I feel like celebrating tonight.
This morning I took a break from deadline, tucked all my immigration documents into a file folder and drove to Guaymas to renew my FM-3. I have talked to people who have lived here for years and have yet to do this by themselves; they hire a translator or facilitator who goes with them, shelling out more than 500 pesos. But, convinced this would be a good test of my Spanish and my courage, I decided to give it a try. What could happen? Would they arrest me for not having all my paperwork?
During the short drive to Guaymas, made longer when I realized I was out of gas and had to double back, I repeated my mantra: "Be calm, be optimistic, smile."
The whole enterprise was a bit anticlimactic, considering the froth of anxiety I had whipped up. After about a 10-minute wait at the check-in window in the immigration office, surrounded by uncommunicative gringo geezers, a muy guapa young woman signaled for me to come to her desk. She was impeccably turned out in a crisply ironed uniform shirt and beautifully tailored pants with stilleto heels. Her lips were carefully outlined in the Mexican style (which thankfully is fading from fashion), but at least she had been sparing with the eyeliner, and her eyebrows were her own. She had a commanding air about her...and she spoke English! Well, enough to get the idea across. She leafed through my documents with a critical eye while I held my breath, then pulled out a form, handed it to me and directed me to a bank. She didn't mention a particular bank. And she never smiled. Too bad, she probably has a dazzling smile. Serious stuff, immigration.
I drove down Serdan looking for an HSBC because I faintly remember that's where I paid my fees last year. I passed two, but both of them were closed down and appeared to be in some stage of demolition or construction, it's hard to tell which sometimes in Mexico. I stopped at a huge new Banjercito, hoping I could pay there since there was no line, only one other customer. But the manager said I had to go to HSBC which apparently has an exclusive on the FM-3 fee-paying market.
"Pero todos los HSBCs son cerrados!" I protested. Ah, but there's one left in operation, on the other end of Centro, across from Ley, he assured me.
And he was right. A teller with eyebrows that looked as though they'd been drawn by an architect looked at my form and sent me over to one of the managers, who entered my info on his computer, all the while peering out the blinds of his window and looking exasperated. Maybe he lent his car to someone unreliable and was watching for it to appear in the parking lot? Then he sent me back to Señora Eyebrows, who was obviously disappointed to have me back in her line, bringing her unfamiliar paperwork to deal with. Considering hers is the only bank in town taking FM-3 fees, I'd have thought she'd have had plenty of practice handling them by now.
Back at Inmigración I had only a little wait before Señora Guapa called me over, checked my form and told me I'd have my FM-3 in a month. But I could call earlier, just in case. Sometimes they go through in just a few days.
Enough fun stuff, now back to work.