I've come to detest airline travel. Despite the media they've received recently with the disgruntled steward and other stories about unhappy travelers, they can't manage to put seats in that recline more than an inch and a half. Yet when we're preparing for takeoff or landing, airline personnel will give you a naughty tone if your seat isn't in the upright position. I want to get out my protractor and let them know that indeed it is 91 degrees and not 90 but I didn't think that small detail would save me in the event that we hit the ground at a couple hundred miles an hour.
There's also the phenomenon of "travel grease." This is the stuff that appears on your face if you're on a plane for more than an hour. I'm uncertain of it's origin but I've shut off the little air vents that blow down from above because I suspected it came from there. I feel like I need a shower when I get off the plane. As I write this and put more thought into the source of this mystery slime, I'm thinking that I might generate it myself. Sure. It must come from my own oil glands. It's probably a nervous reaction or something. Or maybe it's a natural lubricant that will help me fit into my seat and between my two neighbors.
The stewardess gave us all papers to fill out that would tell the Mexican government why we were there and (as I learned later) better prepare their timeshare salespeople with important demographical information. No. The airlines don't give you a pen. Or a snack. So you have to make sure you brought writing utensils. This was especially important because the Mexican airport authorities wanted us to fill out something that looked identical to what the airline gave us. Only theirs was on green paper. And no, they don't have pens either. They expect that you will always have a writing utensil on your person. We passengers disembarked and filled out our papers sitting on the floor or against the walls because the landing area was void of anything but that.
I approached the exit with my luggage and noticed many desks and lots of guys in white linen shirts and pants and sandals. They were all so eager to help me find my shuttle it made alarms go off. These were timeshare sharks. They swam around the exit of the airport in a feeding frenzy as we all entered their territory. They knifed back and forth jaws chomping their feverish sales pitches. If you spend the day "touring their new hotel" they'll give you discounts on zip lining, pirate cruises, horses on the beach, or arrange to sell you chicles-selling children. There was no amenity they couldn't get you. I declined and told them I had to work the entire time. They let me go to my shuttle and they quickly resumed feeding.
The Royal Decameron wasn't exactly my style. It was all inclusive and the pools were nice and so was the proximity to the beach. Even the rooms weren't bad. But I realized why people stay at all inclusive hotels - alcohol. There were more bars on the resort than pools. And drunk people lose their volume control. Every person walking down our hall after midnight told long stories (punctuated by loud guffaws) until they arrived at their room. I think everyone did that my entire stay except the Canadians. In fact, Canadians are the most polite traveling lot I've ever come across. They are unselfish, friendly and genuinely curious about you and where you're from. I need to go hang with some more Canadians.
I took a walk to Bucerias because I wanted to see something other than the perfectly manicured pathways of the resort. The street to Bucerias was cobblestone and I stepped in a puddle along the way. I shook the brown water from my toes and looked over my shoulder in horror to the source of the flood. Gushing from a grate in the street was brown water and I knew immediately that my foot would be washed until the epidermis came off when I got back to the resort. (Interestingly enough, the water from the tap at the resort smelled oddly familiar to that which was on my foot. I washed it with bottled water as well.)
Avoid speaking English to anyone who looks like they could possibly have something to sell you. This means you have to pay close attention to those around you. If there are people with shovels using them on a sewer, they won't try to sell you those. If a person has multiple shovels on a rack attached to their body they WILL try to sell you some. I learned that English speakers are what the street vendors target. They learn English (which is sometimes a script. I know this because I asked about the political situation or sports and they were at a loss.) to sell to English speakers. I tried walking around them speaking loudly in Italian and they just stared blankly at me. "Non mi piaciono tutti questi che sempre vogliono vendere qualcosa. Maledizione mi da fastidio!" Learn this useful phrase: "Mi dispiace. Parlo Italiano." (I'm sorry. I speak Italian.)
After Bucerias I headed to Sayulita. It took about 30 minutes to arrive by bus. The bus ride was entertaining in that the driver passed a small car on a double line going up a hill that headed into a curve. I figured if we hit a vehicle we'd probably come out on the winning side so I wasn't too stressed about it. The scenery was filled with images that I imagined when I thought of Mexico. Small children played soccer on dirt courts, women hung vibrant laundry on lines in the yard and dogs napped on porch steps. Once I arrived at the town I headed down to the beach looking for things of interest along the way. I was directed to an eatery called La Iguana Azul. It's owned by a Canadian chef named Rick. He talked about how all the propaganda in the States and Canada was killing his business. According to Rick, the only cartel action was limited to Tipec which was about 3 hours north. He said Puerto Vallarta was untouched by the escalating drug violence. His food was amazing. I highly recommend stopping in to visit him if you are ever in Puerto Vallarta and want an authentic meal.
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| (Edgar and Rick at the Iguana Azul) |
