"ucha? ducha? Manu! Welcome to Mexico." (Part 3)

Day 2, 3, 4 (Thursday, Friday, Saturday): The next three days converted into a singular, timeless period of mindless indulgence. We consumed the sun, the salt in the waters, the carbs at the buffet. We estimated the time based on the location of the sun (i.e., "it's too sunny for a walk" or "it's not sunny enough to read") and days based on the progression of our sunburn. We ate when we were hungry (and when we were not) and slept when we were sleepy (and after watching the Spanish version of "The Sword in the Stone" which was running on a loop.)

The first two days, we trekked about three hours (well, 15 minutes) in raw, unrelenting heat, to the central pool and beach entrance. By the time we would reach our destination, eyeliner would have smeared and run down our cheeks, cover ups would have been recycled as scarves to protect our scalps, and our heads would hang so low we could see the iguanas behind us. Any sensuality reserved for Nico was further undermined by occasional asthmatic episodes.

On the last day, we discovered a beach entrance, poolside bar, and snack corner about two feet east of our hotel.

Still, the arduous hikes to the central pool area were well worth the trouble. The pool had an erratic DJ who usually played Cher or Wham! but at times would play Top 40 music. The pool would inadvertently turn into a club, people dancing (bouncing in the water) with drinks and beach balls, sun tan lotion leaching into the chlorinated water. Manu thought she would start a pool club (I initially thought she meant at the YMCA), where people would be dancing not on floor, but in a pool. We danced while we swam, floated as we sipped, and ate while we basked in the sun. The idea of a pool club was soon dismissed upon our return home, as the thought of presenting the proposal to the Department of Health might be a headache. My sister has continued to blast her iPod while she showers. That's party enough.

The nerve fibers in my brain had been so weathered by sleepless nights, complex casework, and a generous indulgence in caffeine, that all I could do once in the pool, or once on the beach, was to find a noodle or a tube and float face down in the cool, welcoming waters. Once, I was floating on my back with a mojito, and leaned over to grab a pink noodle from the side. I bobbed up and down with ease, hungrily consuming the buoyancy which I had not felt in months. I had no thoughts, no wants. My butt cooled in the waters as I chewed on the mint dregs in my glass. As I closed my eyes, I heard someone shout, "Excuse me! Excuse me, lady!" I turned irritatingly at the source of disturbance (I also hate being called "lady.") A little girl in a blue bikini with ruffles and a pudgy middle was calling out to me. "That's my noodle!"

After about 12 long seconds of deliberation (perhaps she had been lying?), I obliged.

While I sulked in the pool (standing), my sister was warding off unprompted attention. Wherever she turned, someone was introducing himself to her, or someone was offering her clean towels. When I was not stealing floaties from little children, I would watch her with pride. The first time we ordered refreshments from the little shaded cabana by the pool, the waiter found himself smitten. "Hola, I am Miguel." She looked up from the menu, smiled obligingly, and said (in beautiful Spanish), "Hola, I am Manu. And this is my sister, Rucha." His tan face flushed. He asked the origins of the name Manu, the origins of our journeys, and after she responded to all of his queries, he asked again who I was. "Rucha," she replied. He looked puzzled. "Ucha? Ducha?" She looked exasperated, and the hunger began to creep into her voice. "Rucha."

"Vucha! Manu! Welcome to Mexico."

One of the events to which we were invited was a water aerobics class. Vucha and Manu abstained, but watched the workouts from one of the other pools. They announcer called our names several times, after having forced us (calling me "excuse me lady" is just short of violating the Geneva Conventions) into signing up. We decided exercise, no matter how flamboyant (Miguel et al. wore speedos whilst doing jumping jacks) or absurd, was a matter for America, not for our authentic Mexican adventure. So, instead we opted to watch the exercise routine while eating French fries.

The entire trip we debated whether we should take an excursion (we had narrowed down the choices to riding RVs through underground caverns or swimming in cenotes) or be frivolous and spend an entire day's wages at a spa. We felt morally compelled to swim in cenotes, but our hearts (and bodies aching from lethargy) leaned towards spa. I always strive for logic and clarity over the enigma of the heart, albeit unsuccessfully, so my sister reminded me of my knee problem. Morality/frugality/need to spend a fortune on something that can be photographed: 1. Heart/aching body/desire to indulge: 2. It was settled democratically.

