The Waiting Game

My life is punctuated with waiting. I wait for kids to eat, to sleep, to pick up, to go to the bathroom. I wait for Chris to make coffee, to come home from work, to take out the trash. I wait for the washer, the dryer, the oven. I have even been waiting for the government to pass a budget. But mostly, in Mexico, I wait to cross the border.

This week, after a couple of days spent waiting for Andrew to get well, I decided to take him to the pediatrician in California. His appointment was at 10:15 Thursday morning, and the only thing standing between us and the office was an army of U.S. Customs and Border Protection agents.

I loaded Benjy and Andrew into the car at 9:15 a.m., allowing an hour to travel the 11.2 miles from our house to the facility in the San Diego suburbs. I expected to arrive with at least 15 minutes to spare, but as often happens when I have an appointment, I was unprepared for the obstacles awaiting me.

Traffic was normal for Tijuana. Even though stop signs were ignored, as is customary, other drivers yielded to my bigger vehicle, and I quickly made it to the road leading to the border. Recently, construction had begun on that road, so I was prepared for the bright orange banner suspended above it, announcing its closure. Last time I had traveled to the U.S., I had unwittingly followed detour arrows, which had led me in the complete opposite direction. I wasn't going to be misled again, so I ignored the arrows and turned at the next road, still avoiding the closed road. However, as I circled a roundabout that should have sprouted off to a road leading to the border, I found a motorcycle cop blocking my exit, for no apparent reason, and redirecting traffic back to the road that I had just left, which I think I've mentioned, was clearly marked as closed. So I went with it and circled and followed everyone else that was completely disregarding the posted closed road signs. What I found was an unclosed road, funneling cars to the border, and I kicked myself for forgetting the first rule of driving in Mexico: ignore the road signs.

Normally at this time of the day, the SENTRI line to the border (expedited lanes for people who have already passed a background check and paid for the privilege of a faster crossing) would have consisted of about five lanes ten or so cars deep. However, because I had an appointment or the construction confusion or a sale at Walmart, I found the SENTRI line overflowing with cars lined up in two somewhat orderly lines, patiently waiting for their turn to meet and greet with a CBP officer. There must have been 300 cars in front of me.

So I waited. And waited. And waited. The line was actually moving at regular intervals, and 25 minutes later, it was my turn to go through customs. A camera flashed to my left, snapping my photo as I presented our SENTRI cards to the electronic reader. The cars in front of me had passed through with only a momentary hesitation at the customs booth, and I sighed with relief that we hadn't picked the line with the arthritic CBP agent whose every movement is seasoned with deliberation. I sighed too soon.

"Good morning," I said cheerily. I handed over our SENTRI cars, removed my sunglasses, and rolled down the rear passenger window, revealing Benjy and Andrew. I expected him to glance in, hand me back the cards and send me on my way. He did not.

Instead, he asked me where I was going and if I had anything to declare and then informed me that I had been selected for secondary inspection, a fate which I had avoided for four months. It was 9:58, and I still had six miles left to travel once I cleared customs.

I quickly showed him my consulate credentials, hoping to convince him to override the computer's randomized selection. He was not convinced, however, even when I cited an agreement between the consulate and CBP to exempt diplomats from secondary inspection in most cases.

"You are not exempt," he said.

He must have seen the panic on my face as I eyed the clock again and reminded him that I was taking a sick baby to the doctor, because he shifted on his feet and offered to call his supervisor. He told me to wait, and I held my breath hoping for good news. But it wasn't to be. Again, I was told I was not exempt, and he directed me to the dreaded secondary waiting area.

The next CBP officer I met wanted to know what the heck I was doing there when he saw the consulate credentials. I told him I didn't know, but the supervisor said I had to be inspected. He shook his head but directed me to the first carrel, which had been blocked off with orange cones, as if they were saving it especially for me.

I parked, and I waited.

Finally, a new CBP officer approached my window, gave me the same round of questioning, noted the consulate credentials, took my SENTRI cards and told me to wait. So I waited some more. And I grew increasingly agitated with each passing minute as it became clear that we would not be making our 10:15 appointment.

At 10:12, yet another CBP officer came to my window. This one handed me back my SENTRI cards and said, "Ma'am, I've been told that you are upset that you had to go to secondary, but you are not exempt."

"Yes, I'm upset," I said. "My baby is sick and we have an appointment at 10:15. We're not going to make it now, and I don't know if they will hold his appointment. I understand that you say that I am not exempt from secondary. Can you please just hurry so we can try to get to the doctor?"

I was still expecting him to inspect my vehicle when he slipped a yellow piece of paper under my windshield wiper and told me that I was free to go, but not before leaving me with one final comment.

"We're not just trying to waste your time here," he said. "You are not exempt."

And with that final blow, I exited secondary at 10:14.

We were 10 minutes late to his doctor's appointment, but they took us anyway. At least there, I was exempt from a tardiness penalty with my heart wrenching story of my date with CBP. And there, I didn't even have to wait--much.