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December 15, 2004
"Dos margaritas, por favor. Rocas, sin sal."
I fear for my palefaced friends out there. This is the second time I've returned from a vacation sunburnt, and my dermatologist assures me that I have 25 times more natural skin protection than he does.
The Woman avers that his assertion is urban legend, not medical fact. Her mockery suggests that if I were just a squosh more intelligent, I'd wear more sunscreen, more often. As it is, I think I merely rubbed some on my T-zone.
Cancún is beautiful, despite the fact that it's also a stark presentation of how Brand America has been exported -- quite successfully. The strip in from the airport is dotted with familiar franchises like Tony Roma's, Ruth's Chris, T.G.I. Fridays, and other players from your local shopping mall.
Not a novel observation, I know. But it's odd how the place has been terraformed to accommodate the tourist trade. I'll have to do more research, as I'm curious about how they turned Cancún from a tranquil tropical spot with 38,000 people in 1971 to semi-Vegas sprawl that's now home to more than a million.
These stats are courtesy of our corpulent, cheerful cab driver, who've I've chosen to call "Gordo." He was inhaling some chile-corn salad out of a paper cup when we flagged him down outside the market. He never stopped talking, and twice tried to sell me some marijuana, so maybe I should take these factoids with a grain of salt.
Each hotel is sloped and staggered to remind us of the Mayan pyramids that are less than two hours' drive, usually via a tour bus that'll offer lunch and a chance to stop and stop at a flea market with grossly inflated prices. Even though we were there during the off-season, we paid U.S rates for everything.
A club sandwich in Cancun was about $8.50, which is what I would have paid down the street at home. The silver bracelet that was bargained down to $80 at the flea market was purchased for $40 and change at the airport, and would have been closer to $25 in Ensenada.
By my second day, I was developing a good sense of guilt about being a tourist -- no one could possibly be as friendly as everyone was trying to be. These people were working so hard to get a tip, a sale, a fare, and the common thread was always a broad smile and, "OK my friend?"
If I had to work that hard to be pleasant to these tourists -- these overfed folks lucky enough to be born middle-class in a developed nation -- just so I could make some kind of a living, well, yeah, I'd probably do it. But rest assured that it would piss me off mightily. From what I observed, about half of us tourists were nice enough, maybe 25% would go out of their way to be polite and gracious, and the rest were just boors.
My most embarassing moment? Handing a soggy 100-peso note to a hotel bartender while dripping and blinking the sand out of my eyelashes. He seemed not to care or notice.
I actually saw a T-shirt for sale with a cartoony Bubba reading, "This ain't a big belly -- it's a fuel tank for a SEX MACHINE!" At the airport on the way home, a young Korean guy was wearing his "I'm shy but I have a BIG DICK" shirt proudly. I think he's lying on both counts.
We had a truly memorable meal in the hotel's Mexican restaurant. The place is open until midnight, so we poked our heads in the door at 11:30 p.m. our second night, only to see that there were no patrons, only workers.
We went back the next night a few hours earlier, and we were greeted cordially by Nicolas and Orlando, the two waiters on deck that evening. Again, we were the only patrons, so they lavished us with attention and good humor that seemed genuine. It was almost like they were glad to have something to do, if I may project that much. (I've had lame service jobs, and slow days can actually be worse than busy ones, trust me. You have all kinds of time to consider how much you really don't like your work.)
At Orlando's suggestion, we had the special, the Mixed Seafood Grill for Two: grilled lobster tail, langostinos, shrimp, scallops, mahi mahi and salmon, along with various sauces, rice and vegetables. It's the best thing I've eaten in recent memory and along with dos margaritas, Nicolas poured us each free shots of 1800 along with our café con leche.
They swept past occasionally to see how were were doing, but mainly, they seemed to argue soccer and sing along with the music that was being pumped in -- traditional, romantic torch songs. Of all the people I encountered down there, Nicolas and Orlando seemed to enjoy their jobs the most.
It was a beautiful place to be. Our plane got in after dark, so I didn't really observe much on the shuttle van in from the airport besides the hotels and the other riders. When we got to the room, I think I put our bags down, handed Her the room service menu, and passed out diagonally on the Sheraton Sweet Sleeper like a drunken sailor. She awakened me by whispering in my ear gently. I response, I kissed her, fell upon the food tray ravenously, and went promptly back to sleep. I believe She drank both margaritas.
Late the next morning when I woke up, she was standing by the window. "I want you to see something," she said, drawing open the curtain dramatically to reveal a white beach and water that was every color of blue. A few minutes later, someone parasailed at balcony level on the beachfront.
We spent at least two hours in the water every day, but we never did get to the snorkeling we'd planned on Isla de Mujeres. Plenty of time for that on the Big Trip coming up in a few months. Travelling during the off-season is highly recommended. There were never more than a hundred or so people on our stretch of the beach, and we had the hotel's pools to ourselves each night after dark. One night, she pointed out that Orion was far lower in the sky than usual, and I flashed back to a similar moment on Guam, when I had the same thought.
If you've never floated on your back at a different lattitude and looked at the constellations, you should.
Posted by Your Protagonist at December 15, 2004 12:33 PM