Una Noche Perfecta

So, what shall we do on Sunday? We slept late. I still had a nap in the afternoon.

Overnight sleep is earned income. It’s a crummy paycheck of rest after you punch out of your weary daily timeclock. Various taxes on your time are taken out of the balance: A neighbor’s barking dog, the trash truck at an uncommon hour, various bips and braps from your phone.

I prefer naps. They’re like stolen sleep. All honest people will admit that anything stolen is sweeter than anything earned. Me and the cat decided it was 95 degrees, and running a marathon was out of the question. We passed out on the bed under the first ceiling fan that’s ever done me a good turn.

When night begins to fall, you put on your guayabera, and you can walk in the breeze to la iglesia. We went to the church in Santiago. La Parroquia de Santiago Apóstol. Santiago is one of the apostles, better known as James to norteamericanos.

The church is older than sin, almost. Finished in 1637. The mass was in Spanish, and my spanish is no bueno, but if you don’t recognize the Pater Noster in any language, you should go to confession and beg for forgiveness, or maybe alms for Spanish lessons.

So my wife was wearing a nice dress, and I was borderline presentable, so we went out into the starlight and wandered another ten or fifteen minutes down the calle to the Plaza Grande. There’s always something going on down there, but we’d forgotten that they dance the Cumbia in the street in front of the town hall every Sunday. This time, we did too.

The gringos mostly stay on the sidewalk and take pictures. The locals smiled broadly at us for joining in. My wife alternated between a huge grin and an equally huge grimace when I stepped on her feet, but all in all, quite a successful soiree. It’s the kind of dance you can learn by watching other people do it:

The explanation of the lyrics on that video is a hoot.

Then we walked across the park to Picheta, the best restaurant in town, I think. I haven’t eaten in all of them, so maybe that’s unfair, but I ain’t no monument to justice. No matter what the other restaurants put on their plates, only one will let you sit on the roof next to the governor’s palace and pester their bartender. They had three behind the bar when we arrived, but sent out for a fourth when they saw an Irish housepainter was in the house.

The food is dynamite at Picheta, too. We were only abusing our livers on Sunday, but we’ve eaten there before. I’ve had this, for instance:

Butter-and-rosemary aged beef steak, sauté of truffled mushrooms and tree spinach served with mashed potatoes
$ 560.00

I realize that in Boston or New York, you can actually pay $560 for a steak, but to avoid confusion, I guess I should clue you in that Mexico uses the dollar sign for pesos. A peso is about a nickel, so that steak is about 32 bucks American. You can’t get a glass of water in a Ruth Chris steakhouse for 32 bucks. At Picheta, it’s about the most expensive thing on the menu, in one of the poshest restaurants in town. If we’ve chosen a place to live unwisely, the unwisdom of it hasn’t slapped me in the face yet.

This is the view standing in front of the restaurant entrance looking the opposite way from the last photo:

We live in a neighborhood (colonia) called Santiago. It’s an older part of the city. We can walk to the Plaza Grande in about twenty or thirty minutes. It’s fun to walk home in the cool of the evening (78 degrees), the starlight and the streetlights taking turns keeping us company, after una noche perfecta.

Avoiding the Rio Grande Button

[It’s a long road that has no turning. Here’s the end of our quest for temporary residency permits in Mexico]

We went to our appointments the next day, and I shook Omar’s hand like a pump handle until he made me stop. I went first while my wife cooled her heels in the waiting room. Literally. They have air conditioning.

I got a “Tale of Two Cities” moment. To Have and Have Not. Your interview is held in one of those rows of glass cattle chutes that gummint offices love. The glass is not between you and the agent, though, like in the US. It just separates all the interviewees from each other. On my left, there was an American woman, dressed like a common streetwalker, with yarn hair, giant fake eyelashes, and an attitude that would make Joe Isuzu seem taciturn and forthright in comparison.

Me? I just nodded and smiled at Aida, the pleasant clerk who was helping me.  I had my giant binder filled with written proof of everything that has ever happened in my life, from conception to the hope of resurrection. Next door, she had nothing, just kept telling the clerk to give her a resident card, and hurry up, because she used to have one, but she lost it. Over. And over. And over again. She also stood up, six different times, without any explanation, and went in the ladies’ room, leaving the clerk sitting there mystified.

Aida arrived at a hole in my paperwork. It was some form I was supposed to download from their website that summed up my (electronic) interactions at the immigration desk at the airport. I think her finger was lingering over a button that opened up a chute under my chair that ended up in the Rio Grande somewhere while she asked for it.

I mumbled and made puppy eyes, and she took pity on me. She called up the form on her screen, and filled it out for me. She later did the same for my wife. Aida, if you’re reading this (I know you’re not), we love you.

There was less love on display in the next chute over. After the sixth trip to the john, the clerk called over a very stout looking gent. He spoke pretty good English to the candidate next door, so I don’t have to guess what was being said. Get out. Not out of the office. Not out of the city. Out of the country. Now. Get out and start over. I was mildly disappointed. I’d hoped to see the Rio Grande button in action, but she left in a huff before they could press it.

We’d read on the internet (har har) that there was an elaborate dance to pay the fee for your residency card. It’s not cheap, about $650 per person, depending on the exchange rate. You were supposed to get a ticket, and then go to a nearby bank, belly up to the ready teller outside and take out close to 12,000 pesos, run to the human teller inside with your bushel of banknotes, pay the fee, show the ticket, and then go back to the INM office with your receipt. As is often the case, the internet rides the information shortbus. They have a credit card reader right at each clerk’s counter now. Easy.

Then you’re told to go home and wait. I suppose they still could still have changed their minds and told us to: Get out. Not out of the office. Not out of the city. Out of the country. Now. Get out and start over. But they told us by email to come back the next day, to get fingerprinted, photographed, and write our signatures. They issue the cards right then and there, which look like a driver’s license, but aren’t.

The clerk making my license had to ask me a few questions, and unlike everyone else in the line, she told me to stay seated for my picture, perhaps because she didn’t want a picture of my belt buckle. She asked me if I spoke Spanish. I hit her with the usual, “Estoy aprendiendo espanol poco a poco.”

She didn’t miss a beat, and said, in Spanish, “Good. Then learn Yucatecan.”

I said, “Yo entiendo una palabra en yucatecan ya” ( I understand  one word in Yucatecan already).

“Que?”

“Xix,” I said and wiped my face comically (sounds like sheesh, and means crumbs).

Both clerks within earshot belly laughed. It wasn’t a good joke, of course, but the gringo had made a joke in a foreign language, in a foreign language, and that was enough for them. They gave us our permits.

The card might turn yellow in my wallet, and eventually expire, but the laughs will stay evergreen.