Mexico
A few bits from our first journey in ten years. Why did it take ten years, one might ask? Well…we like the couch…and…Stuff…
Thinking I had made the perfect online deal I booked us into the Barcelo Costa in Cancun. I had been to Mexico a little over 15 years ago, and while not in Cancun, how different could it be than all the rest of the Yucatan Peninsula, right?
Very different. While Cancun has made quite a transformation over the past 15 years, into something resembling a Mayan Las Vegas, the Barcelo Costa is located towards the downtown end of the isla. This meant that the beach (which was our primary impetus for the journey) was the size of a small suburban lawn. After being shown around the lobby of the Barcelo, including the “snack buffet” which included sweaty cold cuts and microwave pizza, Yea, we were shown to our room.
The second story room was located just off the main pool area, where starting around 8:00 pm wonderful festivities such as Disco Night, 80’s night, and probably Scream-As-If-Being-Murdered-NIGHT transpired at sound levels akin to a WHO concert. Until Disco Night, the fact that I had already paid for the week kept me in the mindset that we were stuck here. Our dinner conversation that night went like this:
Bill stares vacantly out the restaurant’s window at the Walmart Frequent Buyers Club that is frolicking about the pool area.
Bill: Well…at least we have some decent food.
Heidi: I think there is a pork sauce on top of my fish.
Bill: Yeah…Maybe breakfast won’t have the pork sauce.
It would be later that night, halfway through the second disc of SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER, that I decided we weren’t staying the rest of the week at the Barcelo Cancun.
Morning, Day 2.
Bill: Fuck it. Let’s pack all our shit up and get the hell out of here.
Heidi: We didn’t unpack anything.
Bill: Uh…I do believe we brushed our teeth last night. Are our toothbrushes packed? I think not. Let’s get’em packed.
We spent the early part of that morning renting not one, but TWO cars. Why two cars? Because renting one car might have saved money, and when you are on your first vacation in 10 years you have throw money away like your wallet is an old box of tissues. So, after renting our second car and returning the first car for a net loss of $95 dollars, we ventured out along the crazy streets of Cancun for new lodging. It is important to note that even though it was considered the slow season at the time, our 1 night at the Barcelo ended up costing us $1000. Awesome!
Our escapade with the cars left us both feeling sullen and abused, so we really didn’t have the patience to be selective with our next hotel choice. We needed some assurance that the next place was not going to be another swingers club for the unfortunate. So, with that in mind, we pulled into the driveway of the Cancun Ritz Carlton. “Room Please!”
Ah! There was the Cancun beach and that glorious turquoise water. For $270 a night this was a steal. The room was lovely, the pool spectacular and the beach…well, the beach was the nicest we had seen so far. Apparently the majority of the Cancun beaches have been stripped of most of their sandy lushness due to the past couple hurricanes. However, it was bigger than a Front lawn.
After a night at the Ritz we decided that we needed to venture out of the craziness of Cancun…
…And see the real Mayan Riviera. The Ritz would still be our hub (or so we thought), but I wanted Heidi to see what the fragments of my memory kept reminding me about the Yucatan. So off we went, down the 307. What I didn’t know at that moment was that we were only halfway through our hotel jumping. In true Hahn tradition, we would venture as far as Tulum, where we had the foresight to rent a hippie shack on the beach for 3 nights. We only stayed 45 minutes. Why only 45 minutes? Well, it was a hippie shack for one. And the beach, while visually beautiful, was in some kind of trouble with the God Of Wind. Walking a quarter mile down the beach was like walking through some Jurassic Micro Derm-abrasion chamber. You could literally feel the minute flecks of skin being torn off your face grain by high velocity grain. And, it was a hippie shack.
So out of Tulum and back up the 307. But where to? Not the Barcelo. And, to my Mother-In-Law’s dismay, not back to the Ritz. We ended up settling into the tiny little community of Akumal. A small little diving village pretty much untouched since the late 60’s, early 70’s. A couple of outdoor restaurants, and 2 dive shops. Light winds and smooth water. Finally we had found what we’d been looking for!
Not the Ritz, but it worked.
Day Of The Dead Festivities.
Made by a young man on a foot wheel in less than 2 minutes.
This little, wet, very fragile piece of pottery spent the next 3 days being cared for us like some freakish premature baby. That night while traveling back up the pitch black 307, it toppled over on its dashboard perch as we made our way over one of the zillion 3-foot-high speed bumps that randomly cover the highway like Halloween pranks. But it survived. It also managed to stay in tact through security and customs. It even survived the flight home despite the efforts of the 2 Satanic children sitting in the seats immediately in front of us. Perhaps this was it’s greatest test because during the course of the 4 hour flight the thought of heaving the little pot into the heads of the poop-smelling monsters was tossed around quite frequently. But it survived. The little pot, er, fountain perservered and made it’s journey back to the states where it now sits proudly on the windowsill above the kitchen sink.