Vamos - Let's Go

        Two weeks in Mexico!!! On hearing our travel plans, most of our friends shared our enthusiasm for the Mayan Riviera. Some warned us about the perils of choosing Mexico over Hawaii. Beware the pickpockets! You’ll have to fight off hordes of stubborn vendors. Not to mention, the dreaded Montezuma’s Revenge. (Or as our buddy Allan calls it, Big D.) No worries. We wanted adventure. Bring it on.

            Mexico was a random choice for us. We had asked our travel agent, Jo, for a warm destination suitable for celebrating our 35^th anniversary. We envisioned snorkelling together. Lazing on beaches… together. Sipping cold drinks under thatched umbrellas…together. Shopping………. 

            Okay, togetherness isn’t everything. Darling Hubby’s patience is limited, and it was his vacation, too. Still, I was pretty sure that the thought of me braving acres of market stalls, for hours in the hot sun, might soften him up. A bit. What if the tropical UV rays melted not only my mascara, but also my sales resistance? Did he really want to test that theory?  

            The Gran Bahia Principe at Tulum offered us the best value, besides the lure of an all-inclusive resort. I love to cook for people. (Even strangers. Just throw me a hungry look and then watch my mothering instincts kick in.) Still, the thought of two weeks without any kitchen prep or clean-up won me over. After all, we were celebrating three and a half decades of domestic survival. Maui, with its overpriced groceries, could wait.

            We planned to leave on Thanksgiving Monday. Vacationing in October makes for a long summer. While other friends took off for Paris, Punta Cana and the Oregon coast, we stayed home. Working. Waiting. Polishing our rusty Spanish. Learning to think in pesos.

            Not being a seasoned traveller, I Googled “How to Pack like a Pro” and found a great YouTube tutorial. After laying my belongings on the bed, I painstakingly followed the instructions. Create layers in your suitcase starting with shoes, into which you tuck assorted small items. Roll or fold garments to fit into the gaps.

            My resolve evaporated after a second viewing. Lay out everything you plan to take and then eliminate about a third. WHAT???!!! I’ve never learned how to turn off my incessant internal recording that chirps, “You’ll need it later! Yes, you will!” After all, we wouldn’t be able to run to the neighbours for anything we’d forgotten. The head honchos at West Jet must suffer from a similar recording. Even with all my books and snorkel gear, we were both under their luggage weight limit. Woohoo!     

            At least I had the good sense to leave my tin of baking soda at home (Used for cleaning my dental splint). Containers of white powder are viewed with suspicion by border guards everywhere. Can you blame them? I could picture an official picking up my tin: Shake, shake, shake. Twisting off the lid. Bushy eyebrows raised at the sight of the contents. Those stern brows swivelling to me, and then hovering over a triumphant expression that needs no translation in any country: Ha, ha, foolish tourist, we’ve got you now. Hand over your life! I decided to risk a grody splint instead of an irate official. Good call.

            Like two kids waiting for Santa, Darling Hubby and I slept sporadically the night before. Despite our best efforts to get into vacation mode, we rose at 6 a.m., helplessly mindful of the fact that our departure wasn’t until after midnight. And then we were headed to the airport! West Jet does their best to facilitate slumber on red-eye flights, short of expelling the oxygen from the cabin. But no. All night long, we kept checking the little plane on the TV screen as it flew across the map of North America. Because the pilot totally needed our vigilance, didn’t he? What if he veered off course? Hey, they hadn’t put us in charge of the emergency exit for nothing. So with our expert assistance (or in spite of it), we made it, via Toronto, to Cancun around noon.

            Jo had cautioned us about the airport corridor through which we’d have to pass to find our hotel shuttle. They’ll try to sell you all kinds of excursions and deals. Don’t even make eye contact with them. Got it. Just like the sign next to the gorillas at the zoo.

             I had envisioned a narrow gauntlet packed with rabid vendors grabbing for our lapels. (Yes, I know I have a lively imagination. Hey, I’m a fiction writer.) It was far less daunting than we had anticipated. Jo had also expected us to be on the beach by two o’clock. LOL.

            Can you say, “Milk run?” The shuttle from Cancun to the Gran Bahia stopped at several other resorts. One was at the end of a long, narrow pothole of a road that had been flooded. Darling Hubby even saw fish in the puddles! The long ride was too much for two tiny girls in the back of the shuttle who had reached their tolerance limit a thousand air miles earlier. Poor little sweethearts.

            I admire the fortitude of parents who travel with their children. I also admire the foresight of travellers who take a taxi from the airport. Never mind, we’d come for the full experience. Where else can you see the rare Pisces in Puddelius?

            Lots of places in Mexico are gated. Each of the hotels we stopped at had a sturdy gate and a guard at the entrance. This surprised me, because I’m accustomed to all the resorts in Banff National Park, not far from our home. Many of them are isolated, but anyone is free to enter.

            At first, this increased my feeling of security for where we were headed. Surely they would have similar measures in place. Then I wondered about the need for all of this. Is it really so dangerous outside the resort? Maybe not. Maybe the staff refuses to deal with any more demanding turistas than is absolutely necessary. Having been both a waitress and a chamber maid in my pre-college days, I could relate to that.    

            I never asked anyone about these security measures. We always felt safe in Mexico, at least as much as we do at home. (Especially when we realized that the iguanas all over our resort barely moved when you walked within a couple of feet of them. But more on that in a later post.) There are lots of places in Canadian cities that feel sketchy late at night. My kids will tell you that I am one suspicious mama. So if we felt safe, that should tell you something. If you have any doubts, plan to stay on the resort and relax.

            Two and a half hours later, we arrived at the GB. To me, it appeared much better than the other resorts we’d seen. Lusher landscaping. Nicer buildings. Lots of amenities separated by lots of jungle. Charming and exotic.

            After a momentary stop at the main lobby, we were driven to our private check-in area. For us, the upgrade we’d purchased for our vacation package was definitely worth it. We weren’t one of twenty other groups checking in, we were one of three. After being awake for 30 or 40 hours, that’s pretty nice. And knowing how cranky I get when I’m sleep-deprived, it worked in their favour, too.

            In the Tulum area of the Gran Bahia, this upgrade is called the Diamond Club. It includes things (that are extras with the basic package) like a lock for your room safe, an extra room key, more meals in the restaurants, and less hassle in general. That little orange bracelet they make you wear is worth every peso.      

            The Gran Bahia provides a variety of open vehicles for taking their guests around the resort. We heard them being called trains, trams, wagons and trolleys. A cart by any other name rattles just as loud. Riding them is fun because someone else gets to do the driving for a change. My only caution is that they don’t come with a lot of places to hang onto, so you might want to seat your small children away from the edge. And make sure you communicate with the driver before you step off.

            I wish the Diamond Club status allowed us the opportunity to pilot one of these puppies at top speed around the winding roads of the GB, as lizards and tourists alike skittered out of the way. (Now that’s my idea of a summer job - even better than go-carts! No wonder the drivers are always in a good mood.) It does not. Sigh. I had to suffice with the vicarious thrill of sitting behind the driver’s seat. Most of them cranked up their tropical music and shimmied a bit to the beat (the drivers, not the carts, which provide a distinctly creaking rhythm of their own).

            Just like them (the carts, not the drivers), Mexico is full of contrasts. Relax, but hold onto your seats. The best is yet to come.   

Stay tuned for my next instalment.