There are some decisions in my life that I have regretted. I have loved the wrong people, I have said the wrong things, I have worn the wrong shirt. As soon as my sister and I walked into the candle lit massage parlor, which had an overwhelming fragrance of cocoa and love (love smells a bit like Juniper Breeze), we knew we had made the best decision of our lives. The vicissitudes of American life had nestled into the crevices and creases of my body, enveloping my existence in a perpetual state of frenzied accomplishment. The weight of my goals, my deadlines, my failures and successes, was crushing my ribcage. I had not been able to breathe for three months.

For three or four weeks after the treatment, I felt a sense of buoyancy, the same refreshing lightness I felt when I was tipsy in the pool with another kid's floatie. My lungs had been freed, the crushing weight of my own thoughts had disappeared with the cocoa butter and mysterious Mayan remedies.

My sister had the same experience. After the massage, we met again, and stared at each other in complete silence. Neither of us had been completely devoid of sound in months, years. The muscles around my mouth were too relaxed to smile.

We hesitantly left the massage parlor and went to nap in our hotel room, where a towel rhinoceros sat waiting on our beds.

"ucha? ducha? Manu! Welcome to Mexico." (Part 2)

Day 1 (Wednesday) continued: As I slept soundly on the way from the airport to our resort, my sister chatted away with the driver. I woke up to a discussion on the Empire State Building, feigned interest for 12 seconds, and went back to sleep. Finally, after I had almost exhausted my reserves of dreams (I had gone through purple shark attacks, tornadoes, old boyfriends turned into lepers), we reached the resort. I was too afraid to be excited, for fear of another line or delay. Someone helped us down from the shuttle and took our bags, and we proceeded to a large, open lobby, peppered with tables laden with fruit and waiters bearing sparkling wine.

And my initial instincts were correct--there was a small line to check in, as a large British family of about 16 had spread themselves out by the counter, utilizing all of the clerks at the desk. I ran up to one of the waiters to grab some hors d'oeuvres, found that they all had fish in them, and then skulked back to the line.

I was almost at the tipping point (no, seriously, I was about to keel over from hunger) when it was finally our turn to check in. Silently cursing the British, (I never participated in the royal wedding euphoria) Manu and I moved up to the counter and slammed our sweaty, shaking hands down on the cool marble.

We filled out some forms and signed by arbitrary x's. The clerk asked us if we would like a welcome drink, and then, taking note of our haggard, frail appearances, snapped his fingers and asked the man to his left to quickly bring us drinks.

And that is when I met the love of my life.

Nicolas was sandy-haired, tan, and had eager, kind eyes. He brought out two flutes that seemed to contain liquid rubies, and smiled compassionately as we glugged them down like senile men in an Irish pub. He showed us the map of the resort, where we could go for snacks at 2 in the morning, where we could go for tourist-targeted markets that lured with shiny objects (I speak from experience). Enamored of his soft eyes, I asked him where he was from, and he told us about his education in Spain and his internships abroad and the further I fell into a trance, the less I listened to his own history.



I called him, "Nico."



I felt a pang in my stomach. I initially thought it was love, but then remembered how hungry I was. Nico could wait. My sister and I rushed back to the hotel, excited to finally change out of our sweats and get dinner. The hotel room was immaculate, the mini bar was free, and we had a balcony overlooking the ocean. To assert her presence as an artist, our maid had created an elephant out of the towel--stuck on googly eyes. 

Once the shock of towel animals wore off, we went to dinner. The amount of fruit had no parallel (except, perhaps, the fruit bowl in our home), the desserts were bountiless, and there were 12 types of salsa for our chips.



This past weekend, Hurricane Irene ravaged the northeastern coast of the United States. Two weeks ago, Manu and I ravaged the buffet at Gran Bahia Principe, the diluvial effects of our hunger destroying any semblance of civility or politesse.







8:02 pm



8:08 pm

My sister and I fell into a food coma that first night. My Facebook status the next morning was something to the effect of: "passed out first night in Cancun! WOO HOO PARTY!! lol. tee hee."

God forgives white lies.