“Ay, las casualidades,” dijo Quim respirando a pleno pulmón, como el titán de la calle Revillagigedo, “valen verga las casualidades. A la hora de la verdad todo está escrito. A eso los pinches griegos lo llamaban destino.” — Los Detectives Salvajes
Yesterday I had my first class in the US consulate. This is a class I give, not a class I take. I would like to take German classes here in Guadalajara, or French classes, but right now I don’t have the money. Which means right now the only classes I participate in are the ones I give, the ones where I take impressionable minds from around the world and forge them into pillars of virtue. I teach two days a week. The pay is terrible. As in, so terrible I don’t want to tell you because I’m embarrassed. But I took these jobs because I needed something. When you arrive in a new place, you need to get your proverbial hoof through the proverbial sliding door. In Mexico that door is easy to open, but shuts just as easily. So when I heard the word “teaching in the consulate,” I said, “I’m in.”
To get through security I had to do the following things:
- Take off my belt
- Turn off my cell phone and hand it to them along with my computer and the charger for my computer
- Give them my headphones
- Make pleasant conversation
- Remark on how I was in the netherworld that exists between two countries, my favorite world.
After security I walked up a short pathway outside that led into a sort of quarantine chamber. There’s no better way to describe it. Sure it’s comfortable and air conditioned and there are nice seats, but it’s still purgatory. The only way you can actually get into the consulate is if someone comes and get you. So I sat there. And then, after about 10 minutes, a balding guy with a sallow face came and got me.
We made small talk. He told me about life in the consulate and life as a diplomat. My eyes light up a bit whenever he said the word “diplomat.” Oh, how I crave to be a diplomat! But not so much because of the job. No, no, I don’t care about the job. I want to be a diplomat so I can have a diplomatic passport, so I can have diplomatic license plates, but more than anything so I can tell people, “I’m a diplomat.” Sometimes I sit in my room, the lights off, just saying the word “diplomat.”
I was led into a room where I’d teach my class. On the wall was a big map of Guadalajara. I like maps. My student finally came in, and I immediately liked him. Not only was his Spanish surprisingly good for relatively little study, he also spoke fluent Russian. I don’t care what anyone says, Russian is one of the most badass languages you can speak. Think of the different languages you might consider badass. Hindi? No. Thai? Ha. Arabic? Getting warmer. And then there’s Russian, the most badass of them all. Why is this? Maybe it just sounds badass to English speakers. Or maybe just to me.
The class was relatively unremarkable. My student seemed to like it when we impersonated a psychiatrist/patient, and then after the class he walked me back to the quarantine room. “I have to walk you out,” he said.
The security guard wouldn’t give me my driver’s license back at first, and was just pointing at me. He kept pointing at my chest. What does this guy want? I thought. And then I realized I was still wearing my visitor’s badge. I handed it to him under the glass and he gave me back my driver’s license. As I walked away he laughed and started to sing, and I realized that this is what happens when you exit purgatory.
“Pero te vas a arrepentir….”
Completely unrelated note: I realized you have to have PayPal Pro to receive recurring donations. Which costs something like $10 a month. Which I’m not going to pay for. So right now if you want to support Ordinary Nomad the two options are: Make a lump, gross donation on PayPal. Or sponsor me on Patreon for $1, $3, or $5 dollars a month. Or just support me spiritually, which might even be better. Money is the root of all evil. But also the root of delicious sandwiches and the latte I’m probably going to have today.