived with our license plates.
The wait is no more than an hour and a half, relatively prompt by local standards, and they again herd the entire group of about 50 people out of the building, across the field of waiting cars, around the corner and up the street. No one seems to know where we’re going but we follow obediently feeling vaguely as if we’re on a high school field trip. When we arrive at the designated building we are counted in, arranged numerically in long rows of folding chairs, and we wait. And we wait.
As Cathy will attest, I’m not the most patient guy you’ve ever come across, but just when I’ve reached my limit and begin squirming impatiently and muttering under by breath, they start calling out numbers and we start mentally reviewing in our halting Spanish the numbers from 1 to 27 so when they call our number we don’t sit there like idiots, miss our turn and have to come back again tomorrow.
“VEINTESIETE!” a gruff and impatient voice calls out. “Did he say 27 or was that 26?” “What’s the Spanish for 27?” “Veintiuno, veintidós , veintitrés, veinticuatro…” We hurry to the counter, give him our number, sign about 12 different documents in Spanish stating we don’t know what, and he hands us our shiny new Jalisco license plates. We want to celebrate! It’s like having a baby shower or a baptism! One more cultural milestone completed - it’s very sad when getting new license plates for your car is the highlight of your week, but we’ve come to the point where we celebrate the small accomplishments in life.
We bolt our new plates to the old car and proudly drive off beaming like new parents as we turn to each other with the same thought. How long do you think it will take to get all our furniture across the border? Let’s see, this is 2016…
The moving van picked up our furniture in Seattle and we headed out, hoping to make it to Mexico before the furniture arrived. Before we left Seattle, Cathy found a company in Laredo that claimed to be able to export/import our car to comply with the Mexican laws, so we forwarded them copies of our passports, car title, registration, VIN number, a check for $500, etc, etc, etc, only to find when we arrived that the company address that they provided turns out to be a warehouse on the wrong side of the tracks stacked to the rafters with enormous bales of raw cotton and nobody there had ever heard of any car import company.
After a few anxiety-filled hours we tracked down the company, paid them several hundred dollars more and then drove across the border and checked into a hotel. They then followed us across the border and took the car back to the U.S. The plan is that they will take the car through customs and immigration in the morning and deliver the stamped and approved vehicle to us sometime tomorrow. We're currently waiting anxiously. If I thought more than a month ago, that mailing copies of our passports and personal information as well as all the documentation on our car to an unknown address three thousand miles away on the Texas border was a leap of faith, it now pales in comparison to driving across the border to an unfamiliar town in Mexico and handing over the keys to our car to a perfect stranger. But moving to Mexico requires more than one leap of faith, and this is just the latest in a series. We'll find out tomorrow if our naivety was justified… it's a long walk back to the border.
The only problem with checking into a hotel in Mexico with a pet is that they are not allowed. So, the dog is relatively small, and we zipped him into a piece of our luggage and got past the front desk, unfortunately the dog stuck his head up just as we passed a security guard on the way up to our room and they kicked us out. So, at risk of suffocating the dog, we stuffed him into another suitcase and successfully smuggled him into a different hotel on the other side of Nuevo Laredo. So far, we've been unsuccessful in getting the dog to pee in the bathtub so we're trying to figure out how to once again smuggle him past the front desk tonight and again tomorrow morning to take care of his necessities.
If you don't hear from us again, you'll know this didn't quite work out as planned. Otherwise we'll be in touch when we get "home".
Day 2
No car. No returned phone calls. Can’t get ahold of the import company to let them know were no longer staying at the hotel where they dropped us off. The dog has to pee (again). Starting to worry.
Day 3
After two days of waiting in the Nuevo Laredo hotel our car was delivered to us with an additional 250 miles on the odometer (the border is less than five miles from the hotel), less half a tank of gas, completely devoid of any thing that was not bolted to the interior, (owner’s manual, registration, ice scraper, maps, toll receipts, flashlight, oil change sticker on the windshield, etc. etc). It did however include an official looking document stating that the vehicle had passed a customs inspection and we now have five days to obtain license plates that are only issued in the state in which we will reside. It’s now Tuesday afternoon so if we leave in the morning, we should arrive in Ajijic on Thursday evening leaving us all day Friday to obtain the license plates. Simple!
So we drive into Guadalajara on Friday morning to the address provided and after two hours of finding ourselves in yet another wrong office, in yet another wrong building, we are told that the license plates are actually issued in Tonala but an appointment is required and an auto emissions certificate must be submitted with the license application. The emissions test must be done in the place of residence, which is of course Ajijic where we began the day. So, someone makes an appointment for us at 7:00 AM on Monday in Tonola and we drive to back to Ajijic and get the emissions test.
At 7:00 AM on Monday it’s still pitch black (the sun doesn’t rise until about 7:30), it’s pouring rain, and we find ourselves driving up and down every unmarked, impossibly narrow, cobblestone street in Tonola trying to find the right place. The address that we were given turns out to be a police station and they can’t figure out what a couple of bewildered old gringos are doing standing in the rain and the dark banging on their door at 7:00 AM. They gesture vaguely that the place we want is several blocks away. So, we get back in the car and drive to the wrong place and sit there for half an hour wondering why no one else has shown up.
