Notes from a Spinning Planet—Mexico (8 page)

She nods, then smiles. “Yes, but I am lucky to have it.”

“You speak such excellent English,” I point out. “I'd think you could find work lots of other places.”

She nods again. “Yes, I know. But my home is near, and this is very convenient for me.”

“I almost hate to ask,” says Sid, “but have you had any luck finding a place for us?”

She just shakes her head. “I am sorry. No.”

Sid frowns. “It just doesn't make sense. I don't know why Vicki thought they had a whole week here, and its only four days.”

Francesca punches some keys on her keyboard, then turns the screen around to show us a calendar. “See, the Canlons’ week started right here on December twenty-third—very desirable days, during the Christmas holidays. But their week ends here on the twenty-ninth, which is Friday. Tomorrow.”

“And three nights before our flight home,” I add.

Francesca sighs. “Yes, I know.” Then she looks at us, and I get the feeling she's trying to judge how much to say. “There have been some changes in the management here…and as you can see, we have some problems still.”

“I've noticed,” says Sid.

“I told my manager about your situation,” says Francesca. “He says there is nothing he can do. He says it is your friends’ mistake.” Then she looks down, and I suspect she might not agree with her manager, but she doesn't say anything.

A young couple comes in, and the guy immediately starts complaining about their room, saying the refrigerator's not working right and there's no shampoo in the bathroom and all sorts of little things. Francesca looks like she's on the verge of tears now, but she is meticulously writing down his complaints. She apologizes and tells him she'll see that everything is looked into. But the jerk just keeps venting, going on and on about how his parents paid good money for
their time-share and how she'll be hearing from them. He even uses some bad language and acts as if everything is Francescas fault. I honestly don't know how she can stand it. But I know I've had more than enough.

“Hey” I say to the guy “you don't have to take it out on her.”

He looks at me like I just stepped off Pluto, then scowls. “Stay out of this.”

“She's right,” says the girl with him, who appears to be about my age. “It's not the receptionist's fault, Phil. You just need to chill. She wrote everything down. Let's just go now.”

But he ignores both of us. “This hotel is a big, fat, freaking mess,” he snarls at Francesca. “And if you think my family is going to keep paying for this, you can think again! I've had it with this place!”

“Maybe you'd like to check out of your room,” says Sid in a very level voice.

“Yeah,” I add calmly, thinking maybe this jerk will leave and we can have his room. With or without a refrigerator, it would be better than sleeping on the beach. “No reason you should stay here if it's so bad.”

Francescas eyes are wide now, like she doesn't know what to think of our little intervention. But she stands a little straighter. “Yes sir, if you would like to check out of your room, it's not a problem. We can refund your remaining days to your parents’ account.”

“I do
not
want to check out of here!” he yells. “But I
do
want to talk to your manager!”

She gives him a weary nod. “Yes sir, I will let him know.”

Then the guy stomps out, slamming the door behind him. The
girl stuck with him just holds up her hands like there's nothing she can do, but then she leaves as well.

Once they're gone, Francesca leans over the counter, puts her face in her hands, and just starts sobbing. I feel so bad for her. No matter how convenient this job may seem or how close it is to her home, can it possibly be worth it to put up with this kind of stress and nastiness day after day? And what kind of people are managing this circus? I go closer, and reaching over the counter, I put my hand on her shoulder. “I'm sorry, Francesca,” I say. “That guy was a real jerk.”

“And we probably shouldn't have interfered,” says Sid.

Then Francesca lifts her head and looks at us. “No no. Thank you for trying to help. Thank you very much.”

“Are you going to be okay?” I ask.

She sniffs and stands up straighter, reaching for a tissue to wipe her eyes and nose. “Yes, I am fine now. But you are right; this is not a pleasant job. There is much wrong here. It is not easy for me.”

I nod. “I can see that.”

“Maybe you should look for a better job,” says Sid in a gentle voice. “You seem like an excellent employee. I'm sure you could find something else.”

“Thank you. You are very kind.” Francesca gives us a sad little smile now, but I can tell by her eyes that she's not going to take Sid's advice. Finding another job might not be as simple for her as it seems to us.

“Well, hang in there,” I tell her, patting her on the arm.

“Yes,” she says with a tired voice. “I will hang in there.”

