I was flying out of DIA at 2:10 a.m. At that hour the airport is quiet - silence broken periodically by the bustle of mysterious passengers arriving from exotic places. Finally, a voice echoed through the concourse. It was my turn to board.
I first drove north into Cancun to get groceries and on the way learned the basic rules of driving in Mexico. If the road is wide enough for one car, it's two lanes. Wide enough for two cars? Three lanes. Intersections are places where you communicate visually to the other drivers that you are crazier than they are and that you have no fear of death. Construction zones are marked with a single orange cone covered with T-shirts. The cone usually marks an open trench or similar death trap. Now I see why plastic dashboard Jesus is so popular.
I found a store where whole pig heads were stacked up next to the produce and picked up a week's provisions for $24.95 - and that included a case of Modelo.
I got turned around when I headed back and ended up on a Highway to Nowhere. After thirty minutes of not seeing any signs, I went against my genetic male predisposition to forge ahead no matter what and decided to drive across 100 feet of twisted undergrowth and headed back. It's amazing what capabilities a sub-compact has if you don't give a rat's ass about causing severe mechanical damage.
After a couple of miracles and lucky turns, I was headed on the road towards the condo that my friends had lent me. The Grand Mayan was an opulent marble-clad refuge from reality. Golf course, lagoons, 1,000 feet of meandering swimming pools, waterfalls and swim-up bars. It's patrons were bubble-necked executives with their Stepford wives and maladjusted kids running amok in a prepubescent stupor. Happy, shiny people holding hands...
I was alone.
This fact seemed to put a Scarlet Letter on my forehead. The concierge inquired, "By yourself, Señor? " After a long conversation in broken Spanish, I finally convinced him that I was who I said I was. The the 1600 square foot, two master suite, two Jacuzzi, three TV's, wet bar, soaking pool on an eight-by-thirty foot balcony overlooking the lagoon was for me and JUST me. He kept on looking over my shoulder to see if a band of gypsy musicians was lurking around the corner to secretly join me. It was very bitter-sweet.
Finally I was shown to my room. I had the strong urge to leave at once - to not deal with this nagging sensation that I was the undeserving pillager of someone else's kingdom. I stocked the fridge, grabbed my gear, and headed for the beach. Everything was postcard perfect with the exception of one main building that was a pile of rubble and broken glass that lay in silent testimony to the fury of the storm that ripped through this paradise four months previously.
I headed down the beach, away from the basking Stepford wives and their cubs.
New muscles awakened in my shins and calves as my toes coped with the sugar sand. After hiking about four miles in silent awe, I came across a resort that was inhabited by hairy-backed, Speed-O wearing men and leather skinned, too-tan topless women. Italians. They had a laissez-faire attitude that was so much more in tune with my head than the Ugly American resort I had left behind. These were not "Beautiful People" - but they were beautiful people. Language wasn't a barrier, just a friendly smile and a nod was all I needed to have a cold daiquiri shoved into my hand and a plate of paella served to me from a BBQ on the beach.
Sunset found me walking back to my resort, and when night fell so did I, into a deep dreamless sleep.
Day two found me up before the sun, and driving down the highway to catch the ferry in Playa del Carmen. The schedule had changed, so I missed my rendezvous with the dive boat. But I spotted a small craft loaded with seven Japanese twenty-something girls who spoke neither English nor Spanish. A worried-looking Divemaster whose help had failed to show up for work asked me for my help in watching over these naïve debutants. It was fun to have charge over the fate and safety of the Anime-in-the-flesh, and it didn't take long before I discovered that I do indeed harbor a rubber fetish as I helped them into (and later out of) their wetsuits. Oh God, I've got a sick bastard suppressed in the recesses of my psyche.
The dive itself was fantastic. Warm water filled with bouquets of multi-colored fishes. An eight-foot long green eel that enjoyed being pet like a puppy. An eagle ray that beat it's ten-foot wingspan gracefully through the current. An hour had passed in ten minutes time, my gauges telling me that my dive was over. Back on the boat, I bided my time and mulled over my Hentai fantasies as the twenty-somethings indulged in exhibitionist sunbathing displays designed to tease my tortured soul.
After another dive, it was a wild boat ride back to town, a leisurely lunch at a favorite café in San Miguel's town square, and a ferry ride back to Playa, where I sucked back a couple of Coronas on the beach. Another pastel sunset gave even more warmth to the tones of the passing skin parade. Paradise found.
Days three and four were versions of the day two scenario with their own little twists (none involving Hentai). Day five had me headed back home, my feet swelled up like boiled sausages.
It all seems so distant now - it might as well have been a lifetime ago. I'm already planning the next time - but I'll never do it alone again. My pleasure is derived from sharing the experience, not the experience itself. Solitude forces me to meet a man I may not want to know - a fellow that looks a lot like me.
New muscles awakened in my shins and calves as my toes coped with the sugar sand. After hiking about four miles in silent awe, I came across a resort that was inhabited by hairy-backed, Speed-O wearing men and leather skinned, too-tan topless women. Italians. They had a laissez-faire attitude that was so much more in tune with my head than the Ugly American resort I had left behind. These were not "Beautiful People" - but they were beautiful people. Language wasn't a barrier, just a friendly smile and a nod was all I needed to have a cold daiquiri shoved into my hand and a plate of paella served to me from a BBQ on the beach.
Sunset found me walking back to my resort, and when night fell so did I, into a deep dreamless sleep.
Day two found me up before the sun, and driving down the highway to catch the ferry in Playa del Carmen. The schedule had changed, so I missed my rendezvous with the dive boat. But I spotted a small craft loaded with seven Japanese twenty-something girls who spoke neither English nor Spanish. A worried-looking Divemaster whose help had failed to show up for work asked me for my help in watching over these naïve debutants. It was fun to have charge over the fate and safety of the Anime-in-the-flesh, and it didn't take long before I discovered that I do indeed harbor a rubber fetish as I helped them into (and later out of) their wetsuits. Oh God, I've got a sick bastard suppressed in the recesses of my psyche.
The dive itself was fantastic. Warm water filled with bouquets of multi-colored fishes. An eight-foot long green eel that enjoyed being pet like a puppy. An eagle ray that beat it's ten-foot wingspan gracefully through the current. An hour had passed in ten minutes time, my gauges telling me that my dive was over. Back on the boat, I bided my time and mulled over my Hentai fantasies as the twenty-somethings indulged in exhibitionist sunbathing displays designed to tease my tortured soul.
After another dive, it was a wild boat ride back to town, a leisurely lunch at a favorite café in San Miguel's town square, and a ferry ride back to Playa, where I sucked back a couple of Coronas on the beach. Another pastel sunset gave even more warmth to the tones of the passing skin parade. Paradise found.
Days three and four were versions of the day two scenario with their own little twists (none involving Hentai). Day five had me headed back home, my feet swelled up like boiled sausages.
It all seems so distant now - it might as well have been a lifetime ago. I'm already planning the next time - but I'll never do it alone again. My pleasure is derived from sharing the experience, not the experience itself. Solitude forces me to meet a man I may not want to know - a fellow that looks a lot like me.