Eventually we find the correct building, walk inside, announce that we have a 7:00 AM appointment, and with a sigh of relief sit patiently for our number to be called. Several hours later our number is called and we are asked for our passports, visas, immigration documents, title to the car (two copies, front and back), copy of registration, proof of residence (phone or electric bill with our name on it), marriage license (original only, no copies allowed – go figure). We are then told that no license plates are being issued today, and that we should come back tomorrow at the same time. When asked why this is necessary we’re informed with a wink and a smile that today is Labor Day.
While we know that Labor Day as celebrated in the U.S. is not a holiday in Mexico it would not be until later that we find out that the real reason no license plates were being issued that day was because it was pouring rain and nobody wanted to stand out in the rain checking VIN numbers and performing the required inspections.
We arrive once again at the appointed hour the following morning (no rain!) and then wait another hour for the process to begin. Eventually we’re all herded out of the building and the team of inspectors proceeds to go down the line and systematically check everyone’s paperwork and inspect all the cars that have been obediently lined up in the field outside, license plates removed, hood open, keys in the ignition, owner standing in front of the car with appropriate papers in hand. When it’s our turn the lead inspector declines to look at the required documents that we offer to him, or inspect the car, and instead smiles broadly, “Oh yes!" he says with a look of recognition, "I trust you had an enjoyable Labor Day!” he nods as he hands us the approved certificates. We are then informed that it will be approximately another two hours before the cashier arrives and we can pay for and be issued the license plates.
While waiting we decide to see if we can find a cup of coffee, so we head out knowing that there are no Starbucks here, but hoping to find a little tianquis or street market. We find one almost right around the corner. This one is small, maybe 15 or 20 separate stalls where the vendors are just beginning to set up for the day. There are several fruit stands, a baker, butcher, a fish monger, and a breakfast/lunch counter run by three abuelas. We settle onto our torn vinyl stools and order coffees from across the cratered and duck taped, formica countertop and then set back and watch as these three grandmothers prepare their shop for the day. Extension cords hang haphazardly in front of food splattered postcards and photos taped to the cracked tile wall behind the counter. Chilaquiles salsa bubbles in a blackened pot on the roaring propane burner, layering with the alluring aroma of broiling tomatillos, and the scent of fresh cut cilantro. One abuelita quickly minces tomatoes and onions in the palm of her hand using a knife that’s almost a machete (no cutting boards here) while her sister temporarily unplugs a light from a dangling extension cord to plug in an old Hamilton Beach blender and purees a mango peanut butter salsa to perfection. Boiling hot water for our coffee arrives in mismatched ceramic Christmas mugs along with an open bottle of Nescafe thoughtfully placed in front of us so that we can prepare our own coffee just the way we like it. When I ask for cream someone points to a pitcher of milk at the other end of the counter that was delivered straight from the cow across the street about an hour ago.
The oldest abuela, I would guess she was in her late 70’s, alternates between engaging her new arrivals and tending to a battered pot, steaming and bubbling on the stovetop. With a large wooden spoon she’ll put a dollop of the white creamy froth onto the back of her hand, taste it, add something else from an array of plastic bags on the back counter and then patiently stirs, repeating the process until she seems satisfied and then tosses the spoon in the pot, just letting it boil. A few minutes later she dips a styrofoam cup into the liquid and then stepping back from the stove pours it in a long slow stream into another cup. She then pours the steaming froth back and forth between the cups from ever increasing heights like a Turkish coffee maker in the bazaar. She pours a little bit onto the back of her hand, as if testing the temperature of a baby bottle, tastes it, smiles, and gestures to me if I’d like to try it. This, it turns out, is oatmeal, Mexican style. Made with the same thick milk from the neighbor’s cow that I used in my coffee, it is slightly thinner than a porridge, has just a hint of cinnamon and it is served as a drink. It is warm, impossibly creamy, immensely satisfying and absolutely delicious. I notice that several people at the counter are watching me, smiling, obviously amused that this old gringo is so enthralled with something as simple and common as oatmeal for breakfast. I toast them all with my last swallow, thank our newly found grandmothers, and we leave to see if the cashier has arrived with our license plates.
The wait is no more than an hour and a half, relatively prompt by local standards, and they again herd the entire group of about 50 people out of the building, across the field of waiting cars, around the corner and up the street. No one seems to know where we’re going but we follow obediently feeling vaguely as if we’re on a high school field trip. When we arrive at the designated building we are counted in, arranged numerically in long rows of folding chairs, and we wait. And we wait.
As Cathy will attest, I’m not the most patient guy you’ve ever come across, but just when I’ve reached my limit and begin squirming impatiently and muttering under by breath, they start calling out numbers and we start mentally reviewing in our halting Spanish the numbers from 1 to 27 so when they call our number we don’t sit there like idiots, miss our turn and have to come back again tomorrow.
“VEINTESIETE!” a gruff and impatient voice calls out. “Did he say 27 or was that 26?” “What’s the Spanish for 27?” “Veintiuno, veintidós , veintitrés, veinticuatro…” We hurry to the counter, give him our number, sign about 12 different documents in Spanish stating we don’t know what, and he hands us our shiny new Jalisco license plates. We want to celebrate! It’s like having a baby shower or a baptism! One more cultural milestone completed - it’s very sad when getting new license plates for your car is the highlight of your week, but we’ve come to the point where we celebrate the small accomplishments in life.
We bolt our new plates to the old car and proudly drive off beaming like new parents as we turn to each other with the same thought. How long do you think it will take to get all our furniture across the border? Let’s see, this is 2016…
No comments:
Post a Comment