Rather than snapping hundreds of photos on our recent Cancun trip, this vacation's atypical method for capturing paradise is through blogging. I've unpacked my bags, and now it's time to unpack the memories.
Paradise is sitting in our open-aired hotel lobby listening to
smooth, live saxophone music. The musician plays for hours each evening. Karaoke-like music accompanies him. He
misses a note here and there, but no one seems to notice. Foreign languages including French, Russian, and Spanish fill the air.
A short-haired, 50-ish-year-old woman sits alone at her
table. Her head nods back in a way that looks like it will break off any minute and roll away. She repeatedly falls asleep and then startles awake with nearby laughter
at the lobby's bar. She must be traveling alone. Earlier today I heard her at the beach introducing herself to people sitting at a nearby lounge chair. She is the
obstetrician with a double-jointed neck.
Another woman zips through the lobby. Her short gray hair,
extremely thin frame, and lizard skin are signs she is at least 70. She must
have a high metabolism because she’s quick and alert. We regularly see her poolside
playing cards with her travel buddies. She is gazelle woman.
Six young jock-looking guys sit at the Friends-feel bar. First there
were three, and the group doubles in size, with alcohol and soccer their kindred themes.
Surely after 30 minutes of chatting, everyone knows each other's name.
One evening’s family entertainment poolside exceeds our expectations. A talented Michael Jackson impersonator surprises us, with the look and feel of the real deal. Back-up dancers and choreography are tastefully included. Mike works hard to earn his million-dollar paycheck.
After the concert, a Michael Jackson talent show ensues. Six contestants vie to win a prize, including a youthful Estonian, Venezuelan, Mexican, two Canadians, and one lanky, silver-haired US Iowan. They unexpectedly award first prize to the non-youthful Iowa dude. Good-sport Goober's unanticipated corny hip movement, impressive for his age, inspires heart-felt belly laughs from the entire audience.
During an interesting lobby evening, we play the game: What
does that couple’s body language mean? "Alice" appears to be simmering,
shooting fiery darts at "Ralph." He ignores her. We idealize
the rest of the story as: Traveling with others
includes the annoying waiting game. They must be waiting for their adult children. The Michael Jackson concert begins in 15 minutes, and
Alice wants prime seating. She is fed up. To intervene, Ralph finally heads for the
hotel staircase, and she angrily heads to save four prime seats. Almost everywhere
we go, we see the "Kramdens"... but they are alone.
At a second open-air poolside concert, we notice vivid contrasts.
As vintage 50s and 70s tunes are sung, including CCR’s ♫Rollin’
On a Reever♫,
a cute little 4-year-old, dressed in Easter bonnet attire, intermittently
stands in front of everyone and spins to the music. Either she doesn’t yet know
how to dance, or she’s shy. A stranger kneels down in front of her (I think he's
had one too many drinks) and on beat, flaps… lifting
one arm up and then the other and shaking his head. She mimics him, and so goes
their odd monkey dance in front of us all.
And then, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a
slow-moving form. I turn my head to see a cute little couple. Each step is a
slow shuffle. The husband’s shoulders are a bit hunched. They near 90.
Maybe they just finished restaurant-dining, because they’re stylin’. She is wearing all white;
he is dapper. They are surely aged movie stars, and I’m mesmerized by their helpless strength and beauty.
The elderly couple seeks close seating, and have their eye on the
prized second row, but two seats are not together. She sits while he drags a chair to almost straddle poolside. They listen to 1950s music that I’d guess
brings them back to their mid-30s and dance floor jibing. Tonight, few dance steps
remain in their aged bodies, but they enjoy watching others. As the music concludes, they slowly rise from their seats to shuffle around the pool. This time they take the longer
way around; they stop and chat with a restaurant worker, and I rudely stare as Fred and Ginger
shuffle into the sunset.
