A Question of Status

One worry I had, but of necessity set aside, in going to Mexico was that they wouldn’t let me back in to Canada. My student permit expires October 8, and would be returning to Canada on October 2. My permit says, in big letters: This Document Does Not Guarantee Reentry. Well, I was going to Mexico like it or not, and just hoped that my "post-graduate" work permit would be approved in time!

Friday, the night of my return, at Customs in Toronto, the officer asks me the usual questions.
Officer: “You bringing anything back with you?”
Me: “Uh, some mole and coffee liquor.”
Officer: “You’ll have to excuse me, what’s mole?
Me: [Right, I’m back in Canada now] “A chile paste. You know, for making food tasty.”
Officer: Without sign of acknowleding the response and without a change in tone: “And what is your status?”

I explain. With a big red pen he strikes a line through my declaration card. Without even looking at me he gestures to the immigration line.

In the line, ahead of me is a large Chinese family. They’re motioned in a couple of directions, then back again. They look confused as they bundle luggage and strollers to the next line. What do they do with people they don’t let into the country? Do they have a special hotel? At their own expense? Do they sleep in the airport like in the movie The Terminal? Do they send them back?

“Next!”

I put on a cheery demeanor.
Officer: “What’s your status?”
I explain
Officer: “What was the reason for your trip to Mexico?”

Like the previous officer, he shows no sign of emotion. No sign of caring one way or the other. He’s not asking because he’s chatty or curious, and I guess that each question must be calculated to check me for consistency, as much as to gather information.

Me: “A conference, for university.”
Officer: “So what did you think of Mexico?”
Me: [Is there a right answer to this?]

I think back to the night before, as I stood on the terrace at the Hotel Colonial in Veracruz: a warm breeze blowing and marimba music coming from 5 stories below. Across the central plaza is one of the oldest churches in Mexico, lit in a blue-yellow light. Behind me a blue-tiled patio with white chairs set around the table. I feel like there should be men with cigars sitting there, discussing their haciendas and land holdings. I feel like I should be in an Isabel Allende novel. How can I describe this place? Dilapidated and beautiful were the words that came to mind. As with architecture as with people. A little rough, a little tattered. Not the sharp edges of modernity. Hands warn from hard work. Clothes warn from many washings. Beggars, dancers, tourists. Candy wrappers blowing in the wind. A pigeon knocking a loose stone from the church tower. Just life as it’s been here for several centuries, as it will continue to be.

Me: “How was it that I described it last night?” I said aloud, but half to myself. “Dilapidated and beautiful, that’s it.”
A pause.
Officer: “Dilapidated?”
[Uh oh, I’m sure that’s not even a GRE word. Wrong answer?]
Typing.
[Is he writing this down?]
Me: “Ya, you know, the buildings and stuff. Not in the greatest shape.”
Officer: “But you didn’t go into Mexico City?”
[Is that concern in his voice?]
Me: “No”
More typing
Officer: “Welcome back.” Two stamps and he hands me my passport.

Slightly confused I return to the exit. The presence of my work permit in his files must have saved me, rather than my response to that odd interrogation. At least I didn’t have to find out where they send people they don’t let into the country.