We woke up surprisingly easy despite the lateness with which we’d fallen asleep. I think we were just excited or maybe our biological clocks were just so accustomed to waking up at 6:30 sharp for the last 2 years. Just as miraculous as when we’d arrived at the mission offices our first day, we somehow managed to load all our luggage onto a single pickup truck that belonged to one of the bishopric counselors from the Bugambilias Ward, Hermano Allen. As a whole, all our stuff had been packed since we had to transport it all from our respective areas to the Mission Home a couple of days earlier (See "Down Memory Lane -- Final Visits"). But some of the guys struggled to keep their bags under the weight limit for the flight home. I on the other hand had room to spare. We all discarded any unwanted clothing and stuff in the mission home including blankets, study material, and such. I didn’t know what they’d do with the monstrous miscellaneous mount we made but I hoped it’d be of use to someone else in need. Pass it down, so to speak.
We took some final photos in front of the Mission Office (See "Mission Administration"). We were glad to be home-bound at last. I felt like Frodo and Sam after they’d destroyed the ring in the fires of Mount Doom. “It’s finished Sam, it’s done”. I suppose we were like the fellowship of the ring who came from all walks of life, divided in our paths to victory, but reunited at last at the close of our journey. Each had his own story unique to the rest but we each played a role in the grand shared victory of the mission team (See "Team Player"). I knew I’d miss the mission and Mexico but I felt completely at peace. I was ready to go home.
There were 11 of us plus President Regalado plus the driver, perfect snug fit for the thirteen-person van. I sat in the very back by Elder Richmond and watched as Mexico flew past our window. It felt weird to say goodbye to the strange alternate universe I’d grown to know, returning to my roots as if I were an astronaut upon reentry into a familiar atmosphere. It was just the opposite of my first day leaving home but very much the same if you know what I mean. (See "Set Apart and Setting Out")
Truth be told, the drive wasn’t nearly as long as I’d anticipated. We crossed the Rio Grande just north of good old Riveras, the bridge of a highway right across the street from the hospital I went to with Elder Fortaleza in "On the Third Day". We crossed water twice (but it wasn’t as wide of a river as you’d think separating Texas and Mexico) and drove across the Anzalduas International Bridge through about two miles of grassy barren fenced land until we reached the inspection point in Granjeno, Texas. The kind officer peaked his head into our van and double-checked that everyone in the van was supposed to be crossing as he looked at our passports and took a roll call. He was happy to see more missionaries; we were not the first bunch to head home that way. He spoke in perfect English to us and Spanish with President. It was so refreshing!
After we got the green light, we drove into town. It was so strange to officially be in the United States again! Considering how close we were all that time to sweet America, it was still a dramatic difference. Everything was in English. The prices again read in US dollars instead of pesos. The grass was luscious green, soft, and clean-cut. The roads were all paved, and smooth, and kept, and clean of garbage. The American flag literally waved its red, white, and blue above the hotels, post offices, and airports. Everything was so familiar. Like a breath of fresh air. Like going back to our roots. One of the first things we noticed was how the gas prices had dropped just below $2 since it was about $3.60 when we’d left. What else had changed? We had a lot to catch up on.
We made a quick pit-stop at the post office and then it was off to the airport. We unloaded our bags, of which again, my three cases made it difficult to handle all on my own, and we walked into the airport. We got more pictures at the tiny McAllen, Texas airport while we waited for our flight; and I say "tiny" in contrast to the massive Atlanta Airport and Mexico City Airport we had visited in order to get to the mission. (See "Up. Up, and Away!")
After a reasonably quick wait on the airport seats, it was time to say our official goodbyes. We passed through security and I watched President Regalado and the office Elders disappear from view (the ones who drove in the pickup truck with our luggage). You know, I thought that arriving in Mexico for the first time was a culture shock but it was just as shocking getting to McAllen, Texas only about eight miles from Reynosa. In the last couple of days, we’d been so used to speaking to each other in English as a sort of secret language that most Mexicans couldn’t understand, or at least not at a level advanced enough to keep up with us. But suddenly we were in Texas and most everyone was speaking in English. Next to nobody was speaking in Spanish. Suddenly, Spanish was the secret language. But we didn’t want to speak in Spanish for the sake of practicing our English for our families' sake, many of whom didn't speak Spanish. Let me tell you, our English was rusty, not forgotten, but choppy. Like legit Spanglish but even more so because the Castilian Spanish that the Mexicans on the U.S. border spoke was already more Spanglish than most other countries. I just can’t tell you how odd it was to not only hear English but to hear fluent English (since some Mexicans and missionaries in the mission learned English) and to see predominantly white crowds and people with blonde hair and blue eyes. It wasn’t the same to see white and blonde missionaries because they were the exception, not the rule. To see predominantly white and blonde crowds of people in street clothing was like discovering a new species for the first time. For the first time in a hundred weeks, I was a minority once again. Back in Mexico, I looked like anyone else, and the güeros (Goo-wear-ohs: white guys) were the Street-side attractions. Suddenly, it was flipped and I felt a bit out of place. I’m an American, and half-Caucasian, but I looked and felt like a Mexican in my heart.
We arrived next at the massive Houston Texas airport after the three hundred-mile flight which seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. It was a bit of a struggle to navigate the airport but we had to hurry to make sure Elder Richmond got to where he was going on time. We got Elder Richmond to his flight to Colorado (which made me feel bad leaving him by himself) and Elder Hale and Elder Allen went on a different flight than ours to St. George. It was a sad embrace but it wouldn’t be the last time we’d see each other, just a temporary farewell. But I had to make sure that before Elder Hale left that we got one final picture with District D altogether. We'd started out on this journey together in the MTC on Wednesday, August 6, 2014. And now, on July 8, 2016, we were very different people, and at the same time, very much the same.
Our flight was delayed for whatever reason but not substantially. We took advantage of the extra downtime and we roamed the large Houston airport, got some sandwiches for lunch, and made friends with fellow passengers heading to Utah in the sitting area. Some of which were members of the church. Not uncommon for Utah. It wasn’t difficult to immediately be recognized as missionaries by fellow Utahns and even other people at the airport who weren’t members of the church. They didn’t even have to say anything. The proud encouraging look on their faces as we walked by them gave it away. Just for fun, we spoke in Spanish just to throw the other passengers off and to show off our skill as unsuspecting bilingual Caucasians who spoke Spanish like native Mexicans. The delay seemed to take forever because I felt like I’d waited long enough but I knew that our eventual arrival would be all the more appreciated. Opposition in all things. (See "Return of the King -- Part 1")
When the foolish build walls, the wise build bridges. I love the Mexican people and the Mexican culture. Having lived in a Utahn bubble most of my life, I was glad to experience something new and cross borders. A part of my heart will always be in Mexico.
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