Travelogue: San Antonio to Monterrey

I caught a bus in Texas from San Antonio to Monterrey, MX. The bus company I used, Turimex, is part of a Mexican conglomerate and only operates a website in Spanish. Likewise, Spanish is the primary language at the station and, while I'm certain the employees know a bit of English, they certainly did not offer to use it. Thus my immersion actually began on the US side of the border. It was also a reminder that while Spanish slowly becomes our second language nationwide, in pockets of Texas and other states it has been firmly established as number one for quite some time.

The station and, later, the bus, was abuzz with chatter and laughter as if everyone knew everyone else. My backpack drew plenty of stares and I was not included in the familial revelry, but I was content to just sit and enjoy the atmosphere. On the bus I chatted briefly with the older woman next to me, who had arrived with three large suitcases, each heavier than she. She told me her trip was for business rather than pleasure. She makes three trips to the US annually, during which she stays with a friend and buys gifts, toys, and clothing to sell in Monterrey. Taking notice of other passengers' luggage, it seemed that her reason for travel was not uncommon.

We crossed the border at Laredo, TX, and when the call came for Americans to pass through immigration, I was the only one to get off the bus. I filled out my entry card in front of the immigration officer and gave him the requested $20 entry fee. I hadn't expected the fee, and when he simply dropped it into an empty bottom drawer of a wooden dresser I began to think I had been fleeced. Subsequent research, however, has assured me that all was in order. After 8 hours of driving through the barren scrubland of Southern Texas and Northern Mexico, we pulled into the industrial metropolis of Monterrey, situated amidst clusters of craggy green peaks. From a distance one sees evidence of increasing rural-urban migration: hastily built shanty-towns expand the city outwards such that it's borders begin to lap at the surrounding hills that used to contain it.

The bus station had the familiar chaotic buzz of porters, ticket sellers, and other various vendors, but was much more civil than those I've experienced in South America. People outside were helpful in giving me directions and a quick trip on the subway got me to my hostel, a restored Colonial house called La Casa del Barrio.