Friend Raqui planned and hosted an amazing girls' week in Mexico, on the appropriately named island of
Isla Mujeres, to celebrate her mid-century mark. She chose four close friends to invite on the adventure.
So on Saturday, June 27, I arose before dawn to start the odyssey of international travel. I had packed carefully and determined what would be carried on the plane and what checked. The curb-side dispatch went off mostly without a hitch. Oh, I was running off into the glass revolving door without my precious carry-on, yes. But Hubby's shouts from the drop-off lane called me back to retrieve that essential bag. At PDX I waited in an anxious herd of fellow travelers to check in at automated kiosks braced for the new hidden cost du-jour.
I had researched the Boeing 737-900. The general consensus online was that I was in for a long distance shot in a plastic human-cattle-car. I had sprung for the extra fee for more legroom. But that would be cold comfort as the seat-width promised to make intimates of the strangers with whom I would share the experience. No remedy for that.
I read
Into Thin Air on the iPad, perused the Hemispheres magazine, drank my tonic water in a plastic cup with my elbows tucked in, and presently we landed in Denver. The tchotchkes have different geographic names, but the basic formula is the same airport to airport. I wandered around, happy to be "seeing" Colorado. Eventually we reboarded for the next leg of the flight to Austin. In Texas the gift store scene had the cowboy Texas twang. I ate a great sandwich with a gluten-free bun from Thundercloud Subs, and presently was back on trajectory to Mexico.
Upon exiting the plane you know you are in Mexico. Instantly. A wall of humidity pushed its way into the enclosed jetway... a jetway that is somehow flimsier and more rinky-dink than stateside passages. As we rolled our luggage up the ramp and into the Cancun airport, the noises were another giveaway. Shouting, music, loud talking in Spanish.
Oh we North Americans live sheltered antiseptic lives!
My arrival was flooded with emotion. It evoked other places, moments and landings in my life. The early adventures, starting when I was young. My quiet, strong, intrepid way of wading into epic situations with mostly bravery and the occasional flash thought of "What have I gotten myself into?" And, why?
A key change this time, full more than a decade since my last visit to Mexico, was my sense of calm. Gravitas. You don't reach your fifth decade without gaining a little bit of Who-wants-a-piece-of-me?-presence. I felt a tad more in control. More able to handle whatever came my way. Knowing Spanish is far from necessary in Cancun, but it helps a person feel as if she will be less likely to be taken advantage of.
I bought my taxi to and from the airport for what seemed like an exorbitant $630 pesos (about $50). Actually, the taxi would have been crazy expensive - I purchased the
colectivo for that.
The interesting mishaps began right off the bat. I was sent to the end of the line of vans. As the driver hefted my suitcase into the back luggage hold, I said, "
Va a Puerto Juarez, no?" He looked up at me, surprised. "No ma'am. This is a private party charter." Oops. There I was, cluelessly horning in on some American family's 50th anniversary vacation trip.
The next van I tried was full. I went back to start. Eventually I found myself squeezed into the front seat in too-close quarters with an Asian guy from Toronto whose luggage had been lost. The AC was on fire hose mode. The music on full blast as well: obnoxious dance music with thudding bass sung by some pop princess with a bubblegum voice screaming vapid lyrics. Yep. Mexico.
As I pulled the door closed to seal myself in I thought, "How am I going to get the seatbelt on without accosting this guy's private space? Oh wait. It's Mexico. I don't have to put on the seatbelt. Actually there probably isn't even a seatbelt to put on at all. And with any luck at all, Toronto guy will take this reality in stride." And he did.
The driver took just about everyone else to their destinations in the Hotel Zone first. I enjoyed every moment of the "tour". I had a front row seat, cool air blowing into my face and the understood silence of strangers. The kids in the back exclaimed every time they caught a glimpse of the ocean or a pool. But that just added to the fun. By then even the music was okay with me.
At some point in my van tour, Raqui texted me. "Where
are you?" I told her the ferry dock to Isla was our next stop. I bought my ticket as the 7:30 ferry was pulling up to the pier.
By the time we were on board the heaving, bobbing two-story behemoth, the sky had darkened to steel and a strong warm wind whipped my hair into an airborne cork-screw. The ferry's powerful engines shook the undulating floor. I stashed my luggage in the hold and ascended to the top deck, texting Hubby about the impending hurricane that was surely bearing down.
It was on the ferry that being in Mexico sunk in even further. There was an enterprising street musician who had set up his portable amplifier and electric guitar. He serenaded our twenty minute passage with popular Spanish rock ballads sung at top volume. His voice was rich and resonant. The ferry seats and audio equipment were faded, worn and tattered by the daily beating of the salt air and sun.
I thought of a conversation I had overheard on the plane between a Texan guy and another
norteamericano. They discussed the merits of different high end ear buds. Bose earphones work best to reproduce the clarity and dynamics of classical music. Some other brand captures the bass of more upbeat music like country or hip-hop.
Music, you see, at top volume, had been my companion for the whole of the trip. It's just that we private solitary individualists tunnel into our own private spaces as we listen. So while my plane-mates rocked out, I was surrounded only with the buzz and whine of the Boeing's engines and my faraway thoughts. We like our space. Our choices. Our taste. Our unique capsule of personhood and all the sensory input that goes with it. Love it.
But Mexico! Glorious Mexico is collective, communal, extroverted, crowded, ingenious, sensory, rigged together and affectionate. There is nothing private about it.
So I listened to this street kid in his shabby clothes as he filled the air with the thrill of a throbbing beat. The world became his smooth voice, the wind, the waves, the boat's vibration, an endless horizon, bands of turquoise below us, the smell of salt, the little Mexican girl in the seat in front of me taking selfies from every direction... and I breathed in love for the whole scene.
Oh Mexico... sounds so sweet with the sun sinking low. Moon's so bright like to light up the night. Make everything all right.
