Notes from a Spinning Planet—Mexico (2 page)

“Did you mention how people can repurchase their stolen passports at the airport?” I ask.

She laughs. “I did indeed.”

“Good thing that didn't happen to us,” I say. “We were in such a
hurry when we left we might not have had time to find the right rascal to buy them back from.”

“I had an e-mail from Lydias mom yesterday,” she says. “It'sounds like everything's all settled and that Lydia made it safely to their relatives in Oregon. She should arrive in Seattle just a few days after we get back from Mexico.”

“And I'm all packed and ready to move too,” I say. “You sure you're ready to have two new roommates?”

“Well, you know how much I'm gone anyway. And you girls are both pretty thoughtful and mature—not to mention self-sufficient. I don't think I need to worry.” She winks at me. “Besides, if you give me any flak, I'll just send you both packing.”

“Hopefully, we'll find an apartment on campus before too long. I told my parents about my plan to sell my car to pay rent.”

“And they're okay with that?”

“Yeah. I think Dad's actually relieved, especially after driving me to Seattle today. He thinks I'll get killed driving in that traffic.”

Sid shakes her head. “Hey, well, unfortunately, it happens.”

“According to Uncle Eric, Betsy's husband, that happens in Mexico too. He said that driving down there is taking your life into your own hands.”

Sid just laughs.

“And I told him that I've seen you drive in Ireland, where the roads are about a foot wide and you have to drive on the wrong side, and that you managed to make it through just fine.” I smile at her. “I'm not worried.”

Sitting here in first class and being treated like a celebrity, I don't feel a bit worried about anything. Apparently neither does Sid, who's enjoying a complimentary margarita. But if I've learned anything from my travels with Sid, it's that when you feel least worried is often the time you should be looking over your shoulder. Of course, it's usually a hindsight sort of thing.

he flight goes smoothly: no turbulence, no delays, not a single hitch. But once we're down on the ground in Los Cabos, I can tell the smooth part might be over. For one thing, we're all just sitting here in the plane, which is getting pretty hot. I don't think the air conditioning is working. The pilot keeps making these funny little announcements that don't really tell us anything, well, other than the fact that it doesn't look like we'll be disembarking anytime soon.

Even the flight attendants are starting to act frustrated, and their smiles look slightly strained now. Mr. Computer Mogul Man asks the one in our section why we're not getting off the plane, and she gives him a plastic smile and says that the gate's backed up and that we'll have to wait our turn. Then she offers him another margarita, which seems only to suggest that this is going to take awhile. It's almost four o'clock Cabos time before we finally taxi for what seems to be less than ten feet and are allowed to get off this stuffy plane. Even first class has gotten old.

“Wow, we're really here,” I say as we go down the exterior steps and onto the tarmac, where we're instantly hit with a wave of heat.
“Mexico!”

“It feels like it must be in the nineties,” says Sid as she peels off
her jacket. “I don't see what the big delay was.” She nods over to the other planes lined up, open and unloading, along the side of the runway. “It's not as if we were waiting for a loading bridge or anything. It looks like all the planes unload directly onto the tarmac. It doesn't make sense.”

“Get used to this,” grumbles a man in a business suit as he walks alongside us toward what I assume is the terminal. “This is how it is down here. Hurry up and wait, and then just wait and wait and wait.”

Sid winks at me. “Well, we re on vacation anyway. Guess we don't need to worry about the time so much.”

Then we stop behind the long string of travelers who are standing outside the entrance, most of them complaining about the heat and the delays. I peer inside the building to discover the line in there is about six times as long as this one. And no one seems to be moving at all. Meanwhile, the line behind us is growing as more passengers from our flight line up.

The businessman glances at his watch and lets out a loud groan. “We're the first plane to land and the last to deplane. It just figures.”

“Do you come down here a lot?” asks Sid with a slightly impatient tone.

He wipes the sweat from his brow, then nods. “Yeah, and it gets worse every time. I swear I need to let go of this account.”

She gives me a glance, and I can tell she thinks this guy's just a big complainer.

“So did you ladies fill out your immigration cards already?” he asks.

“What cards?” asks Sid.

He holds up a white card that he's neatly filled in. “It helps speed things up if you've got this all ready to go.”

Sid just shrugs. “Guess we're on the slow track today, Maddie.”

Once we're inside the building, which feels a few degrees cooler than outside, we find that the passengers are being sorted into two lines. One line for those with filled-in cards and one for those of us without. Sid tracks down the cards, and we scramble to dig out our pens and quickly fill them in. Thanks to three years of high-school Spanish, I can attempt to help Sid with the language barrier, and we dig out our passports and try to be ready. But by the time we're finished, we find ourselves, once again, standing at the end of a very long line.

“Oh well,” says Sid. “Nothing we can do about this.” Despite her words, I sense her frustration is growing. And I remind myself that this trip is supposed to be a vacation. Hopefully it will get better soon.

We eventually reach the visitors’ counter, where a Spanish-speaking man carefully examines our paperwork, asks us a few questions, then stamps our passports. We think we are free to get out of this place.

Think again.

“Your checked bag,” says Sid just before we head out through what looks like an exit. “We need to get it first.”

