Short Story 5: Merida, Yucatan, Mexico

The first flight (San Francisco to Los Angeles) is a breeze and less than two hours. However, after the second flight (Los Angeles to Mexico City), things get sticky at the Mexico City airport. First, the check-in counter representative requires me to sign a paper that I cannot get a meal for the Mexico City to Merida flight. I understand her Spanish, but the explanation doesn’t make sense. My purchased airfare includes meals, at least the one I bought before the check-in representative helping me at the San Jose airport made the changes, which resulted in mistakes, according to the San Francisco airport. The Mexican representative is keen on me signing before handing over my boarding ticket, and there is a long line of folks impatiently waiting to check in. Rather than being argumentative and hostile for not getting a tray of lousy airplane food during a three-hour flight, I sign the raggedy paper with a non-readable signature. Plus, I’m carrying a paper bag with a large sandwich that I had got at a food cafe from the previous stop at the Los Angeles airport. Second, after signing the no-food waiver, a Mexican security guard comes toward me with a K-9. The dog zones in on my paper bag hanging from my right hand. The guard asks me in Spanish what’s inside the bag. I mention buying a sandwich at the Los Angeles airport a few hours ago. Her reply is that food outside of Mexico isn’t permitted inside the airport, so she confiscates my large sandwich that I planned to eat before or during the three-hour flight. I was looking forward to chowing down on that sandwich, especially because I signed a dumb no-meal flight agreement less than thirty minutes ago. Not eating for a few hours isn’t going to kill me anyway. I could’ve gone apeshit on her, but what could’ve been the outcome: Getting barked at or bitten by a large K-9 dog? Being taken in for questioning by Mexican airport authorities? Getting a black eye from being a smart ass? Missing my flight because my pride got in the way over a sandwich that I can grab at a Subway restaurant inside the airport? Third, before I pass through the last baggage checkpoint before the boarding gate, I need to make a pit stop to the bathroom. My mind is going all over the place from being up since 4:00 a.m. on four hours of sleep, dealing with airport nonsense, and jittery from having to pee badly. I can’t find the bathroom, so I ask an airport custodian. He tells me it’s downstairs. I go up and down searching, but nothing. Then, I find it about twenty minutes later. Finally, at the last baggage checkpoint, I’m instructed by two Mexican guards to follow them to a secluded area where it’s only them and me. They search my backpack thoroughly while questioning me in Spanish. Other than some vitamin pills inside a case and bottled water, my bag is nearly empty. Perhaps the guards assume I’m a low-level mule for a Mexican drug cartel. I answer the guards’ questions incoherently but calmly and get the green light. My palms are somewhat sweaty. Mexico has a reputation of having corrupt authorities who can turn the other cheek when law breakers or individuals disturbing the peace flash some cash as their get-out-of-jail pass.