Day 15

Blown Cover, Blown Lungs, & Blown Money.

As I was walking into the office on Wednesday (dia 2 con bigote), I was introduced to a random dude.  It was done very quickly, as introductions always are, and like always, neither of us got the other's name.  He said "hello" in English, to which I replied in technically flawless Spanish... "Hola, buenos dias.  Mucho gusto."  I only understood one word of his surprised response, but I later learned that he had said, "but you look like a gringo!"  You can probably guess which word I picked out at the time.

My cover was blown.  Still no cartels to be seen (or anything else from the list, for that matter), but it was evident that the bigote wasn't the disguise I had hoped for.  Really, I only did it as a joke anyways.  Actually, really just an inside joke with myself.  Mexico, not being in on the joke, took it completely serious.  I had expected people at work to laugh at the bigote with me, but instead they complimented it and admired it.  And fair enough--the barber did a totally kick ass job on that masterpiece.  It was easily the finest mustache that I've ever sported, and maybe will ever sport.  But I never intended to keep it.  I thought me and the guys would have a couple laughs, they'd see I was a fun guy (which reminds me of a terrible mushroom joke), and then days later when it was gone, we'd be best pals.  Anyways, the mustache made me feel kind of old, and I kept getting startled when I saw myself in the mirror when I went to wash my hands.  So I shaved it off.  A few guys at work were sincerely disappointed, and a few others finally caught the joke and suggested that I come in next week wearing an Elvis wig.  Is it ironic that I'd probably instead opt for a Tom Selleck wig/mustache combo, seeing as how I just forsook the perfect Tom Selleck mustache?  For the sake of comparison, I've included the following picture:

Week two in Mexico has so far included me playing soccer twice this week.  Tuesday after work (still mustachioed, mind you), I went and played futbol rapido with a coworker's younger brothers (16 & 20 yrs old) and their friends.  We played in an oval area equivalent to a small concrete hockey rink that had recessed areas in the wall on either end for goals.  With 5 or 6 teams rotating in/out, the game was first to 2 goals or whoever was winning after 10 minutes, with a provision for pks if still tied at 10 minutes.  Winner stays and plays, loser walks.  For the record, coming from Florida where the elevation is probably just below sea level, up to Queretaro at 6000 ft in elevation, it's real difficult to breath/run/survive.  Honestly, the first time I played soccer (the week before), it felt and tasted like my lungs were bleeding.  As I'm still alive today, I assume that was more hypochondria than physical emergency or fact.  But I learned a new word at half time in that first game: vomitar.  Probably could've guessed that one.

Nonetheless, futbol rapido was fun.  We lost our first game (bad team morale?), waited around for 45 minutes shooting the Spanglish breeze, won our next game in pk's (nerves of steel), and then quickly lost the ensuing contest 2-0 (tired legs, gringo lungs).  The brothers said they would be glad to give me the prearranged ride home.  So, I spent the next 40 minutes in the backseat with 3 other guys, my head out the window, wondering when--if ever--I would be able to get out of the car and spread my legs.  I was not at all surprised that traffic on the way home was terrible, or that we made a completely unnecessary stop at a jiffy store, where only the driver got out of the car and then returned to the car empty handed.  I was surprised, however, to notice on the way home that our local mall has a large casino in its parking lot.  You'd think that with my luck I'm probably about due, right?  Yeah, and so are the Chicago Cubs.

The only other thing that happened this week is that I payed rent.  Saying it like that makes it sound very simple, but let me assure that like all processes Mexican, it's a huge hassle.  Here's the problem: I get paid in the US to my Wachovia bank account, but I have to live and pay rent in Mexico, so I have a need to turn US dollars into MXN pesos.  I can do this through an ATM, but it would take multiple visits and gross bank fees (Wachovia might translate to "blood sucking vampires" in some languages), not to mention that Wachovia keeps blocking the transfers if I try to take too much.  So, rather than make 12 visits to the ATM (literally), I chose MoneyGram to wire the money.  They have a website, they will send money to a Mexican bank in Queretaro, and the fees are reasonable.  Perfect.  Rent is due by the 5th of the month, or there is a 20% late fee.  Steep, but whatever, Mexico.

So after getting continually denied by the ATM (even after talking with Wachovia), I logged onto MoneyGram.com the day before rent was due (if you're picturing nervous sweat dripping off my mustache, then you're in the right ballpark), and sent myself the maximum amount you're allowed, twice, because rent in this house is actually really expensive.  Later that night my mustache again started sweating nervously when i got an email from MoneyGram saying I needed to call them ASAP.  Shortly thereafter, unrelated to banking issues, I shaved the mustache.

Long story short: you can't send money from the US if you're not actually physically in the US (I think my IP address probably tipped them off?), so they said I should call when I got back to the States at the end of the year...  "Why?  What good will you people be to me when I'm already back in the US?!?!"  Luckily my parents were able to help me out of a bind and act as my middle man.  After a mixup about confirmation numbers, an additional wasted trip to the bank because of a forgotten passport (FL drivers license don't suffice, apparently), the lady behind the counter did something.  She counted out 22,000+ pesos.  In front of everyone.  And then tried to give it to me.  In front of everyone.  "Eh, tienes un sobre?? (envelope)"  No.  Naked upper lip sweating profusely, I quickly pocketed the brick of cash and practically ran to the car.  That night, I paid for a month's worth of rent and car service, getting rid of most of the cash.

It was possibly the most nerve wracking few hours of my life, being forced to carry around a gross amount of cash like that.  It's official: I would never make a good drug mule.