I saw a pavilion with booths below it. I had already crossed the border and did not understand. I looked at the medium cup of Dunkin’ Donuts, jostling with yellow liquid.

_______________________

After I piled my car full of my tools for relaxation for my solo Spring Break in Sonora (Mexico’s northernmost state), I finally got on the road. I am grateful for my 2004 Pontiac Vibe. I thought of a student who said: “Don’t you drive an old car?” I didn’t respond: “Aren’t I a teacher?”

I stopped at Chase Bank for cash, but when I got to Nogales, I was overwhelmed by the desperate drivers, honking in grand chorus when a car cut in line, and the storefronts crawling with signs for cambio de efectivo (money exchange). Which was the best one? Maybe I wouldn’t need more pesos until I got to Hermosillo. I had 50 pesos and 150 USD.

I saw The Wall between Mexico and the US, rusty, sturdy and inimitable, topped in concertina wire (the round, winding type that surrounds prisons). I thought about borders as my car inched along, without judgment or political charge, just noticing the drastic difference of the pulchritude of the USA, even down to the neatly paved streets, compared to the honest hustle of Mexico. It was like a switch flipped the second you approached the border and saw the block-shaped houses populate the hill cresting the Mexico side. I shook my head as a man approached to wash my car windows.

The change was shockingly distinct. Borders are strange.

I tried to capture the oddity, the feeling of sitting on a border, with my camera. Half the time I got static images. No charge, no sense of the feelings imbued in crossing a border by land.

Why did it take an hour to get through Nogales? They didn’t even ask me for a passport. The border agents just peered into my car as my car labored over the speed bumps. In another hour I was slowed again in Magdalena, then Santa Ana. Why did the highways have to go right through the cities? Did Sonora have exits? 

What I knew of Hermosillo were photos from Google Maps and my friend Vicente’s instagram posts. I knew it wasn’t a destination but it still had a Starbucks, and that told me it was the place for my vacation. (Not because I need Starbucks but because I want to be in a semi-metropolitan place).

Finally back to 70mph, I zoomed past the straw erupting from the flat ground framed by unfamiliar mountain ranges. The drive was easy as pan caliente: Hermosillo in white letters on green signs affirmed I was going the right way.

There was not a billboard in sight, but every reason to believe that Mexico wanted me to drive safely.

In the USA, official signage says DO and DON’T, tersely, with finality.
These road signs were in the same typeface as the sharp edges of the law, but spoke to me like a caring Grandmother who imagined all the ways my humanity could put me in harm’s way.

First I saw: 

Respete los señalamientos.
Okay, I could respect the signs.

I thought of my students; I thought of how they wouldn’t understand these signs. Was I teaching them enough Spanish? Was I teaching them right?

In another mile, the next sign: 
Respete Los Límites de velocidad. 
Okay, I could respect the speed limit. At least I think I was?
The speed limit was posted in kilometers.

Next I approached:
Maneje con precaución.

Then shortly: 
Obedezca los señales. 

Then.. 
No maltrate los señales. 

I found myself looking forward to the next sign. 

Soon:
Modere la velocidad.

Then:
Abróchese el cinturón.

Soon: 
Usa el cinturón, salva tu vida. 

They made me smile like the messages in Dove chocolates.

No maneje cansado, su familia lo espera.
Don’t drive when tired. Your family awaits you.

Dude, these road signs cared.

I explored the contents of my mind between phone calls. Spring Break for a first year teacher is a WHOLE DAMN MOOD. I feel accomplished having survived the worst of this amazingly difficult year. I still see the road of my career ahead, anticipating its bumps, stresses and fractures, but not nearly as challenging as what’s passed. Teaching is really effing hard. It looks easy because we make it look easy, not because it is.
None of this mattered because A: I have my Monday lessons PREPPED AND READY for ALL THREE PREPS which means I can roll into work on the Monday after break without the Sunday Scaries. Well, mostly. Then there is just to forge ahead to May 27th. And then I’ll have done it: a thing I barely thought I could do.

As I listened to Untamed, Glennon Doyle’s remarkable book (on audio), smiling at her immensely crafted metaphors and depth of wisdom, I noticed I would have to pee soon. I didn’t feel like stopping because I didn’t have enough pesos to fill up my gas, and I had more than enough in my tank to get to Hermosillo. I wanted to get to my AirBnB with time to run before dark. With 2.5 hours to go, I could hold it.

