Alternate working title: “You People”. Let me explain.
We arrived on Monday afternoon. After a week of relentless car travel, sleeping in strange beds, and our annual allotment of Beef Jerky consumed, we were home. In our new home. We unpacked the truck quickly.
To be honest, the truck was filled mostly by three dogs. But, we also had our Thule on the roof, and a trailer rack with a cargo bag on the back. We brought a combination of things from four distinct categories:
- Things we could not live without. This category included our dogs, each other, about two weeks of clothing, the Dyson and steam mop, my kitchen knives, prescription medication, dog food, a small bag of dog toys, the espresso machine, a Dutch oven, skillet, Staub’s EveryDay Pan (ping me directly for reviews), a small saucepan, my favorite cutting board, three boxes of bathroom supplies (cold meds, band-aids, bug repellent, shampoos, lotions and potions, our favorite toothpaste, antiperspirants, and more), and our computers, monitors, keyboards, and a few office supplies.
- Things I didn’t trust the mover with. This list was entirely emotional – Savannah, Raleigh, and NoLa Roux’s collars and remains, our wedding albums, Jonathan’s parent’s wedding album, priceless photos, important personal papers (including our immigration paperwork), NoLa’s pawprint cast in plaster, and artwork my friend Stella made me to honor both Savannah and Raleigh after they died.
- Things I was pretty sure it might be illegal for the mover to move. For those of your scoring at home, here is where you hit the easy baskets: 2 cases of wine and booze, many bottles of my favorite vinegar-based kitchen cleaner, a whole bunch of salts from around the world, Everything But the Bagel spice from Trader Joe’s, and every bag of treats that Bark Box ever sent us.
- Finally, Things we hadn’t finished packing when the movers arrived. Underpants.
Once we unloaded the truck, we took a breath, grabbed some dinner, and relaxed. We chilled out on our new couch and surfed television. Sort of. We had been bragging on our internet service since we moved. “It’s Fiber Optic!” we would exclaim to anyone who would listen. “Our speed tests are bananas-fast!” (Yes. Conversationally, we KILL at parties). But that night — nothing. It was turtle-slow. It was our-stuff-driving-down-from-Seattle slow.
I committed to figure it out in the morning. A by-product of working from home more years than I haven’t has resulted in me serving the role of IT manager for our family.
The next day, our offices were completely set up. But the internet speed, or lack thereof, still SUCKED. So I did all of the things. Rebooted the modem. Rebooted the Google Nest system. Okay. Those are pretty much the things I did. I am not the best IT manager — I am just the only one we have.
With no clear problem to point at, I decided it must be the modem. I couldn’t explain why earlier speed tests were great — but the only thing I could figure was that the service was slowed down — and I placed the blame squarely on the shoulders of the modem.
I found the local Telemex office and walked in, asking the man at the information counter if he spoke English. He did. He also spoke the international language of mansplaining. He started asking me questions that clearly would insult any self-respecting IT manager “was the modem plugged in?” “was I sure we were hooked up to the internet?”
I sighed. I explained that while my Spanish was poor, my Internet was strong — and I obviously tried all of the easy solutions (see: I rebooted the modem). He smiled and requested the account number. Seems like an easy request, but it isn’t my account — I just pay for it. So finding that took a few minutes. He was looking me up via our address, while I frantically scrolled through photos our property manager had sent me. “here it is!” I exclaimed, handing him my phone.
“Ah, you see. This green number? this is your account number”. Yes. Yes, I know. (Seriously with the mansplaining).
A moment later, my first new friend had figured out the problem. Our bill had been due a few days prior while we were on the road. Once your bill is overdue, Telemex slows your service down, so that you will come in and pay it. I laughed, “that is brilliant!”. He informed me, “it only works with You People”. “You People?” I asked, “people who work from home?” (driving long distances and eating beef jerky for breakfast makes me stupid).
“No, no.” he responded. “Expats. Americans and Canadians. You get mad and want it fixed. Mexicans just figure it doesn’t work anymore and give up.” On behalf of Mexican nationals, my gentle Pacific Northwest, liberal psyche got all bruised and offended. I tried to defend them, but know that my efforts fell short.
Regardless, $200 pesos ($50 US dollars) later, our internet/cable bill was paid and our service sped back up. We had been here for less than 24 hours and I had negotiated a complicated transaction, some mansplaining, and uncomfortable social / racial misconceptions. I also had super fast, fiber optic internet service.
Bienvenido a mexico.
-cqn
#nedventures 