"ucha? ducha? Manu! Welcome to Mexico." (Part 4)

Days 4, 5 (Saturday, Sunday): We dreaded the final hours. There were unused gym shorts to be repacked, last helpings of beans and rice to be savored, overpriced souvenirs to be conned into purchasing. I still had not told Nico my true feelings. With so much unfinished business, Manu and I vowed to rage through our last night in paradise.

raging (okay, fine, just kidding. sort of.)

We had our last supper at the Mexican restaurant in the resort. We had a delicious thick tortilla soup, salad (fortunately, the salad was at a bar, so we had a taste of our familiar endless buffet), and an assortment of desserts after the enchiladas/burritos/more beans and rice. Manu became excited over the bread basket, and I was excited about the chips with different salsas. The restaurant staff grew frustrated by our lack of gustatory sense, and the novelty of our existence (i.e., Manu's proficiency in Spanish) soon wore off.

The raging continued onto the beach, through our own makeshift photo shoot. It's always been a dream of mine to be famous (no, not rich, and no, not successful, just famous). We thought we'd play famous on the dark beach.

It didn't last that long.

There was a marketplace on the opposite end of the resort. People took trolleys, but we thought it would be a nice enough night to walk. By the time we got to the marketplace, we were sweating and had each incurred about 6-8 mosquito bites. We walked through the gates like gallant victors, having triumphed over the Caribbean like true heroes.

And that's when I saw him. Nico was wearing a pale blue shirt and khaki shorts, a nice change from his usual maroon uniform. He was browsing the beaded chokers and necklaces. I thought he might be getting something for his girlfriend, which simultaneously devastated and intrigued me. I had just browsed the jewelry, but walked back over as if I had just discovered the beads.

Manu grunted loudly in exasperation as she saw me inch closer and closer to him, flipping my hair and tilting my head even more dramatically. She walked over to me and whispered, "Ruch, he's with a guy."

I looked back over, and suddenly realized a man standing two inches away from him. I had not noticed him before. Manu continued, "Sorry, Ruch, but I think they're even matching."

They were both wearing hues of blue with light pants, and there seemed to be an all too familiar sense of comfort  between them. It was worse than sexual tension; it was sexual ease, the period of calm following giddy, initial excitement and tension. The sight was disabling. I could actually feel my already weak knees go even weaker.

Spell was broken. Time to return to America.

Before heading to bed, we made one pit stop at the bar, but since my capacity and willingness to rage had been corroded by the reality of Nico's inclinations and of my own lethargy, exacerbated by a broken heart/spirit/youth and the Mayan massage, we neglected sangria and margaritas and just munched on roasted almonds while we (Manu) carried on a conversation with the bar tenders and waiters. After a half hour, I turned to her, yawning, hopeless, lips covered in salt. "Dude, wanna go up and pack? I might be able to catch the beginning of Sword in the Stone, again."



Waving adios



The morning was painful. There were lots of forms to sign, lots of thoughts to process, and above all, I was afraid to miss the opportunity to get free breakfast. I ultimately used my older sister authority to force Manu to put croissants and Nutella packets in my purse while I checked out. There was no napkin or paper plates, so we had naked, flaky breakfast pastries piled next to our passports and sunglasses and mini jar of Vaseline.

I was too tired to cry, but too sad to sleep. We were at the airport, back in our faded yoga pants and scrub shirts and glasses. We dreaded leaving Tulum, leaving unrequited loves and unrelenting waves and unsuspecting plates of rice, but knew it was time to return to the rat race, back onto our hamster wheels, back to the Sisyphean realities undermining our American delusions of ambition and success and "the future."

My sister interrupted my thoughts. "Rucha, I'm really craving a burrito. As soon as we go back, I'm going to Chipotle."

"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.

"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.

carpe diem for only 48 hours

So, apparently I'm one of those people who lives for the weekends. Or, I'm bipolar. I had been in a rotten mood for the past 96 hours, exhausted to the point of tears (and doubly upset that the fatigue was taking a toll on my skin), but I woke up Friday and was exuberant. My mom was not sure how to greet me this morning since I had been a cranky brat (why will no one take my purple pony request seriously?) the last week, but I giggled as I brushed my teeth, skipped rope down the stairs, pranced into the kitchen, and started making inappropriate jokes in my characteristically (genetically) audible voice, shattering the tranquility of 6:30 in the morning. I had two pieces of toast instead of one, and even had milk. I read the news on the bus. I had a free latte from Oren's. There was no line at Port Authority on the way home. Life suddenly worked itself out.

My mother always says it's a matter of perception. She tells me I have a choice of being either one of two men: one is overwhelmed by a promotion, a new baby in the house, and a sailboat, for the upkeep of all of these aspects of his life exhaust him; the other is excited by a lay off, a broken leg, and a flat tire, for the prospect of new discoveries and adventures, even if only to the emergency room or to the gas station, excite him.

She always tells me to be the second man.

Given that I'm a woman, it's inherently impossible (well, I'll say difficult; never say never) for me to be that second man. Aside from that minor setback, I would say I have complied to that rule pretty well. Sometimes, I'm a little sleepy (to the point of tears), and I'm a little frustrated and confused (to the point of clenched fists), and I'm a little short on time (to the point of shopping online while I pee), but I think I generally stay positive about the way my life is going, because just like the second man, I'm excited about the possibility of meeting someone new or doing something new every day.

Well, on Friday, Saturdays, and Sundays. Positivity is a 72 hour stint. Perspective is even shorter. I'll be the second man when I'm rested. It's true that it's my choice to be happy or not, but I choose the two days and one evening when I can walk around barefoot, eating prunes and writing nonsensical epiphanies into this blog. The rest of the week is for existential melt downs.

That second man clearly has issues.

swingers for breakfast

This morning, before my mother and I had each adapted to the harsh conditions of the pre-6:30 wakeful state, she embarked on a seemingly profound topic of conversation. "Ruch, it seems so easy to find a saathi [partner], so why not just find one and move in together?" I blanched, which in and of itself is difficult given my darker hue. Unphased, she continued. "And then you can split the rent. If you decide to leave the city, he can find another partner."

While my mother is a raging liberal, I was still shocked by her suggestion. Find a boy, move in with him for frugality, leave him when you see fit.


"Mumma, you want me to get married? Really? It's 6:42 on a Thursday morning. Can't we talk about this in the evening, or on Saturday, or in four years?"


My mother threw up her hands in exasperation. "Who said anything about marriage?! I'm too tired for this nonsense."


Apparently, life partner also means roommate.