"ucha? ducha? Manu! Welcome to Mexico." (Part 1)

There are several types of vacation. There's spring break, which equally exhausts as it relaxes, as bebidas (sounds classier in Spanish) and boys (or girls, depending upon your perspective) seem finite, available only to those in the most dire of situations (enter, Fordham College at Lincoln Center); there's the family vacation, which comforts and stabilizes (Monopoly is more centering than yogilates), as everyone remembers how much they love the idea of a traveling family band (before coming home and conveniently forgetting these aspirations); and then, there's the sisters vacation, which is a delicate and comfortable balance of both.

My sister and I are still quite brown (we have suffered a caste downgrade) from a recent four day trip to Tulum, Mexico. The entire month of July seemed to have passed by without pause; between 12-hour work days and failed attempts to give up coffee, the heart of summer seemed to have slipped from my fingers. And so, to celebrate my sister's academic success and the end of one significant stage in her childhood, and, on the flipside, to mourn a senescence increasingly consuming me, we took off, conveniently ignoring raging pieces in the Times about drug wars and gang violence.

Day 1/2 (Tuesday): I had slept very little on Tuesday night, the night before our departure. I came home from work very late, started packing, stopped packing to peruse Facebook, started packing, stopped packing again to Skype with a friend (who I see frequently; the necessity of a 1 AM video chat 8 hours before my flight is questionable). I then spent about an hour transferring the contents of our sunblock into an empty 3-oz lotion bottle in order to avoid checking in bags.

1:27 AM
Last minute projects tend to fare well

Day 1 (Wednesday): By the time my sister and I started posting on each other's walls from inside our adjacent bedrooms, we decided it was time to give up packing and go to bed. Around 6 the next morning, we threw everything, including the new bottle of sunblock, into an already overstretched suitcase, prayed that it would not burst, and reassured our father that we slept about 8 or 9 hours and were 100% prepared for our Mexican adventure. I made some corny joke about warlords and my mother almost had a coronary, but while she was swooning, we slipped out and were happily en route to Newark Airport.




the new face of Jihad

 

It was the one morning that Route 17 had no traffic, so we reached the airport in less time than it took to eat the omelets our mother had made (for good luck). There was no line at security, and the only usual delay we experienced was Manu's getting stopped and checked in a separate, roped off section of the airport. We had each gone through the full body scan, but the officers must have seen something other than gum wrappers and pen caps in my sister's pockets. Convinced that she was in cahoots with Osama bin Laden et al, the guards enforced special protocol to ensure my sister was not a danger. She was just short of being interrogated. My cackling on the side was of little assurance, and while I was allowed to pass by, Manu had to wait for several minutes. Once the TSA confirmed my sister's connection to Al Qaeda as nonexistent (well, almost), she was allowed to join me in our two hour wait at the gate, sitting among all the other ever so prepared early birds. My sister complained about being violated as I listened to "Somebody to Love" on repeat.



The flight was relatively harmless. I was initially stressed about my drink choice, as flying is the only time I allow myself to go "buck wild" and have soda or canned juice. I finally settled on apple juice, but then also finished my sister's Ginger Ale (the grass is always greener).

We stopped over in Charlotte, NC. I paid no heed to my sister's words of caution and turned on my Blackberry, and immediately saw a flurry of emails from work, the very emails that had driven the decision to emigrate (albeit temporarily). I continued to make phone calls until I was forced to turn off my phone, after which I was able to cherish an untapped, unique disconnection from the world.

After what seemed an eternity, a labyrinth of terrorist accusations, Bieber fever, and Mott's canned juice, we finally reached Mexico. The air in the airport was hot and heavy, and there was an odd smell of steel. Just as I felt in the Dominican Republic, I felt as if I were in India. Conflicting emotions of estrangement and home strangled our sensibilities, and we had to convince ourselves we had not just booked an all-inclusive resort in our grandmother's home.



  

We turned a corner to find a 10 foot bodacious model bearing Coronas on a poster welcoming us to the country. My sister turned to me. "Bienvenidos." I smiled. We were here. Our vacation had begun. In a few minutes, I would be sunbathing on the beach, falling asleep to the sound of the waves and the potency of the mojitos.



immigration reform, please, so I can get to the beach ASAP



My sister poked me. "Is that line for us?"

