Love and the Mexican Toll Taker

Border Crossing
One week, four days and 3000 miles later we finally arrived at the Mexican border. My husband John was driving our Jeep packed with our five barking dogs, a cat and all the personal belongings we could stuff into the car. I was driving the VW Beetle packed with my jewelry. The American border agent checked John's FM3 visa and quickly waved him through. I was questioned. I am always questioned.

The border agent looked at my visa rather suspiciously, carefully comparing my face to the photo. Then he looked through the window into the back seat of my car. "What's in the back?" he demanded, which sounded more like an order than a question.

"You're moving to Mexico? Permanently?"

"Just some clothing and stuff."
"What kind of stuff?" he asked.
"Just some sheets and towels," I said. I was beginning to get a little nervous. John warned me not to take my jewelry in the car because I was supposed to claim it and pay some kind of substantial and ridiculous "import" tax on it. Well, I hadn't done that. Why should I? It was my jewelry and I'd had it for a long time. It wasn't like I went to the U.S. to purchase jewelry for the purpose of taking it into Mexico. And besides, I was not about to ship valuable jewelry in the 59 foot tractor trailer that was moving our furniture and had to be opened and searched at the border.

Then he changed the subject and asked why I was going to Mexico. I informed him that we were moving there. "You're going to live there? Permanently?" he asked, seeming amazed.
"Yes, permanently," I replied."

He shook his head in disbelief and looked shocked. And disgusted. "Mexicans swim across that filthy river every day to get into the U.S. and you're leaving to live to Mexico? That's crazy," he said. I was pretty pissed about his obnoxious attitude and the fact that he was raining on my parade. But taking John's advice for once, I kept my mouth shut. And he waved me through.

Several miles into Mexico we reached a checkpoint. John paid the toll and was again quickly waved through. As usual, I was questioned. I guess I must look like a criminal or something. After a few questions, and learning I was moving to Mexico, I was given a huge smile and a warm, "Welcome to Mexico, senora." And I was allowed to proceed.

The Toll Taker
Quite a few miles later, I followed John's car through the toll booth onto the entrance to the autopista, (toll highway).  At that time, I only knew about ten words in Spanish and attempted to practice them by asking the tall, handsome toll taker  “cuanto?" (how much)  He smiled an enormous smile and replied in Spanish. The only problem was that numbers were not among the ten Spanish words I knew. Pretending I understood, I extended my hand with a 200 peso note (about $20.) figuring that would more than cover it.  But instead of taking the money, the toll taker grabbed my hand and placed his other hand on top and stared directly into my eyes.

The Autopista

“Senora, are you from Argentina, no?” he asked in broken, but pretty good English.
“No,“ I replied.
 “Venezuela?”  “No.”
“You are Latina, si?”
“No,” I replied again, trying to extricate my hand. But he wouldn't let go.  Then he looked up at the sky as if deep in thought or prayer, rolled his eyes and continued guessing.
 “Germany?”
 “No senior.”
“Ah, Canadian.”

“No,” I said, now really amused that he was taking all this time to play a guessing game with me.  “Donde?” (where) he asked, looking confused.
“I’m American.”  Still holding onto my hand, he looked astonished.
“Nooooo.”

  “Yes,” I replied, amazed that he could possibly think I, a blond haired green eyed woman, looked Latina.  Assuming the conversation was over, I again attempted to withdraw my hand, but he tightened his grasp, bent over and looked at me more closely.

 “Senora, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he said.  “I think I am in love with you.”  I laughed with embarrassment, all the while enjoying the attention. “Momento, por favor,” (a moment please) he begged, finally letting go of my hand.

The Proposal

Mexican Melodrama

He left the toll booth and came around to the driver’s side of my car, got down on one knee and took my hand again.  “Senora, I want to marry you.” I am in love with you.  You are so beautiful.”  I laughed. Then he put a hand on his heart and proclaimed, “No, no, I am serious.  Please marry me.”

Now all the other toll takers as well as the policia federal (federal police) had surrounded my car, ignoring the long line of cars waiting to pay the toll. I later learned that Mexicans are very patient and polite and don't mind waiting. Time just doesn't seem to be an issue for them. I also learned they are extremely social and will always gather around to watch and listen when something - anything - is going on.  I glanced at the policia who looked  rather ominous in their combat boots, bullet-proof vests and all black clothing with the words POLICIA FEDERAL printed on it. They were holding AR15s and I was not particularly thrilled by their presence. We had been warned that the federales were tough guys and not to be messed with, so I didn't want any trouble. The last thing I wanted was to spent some time in a Mexican jail. But the toll taker didn't seem to care so I figured it was okay.

They look scary, but they generally have a great sense of humor.
 (at least with women)

Everyone was clearly amused by the situation and they were listening and watching attentively.

One of the federales rolled his eyes, shrugged his shoulders, smiled and announced to everyone, “Ah, amor.” Now everyone, toll takers and federales,  gathered around held their hands over their hearts and joined in the chorus,

“Amor, amor. Amor, amor, amor,” they chanted.

By this time, my husband, who had long since passed through the toll booth, and pulled his car to the side, poked his head out the window and shouted to me, asking if everything was alright.  Yes, I nodded.  I told the toll taker that while I appreciated his offer, I was already married – pointing to my husband up ahead in the Jeep.  “Ah, no,” he shouted loudly.  “No, not married,” he moaned.

“Yes, I relied.  “But thank you so much.  You have made my day, senior," I told him.  Acting like he was performing in a Shakespeare tragedy, he waved his fist in the air, cursing my husband’s car. All the observers joined him, moaning and whining that unique Mexican heart-broken lament they do so well. Then he returned to his toll booth and handed me my change.

“My heart is broken, senora," he sniffed.  "Goodbye. I will always remember you.”  And I was on my way to my life in Mexico.

Merriment     

Yes, you will find men on horseback in Chapala, Mexico.

 As I continued the long journey, I thought about the American border agent who couldn't believe I was moving to Mexico and asked the incredulous “why.”  Maybe this is why, I thought.  Maybe it’s about the pure, uncensored joy the Mexicans seem to feel, their ability to express themselves and find the fun in every day things.  Maybe it’s because a stern looking policia federal holding an automatic weapon could leave his post to participate in this merriment.  Maybe it's because of Mexicans' uncanny ability to seize the moment and embrace joy and humor. Maybe it's because they wear their hearts on their sleeves. 

Surely, I was not the most beautiful woman this man had ever seen and surely, he didn’t really want to marry me.  Nonetheless, he filled my day with a happy playfulness that I would not soon forget. 

 Yes, I thought. This is why I'm moving to Mexico. So now when people ask me why I moved to Mexico, I tell them, “because the Mexican toll taker proposed.”