Alcohol flows freely at all-inclusive resorts. Imbibers seem
to get their money’s worth, but do they? We’ve noticed a tall, thin Russian
dude. He’s everywhere, and he sticks out like a sore thumb. He stumbles about,
is inappropriate, and women learn to run from him like the plague. At
the beach he falls one too many times. His body is full of sand as well as
half his face. He meanders, sand-laden, to a Spanish woman in a lounge chair: Vaaare you from? …with a raised shot
glass that says, Cheers.
The Ruska's charades game with the helpless woman continues for a long 5 minutes, and it accomplishes
maybe 20 seconds of small talk. He staggers to the beach bar
for additional liquor. He now stands at a palm tree and manages quite a feat, balancing
four full shot glasses. He stares and searches, for lengthy minutes, trying to
find someone. He’s lost. I figure he has lost at least half his vacation due to
blackout time, so how does one define “money's-worth” when compared to full experience?
As we walk the breath-taking beach, my husband points to The Isle of
Women (i.e. "She Shore.") "...In Pre-Columbian times the island was sacred to the Maya goddess of childbirth and medicine, Ix Chel. When the Spanish arrived in the 16th century they named it "Isla Mujeres" [Isle of Women] because of the many images of goddesses..." (Wikipedia).
We can pay big bucks to ride a ferry to that She Shore and enjoy unlimited drinks. I'm sure it is a beautiful place, but experiencing a sardine-packed cruise across the bay, to that questionably special Isle, seems quite frivolous. Why spend extra cash when we're already in Paradise? I recall visiting a place like that years ago in a dream, boating to an Isle. After arriving, my family and I drive unending miles of steep-hills and curving-dells. It is one of those senseless dreams that turns and returns to Oz.
A few random questions enter my mind as we savor the beach:
- Why do we fail to cut off the tags sewn to our swimsuit bottoms? They pop up begging to be tucked back in or scissored.
- Do pelicans strive to fly in synchronized fashion?
- Do women wear bikini thongs to make up for lack elsewhere? They look rather uncomfortable, and what about hot seat cushions?
- What germs are on shared beach furniture?
- Why do pot-bellied men walk to the beach appropriately attired and then strip to Speedos? Yikes!
- Can sunshine in March ever be a bad thing?
- Why is it that mainly saggy women walk the beach topless? And, aren't "the girls" easily burnt?
- Is beach volleyball the best-ever sport to play and watch?
I almost forgot to mention one other unusual lady who hangs
around the beach and everywhere. She appears almost androgynous and quite
nerdy. She is practical and walks the beach two times a day. She enjoys watching beach volleyball, quietly solves Sudoku puzzles, and says "Arrrr" standing in front of the nearby pirate ship. In the resort's cafeteria, she inhales fresh papaya, fish, scrambled eggs, and soft-serve ice cream.
This eccentric lady is mostly invisible, but we see her playing ping pong; and, at the resort's miniature-golf competition (led by a charming and youthful Enrique Iglesias- or Ryan Seacrest- knockoff) she barely loses. The winner’s score, against 10 others, is
240; her close score is zero. She snacks on Dianita brand cacahuates [peanuts].
Her mission trip goal is to observe people, blog, and ask random and trivial questions. Sometimes she is quite the princess receiving unrequested room service as well as
a change of room (a first-floor walk-out room facing the beach, for no extra charge). Who does she think she is anyway? Lady Di?
♫It never rains in California... it pours, man it pours♫ (Mamas & Papas). After two ideal sunny
days + one warmer sunny day + a morning of sunshine, at noon on our final full day,
downpours with thunder blow in and continue on and off for at least 2 hours. We manage our second walk for the day, on rain-drenched sand, no worse for wear.
After 4 stunning beach days, I am compelled to intentionally deny myself 1 cherished item, for 6 long weeks. The final day of Mardi Gras has come and gone, which means Lent is here. In years past, cherished valuables were permanently given up, for Lent. I admit to eating too much chocolate and feel undeservedly blessed. Cancun vacations, in the middle of a never-ending brutal winter, and living without chocolate's rich goodness for a while are both… Tres Bon.