There were about 1000 people in front of us. The sound of the waves seemed to have been nothing but earwax rubbing against the cilia in my ears. We were on line at immigration for over an hour, behind a couple in their 50s who seemed to be on their honeymoon (seriously, PDA is so last season), and in front of a 5 year old Chinese boy who kept ramming his suitcase into my ankles.



before MargaritaVille

By the time we finally stepped on Mexican soil (concrete), it was almost 5. We had been awake and anxious for more than 12 hours, running on 4-hour sleep and my mother's delicious omelets. We found the driver of our shuttle, and after he carried on a conversation with my sister in Spanish, during which he frequently referred to me as the 14-year old, he finally divulged the estimated time to our hotel--one hour. Without a word, I turned around and walked back to MargaritaVille, the bar immediately outside the airport doors, and bought a small, overpriced margarita. "Don't judge me," I told my sister. "Sometimes, you just need it."

I slept soundly on the way to our hotel.

after MargaritaVille

the invention of shoes (a mother desai fairytale)

Once upon a time, in a distant land enveloped in glistening waters teeming with schools of bright yellow and purple fish, there lived a King who loved his feet. He washed his feet everyday in rose water, scrubbing them with pumice stones, and oiling them with almond oil. In this distant land, with shimmering blue rivers and rainbows streaking the evening skies and mango trees peppering the fields of Love and Hope, there was one slight problem--dirt roads. Whenever the King wanted to visit the fish or nap under the shade of a mango tree or skip stones in the river, his feet would get dirty.

One day, after the King got dirt in his recently oiled right big toe, he decided to take action. He called upon his wisest and oldest advisors to formulate recommendations for this issue. "No one shall sleep until all of my people can walk the land without getting dirt on their feet."

After one sunrise and one sunset, the committee came up with a solution. They washed the roads with water from the streams. Hundreds of workers filled buckets of water, some of them with frightened fish, and threw them on the ground. The King looked out his window and was pleased. "I will now walk to my favorite mango tree for a nap." The King stepped outside, and his feet suck into three inches of mud. The water had mixed with the dirt, and the damage was worse than that of the dry soil on his feet. The King roared. "No one shall sleep until all of my people can walk the land without getting dirt on their feet."

After two sunrises and two sunsets, the committee came up with a solution. They covered the roads with Persian rugs. They spent 4% of the King's treasury on importing textiles from the Middle East and the Orient. By lunch time, the entire land was covered in plush violet, red, and cornflower blue rugs. The King looked out of his window and was pleased. "I will now feed my dear fishes." The King stepped outside, and once again his feet sunk into the rugs, which had mixed poorly with the viscous mud, and did not provide any protection. The King bellowed. "No one shall sleep until all of my people can walk the land without getting dirt on their feet."

One young man, who was born in the village, had left to explore the world after his hands and feet stopped growing. He travelled to the deepest cavities of the Earth, where he could feel the heat reverberating through his bones; he voyaged to the highest points on the Earth, where he could feel the stars grazing his head. He came back home to find his sleep deprived family and friends and goats trudging through muddy rugs.

He studied the committee's vain efforts and offered his assistance, his knowledge of the policies of other lands. The King's wisest and oldest advisors laughed and waved him away, and refocused attention on their new idea to sweep up the roads with a broom made of unicorn hair. The young man threw a stone at the King's window. The King looked out and was not pleased. "I will walk out and punish the fool who dares disturb my peace."

The young man was patiently waiting at the castle gates. The King's face looked like a large radish or a ripe tomato or a juicy pomegranate. "Who dares to disrespect the King?" The King shouted, even though the young man was two inches away from his face.

The young man smiled. "I have a solution to your problem." The King's face softened, and his face creased with confusion and anticipation. "Who are you? What do you know?"

The young man pointed to his feet. The King followed his finger to see two strange contraptions covering the young man's feet. They were brown, covered in mud, with traces of purple Persian feathers stuck to the bottom. "Try them," the young man urged, as he took them off, and placed them near the King's feet. The King's curiosity had completely taken over his initial shock, and he delicately, nervously placed his beautiful, smooth feet into the containers. "Walk," the young man instructed. The King walked to the stream and watched his fishes play hide and seek; he then walked to his favorite mango tree and picked three of the ripest and largest fruits, the ones that exploded in juice upon touch. The King strolled back to the young man. He took the items off his feet, which immediately emitted a fragrance of rose and almonds. They were smooth, white, and shimmering in the sun, just as they were before his walk.

Tears streamed down the King's face, into his long white beard, and he put his hand on the young man's shoulder. "Thank you, my friend. You have freed us all from the binds of dirt, from the oppression of uncleanliness. Everyone in the land will be given this protective equipment. I appoint you as my most trusted advisor." The young man bowed his head, and graciously accepted. That night, the kingdom slept, everyone wearing protective gear on their oiled feet.

From that day forward, the young man and the King traversed the kingdom together, and everyday visited the fields of Love and Hope, or the rivers reflecting the rainbows in the skies, or the mountains from where they could see all the mango trees on the land.

And they kept their feet clean.