As soon as we're outside, Sid calls her travel agent and asks her to
look into other accommodations in San Lucas. Then as we walk back to our room, she calls her friend Vicki and informs her that their time-share investment might have “a few little kinks to work out.” She tactfully tells Vicki about the mix-up on the dates.

“I'm not complaining,” says Sid finally. “I really appreciate your generosity in letting us come down here, but I think you should know that this place has some serious management challenges that you and Ed might want to check out.” She goes into some of the details, describing things we've experienced and observed. Finally she thanks Vicki again, then hangs up.

“Poor Vicki,” she says as she slips her cell phone back into her purse. “She had no idea this place was such a piece of work.”

“Well, at least she's not the one down here getting bumped out of her room.”

Sid laughs as she unlocks our door. “You're right about that. I guess we were the condo guinea pigs, Maddie. Anyway, Ed's going to look into the whole thing. Maybe they'll try to unload their time-share now.”

We gather our beach things, noting that our room hasn't been cleaned yet, either. Still, I doubt we'll be complaining. I just don't think Francesca can handle it. Then we head back to the Casa del Sol, which feels like heaven compared to where we're lodging.

“Too bad Francesca can't get a job here,” I say as Sid parks her car at the luxurious resort.

“Hey, maybe I should talk to my friend Juan,” jokes Sid. “He seems to know half the people in San Lucas. Maybe he could help her find a new job.”

“Seriously, Sid, maybe you should.”

We find Ian by the pool, and he explains that Ryan is down on the beach. “I'm sure he'd like you to join him,” he says to me.

I get the clear picture that Sid and Ian would like to be alone. Well, as alone as you can be at a resort pool. But I take the subtle hint and leave to search for Ryan. I just hope I don't discover him in the midst of an intimate chat with Shelby.

When I do find him, he's jumping around in the waves, trying to body-surf. “Come on in!” he yells with a big smile. So even though the water's pretty cold, I make the plunge and join him. We play around in the surf, allowing it to pound against us and even knock us down into the sand at times. I feel like a little kid as a particularly fierce wave tumbles me over several times and leaves me on my back in the wet sand, but I'm laughing so hard I can't get up. Ryan reaches out and gives me a hand. Just as I'm nearly to my feet, another wave comes in and smacks Ryan, plunging him straight into me. We both crash and tumble again, and I come up sputtering, all covered with sand. I can even feel it in my teeth. Now we're both laughing as he pulls me to my feet again.

“Hello!” calls a female voice from the beach. I turn around to see a blonde in a bikini about thirty feet away.
Shelby.
She's waving and smiling and looking like a million bucks. Oh, well.

Ryan calls out a
hello
back to her, and I attempt a feeble wave.

“Had enough yet?” asks Ryan.

Actually, I haven't. But since he looks ready to quit, I say yes, and we rinse some of the sand of T in the ankle-deep surf, then walk over to where Shelby is standing.

“You guys are pretty brave,” she says. “There are surf warnings today. I guess there's some kind of undertow going on.”

“It's pretty rugged out there,” admits Ryan. “I was a ways out, and it felt like I was caught in the spin cycle a couple of times.”

“Still, it was fun,” I add as I pick up my beach bag and wrap my sarong around my wet legs. Of course, this makes the fabric stick, and now it's difficult to walk. But for some reason, which I'm guessing is Shelby, I feel the need to cover up.

“Want to take a walk?” asks Shelby in a perky voice. “We saw some whales down there past the reefs a few days ago.”

“Sure,” says Ryan. “How about you, Maddie?”

Okay, I'm not sure what the correct answer is right now. Do they want to be alone? Is this their chance to have a “little chat”? Have I suddenly turned into a fifth wheel here?

“I think I'll go rinse off,” I say in what I hope is a nonchalant way. “Then maybe I'll catch some sun and warm up. The ocean was pretty cold. You guys go ahead.”

Ryan nods and smiles at me. “Catch ya later then, Maddie.”

I smile back. “Sure.”

But as I watch the two of them walking away from me, moving down the beach together like a couple, I feel this tiny lump in my throat. I tell myself not to be totally stupid here—not to go off the deep end. Still, seeing them walking together like that, I almost expect him to take her hand. Ryan looks fit and cool in his pale blue swim trunks; Shelby looks way too much like Paris Hilton in her bright, flowery bikini. It's like this picture-perfect travel postcard is being indelibly pressed into my brain. Just a little painful.

