The Strangest Day of My Life

I’m not sure how to write about this day; I’m not even 100% sure how to understand it.  It was either the worst day of my life, or perhaps the luckiest.  Two days later, sitting at my B&B in the mountain town of Jalpan, I’m still shocky over it. 

By the time Friday, August 18, was done, I had almost lost my passport, been shaken down by Mexico cops not once but twice, and been in a car accident on the highway.  I should say immediately that I’m unhurt, and my Miata is still driving fine, though its rear end is bashed in.  And then, to cap off the day, I recovered my license plate that had been stolen over a month ago.

I’ll start with the latter, just to explain why I was trying to get to San Miguel de Allende in the first place.  My license plate, you’ll recall, was stolen back in June on my visit there.  I had a spare plate, which I’ve been driving with since, but of course it doesn’t have my tags.  Well, weeks later, and miles onward, I was telling the story to someone who lives in Mexico, who said that the plate was likely “stolen”—by the police!  They do that when they issue parking tickets, to make sure you come and pay.  I emailed my contact in San Miguel, Shelley Cohee; she went down to the police station, and sure enough, they had my plate.  In short, she got it out of hock, and we set up a meeting on Friday for me to repay her and get it back.

It’s a short drive from Coyoacán to San Miguel de Allende—at least normally.  My meeting with Shelley was at noon, so I got ready to leave Hostal Cuija at 6:30 am.  Fortunately the hostel was almost empty, and I had the six-bunk room to myself, so I could turn on the light and pack everything up.  Then I set out in the morning darkness.

The first thing that happened was the GPS on my new cellphone suddenly went wonky.  I was using Google Maps Navigation to get me through the maze of Mexico City to the highway, and suddenly it had no idea where I was.  I managed to get to the highway by staring at the little map on the screen and pulling over several times to peer at street names in the dark, as the morning traffic thickened and honked around me.  Finally I was headed North on the artery as the sun rose.

I was about an hour into the drive, on the outskirts of Mexico City, when the first cops pulled me over, two of them on motorcycles.  It turned out I had completely forgotten Mexico City’s arcane driving restrictions, which prohibits cars from driving on certain days of the week based on their license plate number.  The cops informed me that I was in violation: Friday was a no-drive day for me, at least between 5:00 am and 11:00 am. 

I was trying to explain the situation to them when I went to show them my identification.  And that’s when I realized I’d left the little neck-string bag with my passport under my pillow at the hostel.

In a weird way it took the cops pulling me over to save me from a worse situation.  And I’m sure that my face of absolute horror and panic helped convince them of my helpless sincerity and need to return immediately to my hotel.  They did shake me down, taking pretty much all the cash on me, after which one led me on his motorcycle through the streets necessary for a U-Turn, and I headed back into Mexico City.  Now it was full rush hour, the highway a solid ribbon of shining cars into the city in the distance.  As we proceeded inch by inch I had plenty of time to offer every prayer that I could think of that my passport bag would be there under the pillow, and envision every nightmare scenario—all of them fully deserved—in which it wouldn’t.

By the time I got back to Hostal Cuija my bladder was bursting, but I ran in straight to the bunkroom and lifted the pillow.  There was my bag, right where I had left it.

It was 9:30.  I explained to the amused staff as best I could what had happened, emailed Shelley to reschedule our meeting, replenished my cash at the local ATM down the street, and then waited out the time in the hostel common room until 11:00 when I could legally drive.  The couch was so comfortable, I really didn’t want to go.  But off I went, faulty GPS and all.

The second shakedown was on the highway, well on the way to San Miguel, thin traffic moving fast, and was worse.  This pair was in a cop car, and after parking well behind me on the shoulder leaned in my window to genially tell me that not only was I speeding (I was actually going slower than most traffic) but I was still in violation of my no-drive day (it was well after 11:00).  At first they wanted a fine of $1,500 US dollars.  “No dollars!” I said.  They then settled on $3,100 pesos, which I also didn’t have.  We went back and forth on this for a while; they had all the patience in the world.  The cop, his gun handle showing, then suggested that he get in my passenger seat and accompany me to an ATM.  I pretended not to understand, then explained quite honestly that I couldn’t clear the passenger seat because my trunk was full. 

I realize that in that situation you’re supposed to volunteer to go to the station with them, at which point they usually settle.  But in my shaken state this didn’t occur to me.  I was trying to offer what I had, less the money I would need for tolls to complete my drive, which I couldn’t calculate, and the lead cop was simply shaking his head with a smile.  We were at an impasse, and they were prepared to drag it out as long as necessary. 

Out of nowhere came a shriek of tires.  A little white car spun out of control at high speed on the highway, skidded spinning onto the shoulder, struck the parked cop car, and rebounded off coming backwards right at me from behind.  I had a glimpse of one cop pulling his partner bodily out of the way, and then BAM, my Miata was struck a vicious punch from behind.

There was a moment of confusion that unfolded into an uncertain span of time.  The white car sat a few feet behind mine, its rear end mangled, steaming.  Two Mexicans got out, slightly bloodied, and leaned on the guardrail silently.  I turned off my engine, got out, and surveyed my yellow Miata’s crushed rear bumper and left taillight with an expression of sheer disbelief.  The cops were off a ways, on the phone and directing traffic.  I tried to ask if the Mexicans were all right, but they paid me no attention.  We all stood around on the roadside in the hot day.  Eventually the lead cop came back, his hard smile replaced by a face open and wondering, and signed to me that he had made a call and I was free to go. 

I didn’t need to be signed twice.  Cautiously I started up my Miata and eased her forward.  She seemed to be driving, so I pulled away onto the highway.  Gears worked, brakes worked, power windows worked, there was no wobble.  She was running fine.  After a few miles I leaned over and popped my passenger side mirror back into position.  And continued slowly on.

I was in terror of further cops, especially if it was in fact still my no-drive day.  Several times I looked hard at roadside hotels in little truck-stop villages along the highway, thinking to pull off, but I continued on.  And I got the rest of the way to San Miguel de Allende doing 45 to 50 mph in the right lane. 

I was glad I’d been in the town before.  With my scattershot GPS it took me a while to find my hostel, but navigating those crazy streets barely wide enough for a car, rumbling over the rocky cobblestones and dodging pedestrians, didn’t faze me in the least.  I even remembered which streets were where.  And within a few minutes I was checked into my hostel, and my wounded Miata was parked in a secure off-street garage nearby. 

At 5:00 pm, then, there I was: sitting with a beer at a patio table of a charming and familiar restaurant, in the golden light of a San Miguel de Allende evening, waiting for Shelley.  She soon appeared, with a friend of hers from Boston in tow, and we all went next door to the magnificent estate home where she works.  For a couple of hours we strolled the gorgeous rooms and grounds of the mansion (Kathy was getting the tour), deep in conversation about everything under the sun, ending up on the roof garden at sunset where the cypress trees framed the dome and pink church spire next door and the high view over the valley showed distant skirts of rain turning patches of gold by the light.  And somewhere in the middle Shelley opened an office drawer and I got back my original Washington State license plate with the tags still valid through December.

The smashed rear bumper did not interfere with my screwing it back into place.

Like I say, I don’t know how to parse that day.  I’m alive.  I’m not in jail.  My car still runs.  I have my passport on me.  I’m traumatized, but I did know enough to offer many thanks of gratitude to Shelley, despite the mist of surreality attending everything around me, and I didn’t fail to offer a few in other directions as well. 

My bashed Miata...with its license plate back!