Merida

Having flown from Oaxaca to Mexico City, I needed a cheap place to stay. As expected, everywhere near the airport was extortionately expensive so I headed back to the Zocalo to the hostel I'd stayed in before. Instead of taking a taxi, which would have cost as much as the hostel, I ventured into the subway, which cost approximately eight cents. I had my knife in my pocket and my head on a swivel, but, alas, I had no excitement. After an evening tossing, turning, and NOT sleeping because of a snoring Slav in the room, bleary-eyed, I got back in the subway and ventured to the airport.

In an effort to be in a somewhere pleasant mood (I'm a bit of a cranky bastard when short on sleep), when I met my friend Liz, I drank a couple of beers on the flight. My aggravation at the crying children onboard dissipated. After landing, I made my way to the international terminal to meet Liz. For those who do not know, Liz and I were stationed in Germany together for a couple of years. I met her through my good friend Chris, whom she dated.

Liz is an excellent travelling partner. As it happened with me, being in a warzone (She also is an Iraq veteran), has made it so not much bothers her. That is key when travelling. I cannot stress that enough. Things never go to plan, hence why I don't have a plan, so one must simply shrug and figure out the next move. Liz excels at this. Our one difference, and a major one at that, is that, whereas I view my past experiences with privation to be evidence that I not only can, but should, experience more, Liz figures, sure, she could suffer, but luxury is more appealing. Our paths, once so similar, in that we were once army captains in the Army, diverged substantially; I now an impoverished, supremely indebted student; she now a well-paid yuppie.

In an effort to accommodate her, I reluctantly agreed to allow her to put us in a 5 Star Hotel, pay for it, and otherwise be my "sugar mama" (her words). At one point, she referred to me as a "master manipulator", which, considering that she thanked me for "letting [her] tag along" and letting her pay for opulence, perhaps I am. If only I were a conscious master...

I sat outside the international terminal, where one must meet arrivals, set my bags down, and sipped on an exorbitantly priced piña colada as I wated on her plane to land. Aggravatingly, they had no monitors in the waiting area to show incoming flight stati, so I had to simply deduce where the avarious people were coming from. I knew the flight from Dallas had arrived when the doors opened and waves of fake breasts poured fourth. As I don't watch much television and I'm generally surrounded by law students, I am always taken aback by the hoi polloi. The women were dressed, by and large, by waht the common parlance of our times would no doubt label as "hoes." The men were t-shirt wearing slobs. I am admittedly dressed like a buffoon and I rightfully was ashamed to be seen amongst them.

My favorite couple, a trashy blonde whose massive boobs were about to burst out of her skin-tight black mini-dress and her oafish, baggy jean, designer t-shirt, gold-rimmed sunglasses wearing boyfriend took two steps out of the terminal, dropped their seven bags, thus blocking everyone behind them, and pulled a carton of cigarrettes out. They joked and laughed with such volume that it was only so obvious they craved attention, even as they didn't notice (or perhaps didn't care) that they were in everyone's way. The blonde bounced and shook enough to get every man's attention in the area, mine included obviously, in hopes of a wardrobe malfunction, while the local porters lined up to take pictures with her ("¡Jose! ¡An American pornstar!",
they were no doubt whispering amongst themselves) and her boyfriend roared non-sensical gibberish and guffawed. Sometimes the best argument against a higher power is that it in no wise should or would ever have bestowed the gift of life on the vapid and conscious alike. To temper my misanthropy, I ordered another drink and Liz finally appeared. We took a taxi to the bus station and got the hell out of Cancun. My mood improved considerably.

Uxmal

The next morning, after breakfast, we wandered around Mérida and stumbled into a travel agency. For the monumentally ridiculous price of about $120USD a piece, we scheduled three tours (2 with meals included) to Uxmal, Celestun, and Chichen Itza, the one for Uxmal being later that day.

Uxmal is less well-known than Chichen Itza but many prefer it since there aren't as many tourists. Liz and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves as we took goofy pictures around the ruins. As part of the tour included an evening sound and light show (which sounds kitschy and touristy but is actually quite impressive), we broke for supper.

At the restaurant, the waiter brought out the house "salsa picante." As I've been woefully unimpressed with the state of the supposedly hot Mexican food since I've been in country, I slathered it on my meal. Huge mistake. Finally I'd found habañero. A lot of them. My lips and mouth were nuked. I was on the verge of crying as I poured sweat and blew my nose repeatedly. I did my best to keep it in and bluffed nonchalance as best I could as I attempted the flames with more beer. I tried to remove the frantic tone from my voice as I pleaded "mas cerveza." The third beer did the trick as I began to return to my normal color.

Celestun and Merida New Years

The next day we went to Celestun, on the Gulf Coast, where we took a boat ride to see flamingoes and sit on the beach. The big excitement was not there though, but in Mérida, since it was New Year's Eve. We wandered around the main plaza looking for an interesting place to eat when a hostess pulled us into "Mr. Banderas"
restaurant. Not Señor, but "Mr." It was quite the tourist trap.

I will be generous and say that our waiter was moderately disinterested in performing his job; lichen show more activity. He took forever to bring out the drinks, brought the appetizer out at the same time as the entrees (all of which had obviously been under a lamp for hours but were somehow cool nonetheless), and attempted to rip us off. The bill was for 800 something pesos. I showed him the coupon the hostess had given us stating that margaritas were free with meals and asked him to remove them from the bill. Twenty minutes later, he returned with two small margaritas and a new bill saying 795 pesos in his handwriting, since he'd scratched through the printed total. That didn't look right so I whipped out my pin and added it up. 723. Then I looked at the bottom of the bill and the same number was printed out in words, "sieteciento veintitres." Thoroughly annoyed, we paid the exact bill and fled before our sloth-like waiter returned.

As we wandered in a plaza, people lit M80s. Both Liz and I have been mortared, so neither of us really like fireworks; thus it was with these. After our initial shock at the explosions, we were a bit confused by the pitter-patter sounds all around us, until we realized that they were using the fireworks to clear the trees of birds. We covered our heads and ran like hell through the white rain, somehow miraculously making it through the gauntlet with nary a splat.

We found a nice balcony table to watch over the dancing in the square beneath as Liz drank toxic Cuba Libres and I tequila and beer. At the countdown to midnight, we leaned forward, I took her face in my hands, and...I kissed her on the forehead. "That is bull·$%!!" she roared. I laughed and kissed her. Then it turned out they'd screwed up the time and did the countdown again. I forewent the forehead the second time.

Chichen Itza

After a full day of recuperation on the first, we went to "Chicken Pitza." Sure, there were swarms of tourists and vendors, but there's a reason it's one of the wonders of the modern world. Our guide gave us a comprehensive tour and explained much of the site's significance in terms of Mayan numerology which was quite interesting.

Thoroughly satisfied with our cultural experiences around Mérida, we got in a bus on the 3rd and headed to the Caribbean beach town of Tulum.