I turn away, trying to block the scene out. I even try to put some spring in my step, a challenge considering the damp sarong that's clinging to my knees like stubborn Saran Wrap. Still, I manage to make my way to the outdoor shower at the foot of the stairs.

I peel off the soggy sarong and rinse the sand off my arms and legs and out of my curly hair, which will probably look wilder than ever now. Then I rinse off my sarong, wring it out, and give it a shake. I'd tie it back on, but I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to walk at all. Instead, I wrap the beach towel around me like a skirt, then head off, hoping to find an unoccupied chaise lounge not too far down the beach. Unfortunately, I have to walk for quite a ways, nearly to the edge of the resort's beach area, before I finally find a cluster of chaises tucked beneath a big white umbrella. I move one of the chaises more fully into the sun and apply some sunscreen to my arms and legs, since I did get a little pink yesterday. Then I arrange my towel and finally stretch out and take a slow, deep breath, but I don't feel the least bit relaxed.

What is wrong with me? I mean, good grief, what's so bad about this? I'm out on a gorgeous beach, the temps are in the eighties—and it's December for crying out loud! Still, something is eating away at me. And it's hard to erase the image of Ryan and Shelby gracefully moving down the beach as a couple, almost as if they were meant to be together. Old lovers reunited on the Sea of Cortez. Suddenly I remember there's a beach around here called Playa del Amor, which means “Lover's Beach.” I hope this isn't it.

I get up and adjust the back of my chaise to a better position, resisting the urge to peer down the beach to see if I can spot them.
Instead, I sit back down, clean off my sunglasses on my towel, and tell myself,
Just chill. In no big deal Just take another deep breath and simply relax. Enjoy this fantastic day
My friend Katie would kill to be here right now. I look out at the gorgeous water in front of me, so clear and blue it almost seems unreal, except I still remember how cold it was. Why not just enjoy the view? Simple, right?

But as I try to appreciate the scenery, all I can see is what suddenly appears to be a pair of humongous, pale
thunder thighs.
Ugh! When did I get so fat?
Okay
I tell myself,
do not obsess over this. I am not fat.
If anything, ?? probably just average, and I know when you sit like this, your legs tend to flatten out and look fatter than they really are. But this reality check doesn't work for me.
1 feel fat. Fat and ugly.
I reach down and poke my midsection, which feels a little loose and mushy just now. Maybe it was that gargantuan dinner Sid and I scarfed down last night. Or maybe it's because it's the middle of winter and I've been living on the farm and eating like a horse and haven't worked out in ages. Maybe I should get up off my fat rear end and go in search of an exercise room and see if I can work out until I sweat and lose a couple of pounds. Or maybe I am simply obsessing.

I suddenly remember an incident when I was fifteen, a season in my life I'd just as soon forget. I honestly thought I'd left it far behind, but this memory is haunting me now. It was summer, and my friend Katie and I both decided to go on a diet. For some reason (most likely our skinny new friend Lucy, who looked awesome in the bikini she had ordered from a Victorias Secret catalog), we both decided we were way too fat. In actuality, I think we were just envious. Anyway, we went on this vegetarian diet and combined it with lots and lots of
exercise as well as lots and lots of water. Katie had read about it in a fashion ragazine. Our goal was to lose about twenty pounds each by the time school started. It was like our secret summer project—we were going to become babes. Skinny babes.

The problem was that I really got into the project. To my dismay, Katie pretty much gave up after a week or two of self-imposed starvation and no visible results. But I persevered. Not only did I persevere, but I got extremely serious about it, weighing myself every day, working out and doing farm chores, and drinking gallons of water. After a couple of months, I managed to take off about fifteen pounds and was really proud of myself—that is, until my mom confronted me on my way out of the shower one day. Worried that I was becoming anorexic, Mom got my dad and brother to assist her in a lame sort of intervention thing that same night. Of course, I was totally furious about their interference, and I swore to them that I was
not
anorexic and that they should all get a life. But in my heart I knew something was wrong. I knew I was pushing the envelope. Maybe I hadn't become a real honest-to-goodness anorexic yet, but I knew that might be right around the corner. I was even a little scared.