“Oh yeah,” I say. I turn around and attempt to translate the signs to determine where to find my bag. “It must be over there.” So we push through the crowds of people to one very large and overloaded baggage carousel turning slowly. An enormous lake of luggage pools off to one side. I quickly discover that the luggage here isn't really sorted by flight, and since my bag is black and looks a lot like the
others, I realize this isn't going to be easy. Sid waits as I climb through the pile in search of my bag. Finally, after about forty minutes of waiting and digging and breaking two fingernails, I spot my bag circling on the carousel.

I lug it over to where Sid is standing and waiting. She looks tired. “Ready to go,” I tell her in what I hope sounds like a positive tone. “Sorry about the delay. Next time I'll be sure not to check my bag.”

She nods over to another long line that's snaked around in the shape of a squashed S. “Guess we might as well line up again.”

“What's this?” I ask as we take a place at the back of the line.

“Another security check,” she explains. “I guess its to make sure we're not bringing in anything illegal. I've been watching it, and it's not moving too fast.”

It takes about twenty minutes to get through this checkpoint, and fortunately we get through without having to open and unpack our bags. I feel a mixture of pity and relief as I watch an elderly couple with their bags fully opened and spread out across a table. Really, what do they think senior citizens would try to sneak into this country?

Finally we're outside the terminal, where it's now dark, but as a result the temperature is cooling down. Fortunately, our rental-car shuttle is waiting, and we hop on. As the driver takes us to only he knows where, I wonder how difficult it would be to imitate a shuttle bus and kidnap unsuspecting tourists. But I keep these thoughts to myself. Sid's been through enough already.

To my relief, we end up at the rental-car place. Sid goes into the office to pick up her car while I “guard the bags.”

“This would be so much easier in the daylight,” says Sid as we finally drive away. “I just hope we don't get lost.”

I try to peer into the darkness alongside the road, unsure of what lurks out there. “There don't seem to be a whole lot of places to stop and ask directions.”

“So let's not get lost.”

There's a steady stream of traffic, and for the most part we try to just move with it. Our plan is for me to be the navigator, which seems simple enough, especially since I can read Spanish, but we quickly discover that the side roads aren't well marked. Getting off and on the main highways can be rather tricky too. Fortunately, there are few main highways.

After about an hour and a half of driving and backtracking and taking a wrong turn down a one-way street, we figure out the secret to entering and exiting the highway and manage to find the Playa del Monaco.

“The lights are on,” says Sid as we pull up to the entrance, “but it looks like nobody's home.” She stops by a fairly well-lit security gate that doesn't seem to be manned. Thankfully, the gate is open.

“Do you think it's okay to go in anyway?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I don't know why not. This is the right place. Although I can't say much for their security system.”

Soon we're inside the development, but the road forks, and we aren't sure which way to go. We take the road to the right, which leads to an area under construction. So we turn around, double back, and take the other road, which turns out to be a bit more promising.
Finally Sid parks in front of a large adobe building, and we go inside the
oficina
, where a pretty Latina behind the desk greets us in both English and Spanish.

“Bienvenidas
and welcome,” she says with a bright smile.

Sid introduces us, and the young woman tells us her name is Francesca. “How can I help you?”

Sid tells her we'll be staying for a week, and Francesca looks us up in the computer, then frowns.

“Is there a problem?” asks Sid.

“You say you will be here for a full week?” asks Francesca.

“Yes. Our flight out is on New Year's Day,” says Sid.

“Elprimevo de enero,”
I say for clarification and to practice my
espanol.

“Si, “
says Francesca. “I know this. But your room is available only until December 29.
El veintinueve de diciembre,”
she adds for my sake.

“But what do we do for the other three nights?” asks Sid.

“I do not know. I am certain we are fully booked for those days.” Francesca looks back at her computer, then slowly shakes her head. “I am sorry. Nothing available.”

Sid looks at me, then sighs. “Well, I guess we can worry about that tomorrow. Right now I just want to get something to eat and then crash.”

“This is a busy season,” says Francesca as she registers us. “I can call other hotels in San Lucas for you to see if anyone else has a room.”

“Would you?” asks Sid gratefully.

“Si.” Francesca nods. “It is no problem.”

“Muchas gracias, “
I tell her.

“De nada”
She smiles and hands us our key cards and a map. “Please, feel free to call if you need anything.” Sid asks about the restaurant, and we're informed that they serve dinner until nine.

“I can call them,” offers Francesca, “to tell them you're coming.”

“Muchas gracias,” I say again.

First we hunt down our room, which seems to be at the end of the earth. Sid is disappointed it doesn't have an ocean view, but I'm just relieved to see it has two beds and a bathroom. I was starting to wonder. Then we head off in search of the restaurant, which turns out to be on the other side of the property.

“At least we're getting some exercise,” I point out.

“I thought we were getting a vacation,” huffs Sid as we climb the stairs to the restaurant.

“Oh, look,” I tell her once we're up the stairs. I point to the strip of beach illuminated by the spotlights. “Isn't that pretty down there?”

She nods as she catches her breath. “Yes. Hopefully it will be even prettier by daylight.”

“Buenas noches”
says a smiling man.