Writing to you from "Zona Hotel," Mexico! Twenty-one miles of resorts and cheap thrills. Twenty-one miles that exist solely for the gradually browning and burning bodies glistening with oil, ripened and cooked by the merciless sun. There is time enough to turn, slowly, and sip a morning cocktail that marks the beginning of so many more to come. Bienvenidos a Mexico!
"There are no sharks here," our concierage assures us. No sharks? No sharks or jellyfish or danger? I begin to feel uneasy, the vaggue stirrings that have evolved, at this point, to full-on resignation. Indeed, I walk along a beach that has no rocks, sticks, or stones. There are well-positioned patches of seaweed that contain no insects, and the "beach" is framed at both ends by strange beige formations bursting with burlap and artificiality. Nor are there rocks in the ocean, though I did come across more burlap. There will be no swimming past the buoys, their presence an unspoken restriction reinforced by the steady hum of waterboats and jet skis. Welcome to Mexico, Zona Hotel, where your hotel room features your very own Jose Cuervo tap, where even entering a local club will cost you forty bucks, and where pleasure is, ultimately, manufactured.
But, I digress! Last night as I was extolling the virtues of proper disgust for our general vacation situation, my father begged me to let it go. He said, "yes, I'd love to have a more authentic experience when I travel, but it's hard to find the time to research and plan a vacation." I conceded his point, but when I launched into a rather unpatriotic tirade bemoaning the various economies our country has single-handedly run ragged, reinforing this creepy tourist industry, my dad had had enough. He refused to continue the conversation, which he claimed could only be an argument. Essentially, he told me off. My hands started shaking, a sure sign that I was about to lose it. I tossed down my handherchief, muttered "restroom," pushed back from the table, and practically fled the dinner scene.
Once again, I found myself in a bathroom stall, checking my rage and having a good, solid cry. It was cathartic, and I resolved to not talk politics with my dad... at least for the night. I walked back to the dining room, chin held high, to find my dad and brother gone, and my unfinished glass of red wine awaiting me. Disbelieving, I took a seat and downed the rest of the glass, willing myself not to cry as I stared at my reflection in the window. Neaby, a pair of nice-looking gentlemen took their seats, and a few minutes later one of them came over to my table. "May I take a seat?" he asked, "I couldn't help noticing that you seem very sad..."
Instantly, I recognized kindness in his eyes and empathy in his soul, and, being me, proceeded to pour my heart out. He listened intently, and his advice was wizened. "I don't really dig the whole resort thing either," he admitted, "but I'm here with my friend, who's a cop, and who really needs to take it easy for a few days. You should just go up to the room, apologize, and try not to talk politics during your vacation. I understand that it is upsetting, though..." His wamrth and compassion instantly lifted my quarrelsome spirits, and I thanked him profusely: "you are truly a kind soul," I said, before he invited me over to his table. My father and brother returned a few minutes later, and were at once as smitten as I. Incidentally, he was a Canadian, and had traveled throughout India. Moral of the story? If you spot a rather sad-seeming person in your vicinity and your heart urges you to reach out, take the time to do so. You may find yourself karmically rewarded in ways you could not imagine at the present time.
An all-inclusive resort vacation is the simplest solution to the overworked and winter-weary. Maybe I would do well to follow the advice of my father and let it go, but in truth this realization has only strengthened my fervent belief in spontaneous acts of adventuing. May my life never come to the point where I breath only air-conditioned oxygen and willingly structure my existence in accordance with pre-packaged solutions. May I battle every day for the preservation of my passion, and exceed my own wildest expectations. May I dine at a different table every hour of my life, oh Lord, let havoc and chaos reign!
That is all; best wishes in the art of life!
Posted by Kristen on January 12, 2008 at 02:47 PM EST #