I’m not so interested in travel anymore, especially just for the sake of it. I lived three of my four allotted high school years in Europe, have made several trips by car and plane across and around the United States, and attended three high schools, three middle schools and two elementary schools. Although I’m curious about other cultures and places, I’m content just to stay home. Yet, in three days’ time, as I begin this account, Robin and I will be heading for Oaxaca, Mexico.
In the summer of 2013 Daniel loaded up his van and drove from Southern California—where he was working at the time—to Oaxaca. He’s always been one to set a course and follow it, and years earlier he had begun planning to spend a few years living and working in Mexico. Anyway, we thought his being in Oaxaca would give us a reason to go there. But for the longest time it was little more than a someday-kind of possibility. There was so much going on with us work and health-wise, we just couldn’t focus any attention on travel plans.
Daniel flew up to visit during Christmas of 2014, and once again we began to say things like “we should” but several months months went by before we agreed “we will.” We started with an approximate time frame based on when the weather would ideal: neither too hot nor too rainy. Christmas was out, first, because we wanted to be home for the holidays, and, second, airfare was more expensive. Spring break was out, first, because it was into the hot season, and, second, airfare was more expensive. We initially planned for the first week of February and used those dates on our passport applications.
We applied for our passports in late October. We went early to the main post office in Vancouver so we could get a spot at the head of the line when the doors opened at 9:00. When we arrived at 8:45, a line was already forming in the lobby, both for the passport desk and for regular counter business. Although there were plenty of postal workers in the warehouse and in the counter area, the door to the business counter was locked.
At 9:00 someone came to the door, tried a key, then went away. Someone else came with several keys, none of which worked. A couple more times this happened, with different people and different sets of keys. We heard that the person who usually unlocked the door had the day off. At 9:20, someone who, apparently, didn’t know he had the magic key in his collection opened the door.
We were second in line at the passport desk, behind a group of three who, sadly for them, didn’t know they had to bring their own photographs with their applications. We stepped right up and handed over our applications and identifying documents. As it turned out, I didn’t need my birth certificate. I had with me my original passport, issued in 1966, and that was enough. We paid our fees, and with right hands raised, swore that everything on our applications was true, and were on our way.
I received my new passport about a week and a half later. Robin, however, received a letter requesting proof she was who she purported to be. When we got married, Robin kept her last name, that of her first husband and the name she was known by to the rest of her world. Her application had me as her spouse, and, of course, her birth certificate showed her maiden name. There were three last names without verifiable links among them. The State Department needed more documentation, which we bundled up and sent.
Days and weeks went by, and I was beginning to worry. For a while I put off buying tickets, which turned out to be a good thing. Daniel had a late change in his work schedule, so now had the last week in January off. Finally, two months after we applied, Robin received her passport. Only then did it feel like we really were going.