One of the first things that welcomed me on my return to Mexico on Wednesday afternoon was news that Omar had accepted service from the municipality of two extremely official-looking documents.
Over the years my Spanish has improved, and my reading skills in Spanish are far superior to my speaking abilities. But the documents were written in language that would have felt at ease in the court of Carlos I. Lawyers universally write in jargon that would do a religious cult proud.
Before I looked at the documents, I thought they might be billings for what has been a long-standing battle between the former owner-builder of my house and her contractor. They both disputed who should pay the IMSS assessment (essentially, workers' compensation coverage) for the construction of the house. When I bought the house, I was assured that the dispute had been resolved.
That was wrong. I did not discover that, though, until two months later when an inspector from Puerto Vallarta showed up at the house demanding money. I referred him to my realtor, who put him off. For about five months. He then returned with a written demand. Once again, my realtor deflected his advances, and advised me to simply ignore him in the future.
I thought these documents were another salvo in that battle. So, I forwarded them to my realtor.
Before she could respond, I parsed my way through the Spanish. The demand was not from IMSS; it was from the county. And the documents were not demands for unpaid workers' compensation premiums, but for unpaid property taxes. Billings for almost $10,000 (Mx) for the tax years 2016 through 2020.
I knew that was wrong. I have religiously paid my property taxes early and have a file folder of receipts to prove it -- including the years on the billings. Having isolated the issue, I was prepared to drive to the county seat, Cihuatlán, yesterday morning to straighten out the matter -- or to be straightened out myself.
The fact that there were two different documents kept gnawing at me. Both listed the former owner's name and included my address.
My house is built on two separate lots, but I thought they had been consolidated for property tax purposes. I also played with the possibility I had been paying taxes on the wrong lot. That did happen with my annual water, sewer, and garbage payment that had been applied to a different property for three years.
Then I saw it. Even though the service address listed my house, the billings were for two other houses the former ownder had built just north of me on a side street. That street was listed on the billings.
Early yesterday morning my realtor emailed me her interpretation of the documents. She concurred with my read: neither of the billings are mine.
Like a good neighbor who receives a neighbor's mail by mistake, I walked the documents over to the houses listed on the dunning notice. It was not the best gift that I have ever delivered.
Being greeted by a debt (even one that I did not owe) was not the best welcome home greeting. But it did satisfy that elusive goal of mine for moving to Mexico: getting up every morning and not knowing if I would get through the day.
However, I am glad to be back. Mexico will be a good place to ride out the coming waves of coronavirus. Having spent a week up north and now reading the news of The End of Mankind, I am happy to be here.
And, yes, I know that when the coronavirus hits here, it will be a repeat of the 2009 swine flu epidemic in Mexico. But we all muddled along. That is, with the exception of the 4000 people who died while the Mexican government, for almost a decade, declared the number was only 80.
Wherever you have decided to ride out this pandemic, I wish you well. For now, I am simply happy to be home in my over-billed house with no name.
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