Do you hear what I’m saying?

Oct 25

Because Mexico is so well connected by bus, I take it everywhere.

Last week, I went to Cuernavaca, a small city about 50 miles south of Mexico City. Early Monday morning I boarded the 9:40am bus. My seat was comfy, the ride was easy, and I spent a glorious Monday night at a luxurious 16th Century hacienda that was built for Hernan Cortes.

On Tuesday, I wandered downtown Cuernavaca. In between church and museum visits, I:

took 134 pictures
ate a delicious salad with a side of homemade tortillas
awkwardly pretended to be married when my 30 year old waiter flirted with me (and gave me his number, which I am going to put in a frame).

Read about my Weekend Away in Cuernavaca.

Late afternoon I went to the bus station to return to Mexico City. Because there are so many departures to the capital, I figured I would just buy the ticket there.

At 4:03pm, I handed over my Florida ID and 200 pesos in cash to board the 4:10pm bus.

“Do you have your passport?”

In one full year of living and traveling in Mexico by bus, my passport has been requested exactly 0 times.

“No. I’ve never needed it.”

“Hold on. We have to check with immigration.”

The lady at the ticket counter hands my shiny driver’s license to a grumpy 30-something female, who opens a dwarfish door (half the size of a normal door which forces the grumpy girl to duck extensively in order to pass through it) and disappears into a black hole of a back office.

I wait.
4:06
4:07
4:08

“Can I have my ID and my ticket? The bus leaves in 2 minutes.” I say with evident irritation.

“Hold on. Let me see.”

Only she doesn’t actually “see” about anything. She just sits there.

The grumpy girl comes back out of the midget door an agonizing minute later. Without making eye contact, she informs me that they cannot sell me a ticket without my passport.

After a series of very gringa responses in a very gringa Spanish accent (culminating with the classic “I WANT TO SPEAK TO SOMEONE IN IMMIGRATION!”) I give up and head to another ticket counter. And another. And another.

No one will sell me a ticket without a passport.

One sweet lady explains that several immigration officers are in the station, requesting that all foreigners show a passport to travel.

IT MAKES NO SENSE. NONE.

I’m infuriated, ready to cry. I love Mexico so much but times like these I do not love Mexico AT ALL.

So I sit. I surrender. I call an Uber.

$65 and 2.5 hours later, 40% of which is spent weaving in and out of gridlock Mexico City traffic, Oscar drops me off at my apartment. Oscar is an artfully aggressive driver with an eclectic taste for music (his playlist included 90s Freestyle, Nicky Jam, Tracy Chapman, & Run DMC) and 30 FREAKING CATS, who now sends me almost-daily “greeting cards” through Whatsapp with various Bible scriptures written in cursive alongside pictures of fluffy bunnies or colorful flowers.