Arrival, Acceptance, Income

A strange landscape filled my visual field. A mixing of rivers, piles of earth, mountains with snowed tops and the Pacific extending towards Japan, Alaska, and a whole lot of other exotic places. Afterwards, the panoramic view ended to open the way to a pack of trees and pines approaching ferociously to the left in first plane. Some shy houses showed themselves too. But the velocity was constant. Stomping.

Immigration. I have no way to prove that I can sustain myself in Canada for a year. They warned me about it during the process. I knew that was one of the things the Canadian government worried about the most. Letter of Acceptance, Proof of Income. How difficult was it to remember both things? For an asshole who had already seen himself filmmaking in Canada, trying to figure out if Halle Berry would take him to bed even if she was drunk, who saw himself building something in another country… A lot.

Like something made on purpose, the line was relatively short. The thing I wanted the most at the moment was time to think what the fuck I could say if they asked me for my proof of income. There was no such a thing. Yes, it existed. But I had too much time. Enough time to reach several possible answers; getting to believe that none of them would work; imagining myself returning to Monterrey with the word SHAME written all over my face and telling my family and friends: “I’ll be leaving ‘til June… they sent me back”, and so later getting drunk; finding myself suddenly beating the shit out of the fucking korean guy with shit-stinking breath that was just behind my back; seeing myself just like that inside a VFS classroom with a bunch of three-year-younger-than-me guys, at least, beating my ass off and me screaming back at them: “We’ll see each other faces in a Mexican studying program, bunch of fucking pussies!”

Proof of income. It came back with immeasurable force. With a force coming from the big claustrophobic room with a line that now seemed eternal to me. Since I got to the line until now, I had walked just a few human spaces, at the most. I’ll be in this line of semi-open-eyed guys for at least another hour and a half. And I have nothing against them, but the fucking korean guy behind me was not the best introduction to oriental people. Proof of income. My fingers started wetting the blessed Letter of Acceptance which I did bring. Fucking shit.

Minutes. Hour and a half. Proof of income. Two hours. Two hours and a half. “Next please”. Oh fuck. Which were the posible answers?! Shit, I wish I could go back with the fucking korean guy with flatulence-stinking breath! “So, why Canada?”,asked the Asian-African-French-weird man who was like an Alfonso Zayas region one. “Well, why not… right?” Stupid. Stupid. Fuck. “Mmm, what are you studying?, replied Alfonso-Pierre-Zayas-Lee-Murphy. “Writing for Film and TV at VFS.” “What is VFS.” Shit. “Anyway, do you have your L-E-T-T-E-R—O-F—A-C-C-E-P-T-A-N-C-E-!-!” Slowly, without taking off my steady look from the unclassifiable guy in front of me, I took out the Letter of Acceptance. “There ya go…” “It’s OK, just wanted to make sure you had it…”

STOMP.
STOMP.
STOMP.

“Welcome to Canada, Mr. Méndez, hope you enjoy Vancouver.”

Outside that place of hell, a great fucking day was receiving me. A taxi driver who was angry with the whole world took me to my apartment. The more I entered the city, the more I realized that everything had been worth it. About the shopping, I better not talk. Tomorrow I’ll give this city the chance to amend. Shit. “Welcome to Canada, Mr. Méndez…” I even believe it, no shit.

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Actual date of composition: Wednesday April 22 2009
11:30PM