By 2 hours remaining, thoroughly charmed by the road signs but concerned for my bladder, I eyed my Dunkin’ Donuts cup. After another 30 minutes I removed the lid and my reusable straw. Pouring the rest of my coffee into the wind, I wished I had a penis for moments like this and I peed into the cup (with the help of cruise control, I had both feet for support). Two things happened: I worried I hadn’t made it into the cup and I saw how quickly the cup filled all the way up. As a car drove past, I hoped they didn’t get an eye-full. I set the cup into my cupholder and shuddered, grossed out by own pee on display where my coffee mug usually sits. Then, I checked under my butt. Sure enough: a wet spot. I put the plastic top on my cup of pee. I tried to think of a beverage that was this color. But it wasn’t lemonade and it wasn’t Tampico. It was just the color of pee.

And then, the cars slowed and I saw the sign.

43 : MOTO 
96 : AUTO

It wasn’t another border crossing, it was a toll.
The first billboard in miles proclaimed: “Estamos en tu tierra” (we are on your land). A brand of vitamin.

I sighed relief. I had 50 pesos. Oh wait! I was not MOTO. I was AUTO.
I looked up at all the signage to be prepared for this conversation. A credit card icon was crossed out. Another sign said NO DÓLARES. Uh-oh. I put on my mask and approached the toll booth, my pee on display.
-Disculpe, puedo pagar con dólares y cincuenta pesos?
-No- she shook her head.
-Do you accept cards?-
-No-
-Okay. ¿Hay un lugar donde se puede cambiar? (Is there a place I can exchange it?)

-Me da su veinte y allí está la tienda, muchacha- she pointed.
I noticed she called me muchacha: girl.
I wasn’t sure if this was an insult or a compliment, or if it was just how things were. I was not in mi tierra, after all; I was sitting in my pee.

I eyed the same billboard. This is not my tierra. Estoy en TU tierra. This was clear as the woman who called me muchacha looked aggressively annoyed with me as I drove away.

I pulled up to the store she mentioned. I had to remind myself I wasn’t at the border though I felt nervous like I was. But before I took another step, I disposed of my pee cup. I even poured the pee on the ground and threw the cup in the trash, so no one would encounter urine when they changed out the trash.

Es que, disculpe ¿no sé si me puede cambiar dinero?

The young guy said he could only give me back 17 pesos for each dollar. What did I know of the exchange rate? He could play me and I wouldn’t know anyway. Plus, I was at his mercy to pay the toll, so I said it was okay and when he handed me the cash I thanked him. Sale he said. I thought of Alaniz and Vicente, who always said sale. Sale means alrighty. I said muy amable, hoping to impress him with my Spanish.

So how was I was supposed to get to the agro-muchacha-toll-lady? There were two toll gates guillotining up and down as cars paid and passed. I timed it so I was walking in front of a car just as the gate lifted. I looked ridiculous.
Just then I noticed coffee spots on my sweater and felt the dampness on my pants from the pee spot. Then the muchacha-lady pointed to my car, and I noticed a car pull up to mine labeled “Control Terrestre” (Ground Control). She must have sent someone to collect my pesos and give me back my $20. So I turned back to my car. Then the car pulled away. I looked back at the lady, confused. She and the guard both signaled for me to return. I was oh-so-grateful for Guatemala because their “Come Here” gesture I recognized. Otherwise I would have thought they were telling me to hit the ground and do a fierce push-up.

I returned, coffee-spotted and pee-stained, briskly timing my shuffle past each gate, as I approached her booth. She returned the $20 and I handed her the pesos and said: “I am sorry, I thought you were telling me to go back to the car” She said: “No. Dije cuidado por la pluma.”
Okay, pluma means feather. Why would a gate be called a feather? She thought I was stupid because I went back to my car, but I thought the car was an emissary with my ticket and $20. Cuidado con la pluma she said again as I walked away.

I returned to my pee spot and drove away, laughing.
The signs had not cautioned: Be sure to stop and pee. Your family awaits you.

You don’t have to be brave to drive to Mexico. You just have to be okay with noticing how different things can be, and looking really stupid. The estadounidenses who said “Don’t get kidnapped” and “Be safe” when I mentioned driving to Mexico alone would not believe that the scariest thing that happened to me was that I faced my own pee. And sat in it.

In my own tierra, I would have stopped. I would have peed.
I am not in my tierra now.