One of my biggest cultural problems is that I have what I call the English Disease. I queue up and will stand endlessly, politely waiting my turn. I blame it on my British forebears and from growing up in a country still suffering from the imprint of the Union Jack in its colonial past.

We're taught as small children to line up quietly and never cut in or try and jump ahead. We tend to think of this trait as honorable and upright and we get sometimes quite sanctimonious about the rightness of our way. We are outraged and angry when others don't follow our clearly better, god-ordained way of doing things. Until we get old... and move somewhere that sees zero value in our treasured beliefs.

I've mellowed enough in my dotage to realize that getting upset about these things is pointless. That it is quite probable that others around me don't see line-jumping as the capital offense of my upbringing. That, in fact, some cultures see it as getting over on someone and that is seen as a coup, a win , a desirable point-laden event. Me whining about line jumpers would just make me look like the fool who got taken.

Now, if I had the huevos to defeat them at their own game, step in front of them and devastate them with a few quiet words, then I could win. Unfortunately, it's tough to devastate with few words when you only have a few words to choose from, me taking someone on in Spanish is truly taking a paper knife to a gun fight.

So, today I sat in Hacienda (the Mexican tax office) for untold hours and waited for my number to come up on the little machine at the front of the room. I was there to pay $118 pesos to register my old truck for another year. No matter that those numbers rarely moved because so many people just walked in front, no matter that when it did move the spot was immediately claimed by someone who just walked in and who I watched pick up a discarded number from the floor, none of that mattered. I sat and I waited and I played games on my iPhone until the battery died. Then I just sat and watched.

Number 6 was being served when I got my number


Oh No! I'm number 34


I won't claim that I never got the teeniest bit irritated, I did. I put it away though and thought about this English Disease. I wondered if I could switch my cultural bias and change how I behaved. I decided I probably could, especially if I were younger and more impatient. I also decided that it was highly unlikely that I would ever really break the queue habit, the belief that I was more honorable for waiting my turn. I decided I might not like myself as much if I did abandon my upbringing. I had plenty of time to think about all this in detail.

A couple hours later, at about number 17 - notice the guy in the white shirt and tan shorts, he's going to be next because he just picked up a number off the floor


Thinning out now, still only around #21, white shirt is almost done.


Finally when the place was nearly empty, when I started worrying that they would close and make me leave with my number still uncalled, two baggy trousered punks walked in. They had the smirks and the steely stare and the marijuana leaf shirts to go with the pants they had to keep holding on to or lose. There was a well dressed businessman at one of the booths, he'd been there a long time and had many papers spread out on the counter. These thugs stood on either side of him, leaning too close, blatantly reading his papers through the glass and over his shoulder. He never looked at them, the guy waiting on him never looked at them. The only other person I saw looking besides me was a well dressed woman at the adjoining window who gave him a sad look.

It was clear that they had decided to be next at that window and they didn't even bother to fake getting a number or to look for one on the floor. The man concluded his business, it took another 15 minutes and it must have been nerve wracking for him, they never left his sides. One of them even fingered the clasp on his laptop case that was strung across his back. He moved it in front of him but never looked at them. All this time they were smirking and laughing and making jokes behind him.

I really wanted to take their picture, I even got up and stood so I was close and had a clear shot. I didn't do it. It dawned on me that taking out my camera and taking their picture was confrontational and from the behavior of everyone else in the room, that was probably not a good idea. So, I sat down again resigned that although my number was next, I was not going to be next.

The businessman left and they grabbed their papers and shoved them across the counter. The guy working took them, completed their transaction with little conversation and they left, laughing and throwing fake punches at each other. I contemplated that old saying "Living well is the best revenge" and decided I wouldn't want their lives even with the additional 40 years.

I'm pretty sure they felt like they won, that they had beat out everyone in the place, which by that time was just this old gringa and a young mother with a crying baby. Obviously, there are punks in every culture and it's not unusual that they get their way through fear.

You think?*


I was more taken with the regular people that just quietly snuck in line or picked up abandoned numbers. One guy asked a woman who was waiting what her number was, when she was done he walked right in behind her and told them he had the next number. I'd like to think I felt good about holding to my upbringing and waiting my turn, actually it left a sour taste in my mouth and I felt sort of culturally bereft. I no longer believe that the way I was raised is better, just different, but I also don't want to give it up.


*This is the box for complaints, suggestions and reporting people, it says "your word counts." I'll bet it is always empty.