We screwed up our courage and went to Dallas today. We battled Kamikaze drivers, choking smog, and a growing sense of surreality, but for once no one was murdered while we were there, and we made it out alive. Alive, but without visas.
The Mexican Consulate is located just north of Regal Row on the west side of Interstate 35E. We were still a little bit from the consulate when we encountered cars parked along the frontage road, under the bridge, or wherever they would fit at any angle. That's when we first suspected we were in trouble.
I usually drive when we are in Dallas. I am more familiar with the roads and know my way around better. Chuck used to go to the clubs in Dallas frequently when he was a younger man, but he doesn't know what the roads look like in the daylight. I am also more familiar with my car. Unfortunately, today we were in Chuck's Explorer. The Explorer is not an exceptionally large vehicle, but compared to my car it feels mammoth. My heart sped when I saw the parking situation, but the parking gods were smiling on me, and I found a reasonable spot of a reasonable size that was even angled and easy to get into.
I am a victim of watching too many movies. In the movies, consulates are aways white, shining places with just the right accent lighting where people speak in hushed tones and footsteps echo off of sparkling marble floors. So I was wholly unprepared for what I saw when I stepped out of the truck. The Mexican Consulate in Dallas is a sqattish, dirty, beige building without the smallest trace of grandeur. There were tents set up outside the building for Bancomer and Bank of America and other commercial services. Food vendors sold snacks and drinks to the milling crowds outside.
We made our way through the parking lot to the main doors and entered. We could have just walked into the DMV in any large city in the country. The interior was uniformly bureaucratic beige. There was a large open area in the center with rows of uncomfortable, plastic chairs filled with weary people. There were several lines slowly processing toward clerks ensconced behind glass along the back wall. Temporary ropes kept people in their designated areas. And just inside the door, to the right, was an information desk. We took our places at the end of the line there.
Chuck and I waited in line while the patient, young man at the desk answered questions and explained things repeatedly until the person he was talking to was satisfied. He had an unhurried manner and gave each person his undivided attention. When it was finally our turn, he smiled at us and bade us to approach. I told him we were there to get out FMTs and a car permit. He said certainly and started to lead us to the proper place. But then he stopped and turned back to us. “FMT? not FM3?” I said yes. He looked down and began to shake his head. “I'm sorry, but you can't get an FMT here. Only at the border.” He continued on down the hallway with us following. He showed us to the room where we could get our car permit.
The room was very large and crammed with people. There were easily more than 100 people waiting. Chuck and I held a hasty conference. If we had to stop at the border anyway, what was the point of waiting in this hot, crowded room? We decided not to and left.
We got back in the truck, me behind the wheel. I quickly discovered that while this lot had an entrance, the exit was barricaded to make room for another tent in the parking lot. The lot was full and the aisle was narrow. I'm not used to the Explorer and don't have a good sense of where the ends of the vehicle are. I made a few attempts at turning around, but the close confines made me nervous, and I was fearful of hitting someone's car. All I succeeded in doing was wedging the truck in at an odd angle. Chuck looked at me compassionately and suggested we switch. He knew I was getting stressed and very conscious of all the people in the parking lot watching me.
I climbed out of the truck and walked around to the passenger side, feeling the eyes of everyone on me. Chuck got behind the wheel and said, “It's okay. No big deal.” He then pulled forward to straighten out, threw it in reverse, and expertly backed all the way out of the lot. My hero.
We've made it back to the safety of home, having lost nothing but time. All in all, one of our most successful trip to Dallas. After our tour of consulates, we still have to stop at the border. I only hope that when we get there I don't hear, “FMT? No, only at the Consulate.”
Cloudy 63 oF • 17 oC