The first thing that hits you is the warmth seeping in through the front exit hatch.
“Exit Hatch”…that’s airplane talk for “front door”.
The not as cheerful as she started, flight attendant, gives you the perfunctory, “Bye bye…enjoy your stay in Cabo” and without even realizing it, you've slipped out of winter and donned your summer skin.
Sure, there’s something about standing atop those tall stairs, peering out over the tarmac that impels you to do your best Richard Nixon waving to the masses impression, but still…it’s warm, it’s almost hot…it’s suddenly summer…in January!
So much so that you want to immediately spread a towel out right there on the sizzling concrete and never leave.
Surprisingly, customs is a pretty quick process, which basically consists of a nice Mexican official waving you over with the wiggle of two fingers. You present your passport, follow directions to spin around 360 degrees on one leg, then before you know it, the official is spitting on your shoes and telling you to “Move along muchacho…there is much work to be done.”
If you’re lucky, at this point, your significant other will soon realize that her slightly confused and jetlagged compadre, wandered onto the wrong line—again—and will quickly hustle you off the back of the truck, where you have already made several acquaintances and dinner plans for later in the week.
“But we were going guava picking!” one might exclaim.
But that would be “one”…not necessarily me.
Eventually, “one”, including me, finds their way through the terminal and over to the proper representative of the car service that was hired to drive the 40 minutes or so to the hotel.
One of the things you learn very quickly about Mexico, and are actually warned about, by the Mexicans themselves, is that the national pastime is hustling and outright lying to tourists.
I know that might sound somewhat politically incorrect as an insensitive blanket statement to make, but—unfortunately— it’s true.
In fact the car service sent an e-mail before we even left home warning us to absolutely not speak to anyone, no matter what they tell us, until we found them—our real car service amigos--outside the terminal, on the walkway, holding a sign with our name on it…or at least a version of our name.
Luckily…again…something is tugging at me, that just doesn’t feel right, so I respectfully decline the burro and the time share, although I have to admit, even now, it still sounds like a pretty good deal.
We finally run the gauntlet of “nuestros nuevo amigos” and find our “verdadero motor” where Z finally feels secure enough to release her grip and stops tugging at the back of my collar.
And from there on, it was smooth sailing because our real driver, had not one but two Burros, waiting for us, which made the trip that much more pleasant than the one burro offers we fended off inside.
What…you think this caballero just hopped off of the guava truck?
Well, yeah I guess I did, actually.
But even so.
Before we knew it, we found ourselves checking into our fancy hotel, and collecting our key card, ready to meet up with Z’s sister K and husband John, and hit the pool.
At that point, the friendly hotel concierge then sauntered over to us and insisted on giving us a complimentary hosing to remove the trail dust from our pores, along with the assorted cacti that were embedded in our hair. She then insisted we sit down with her, for just a minute—or 20— so she could fill us in on all of the free hotel amenities they had to offer, including a deluxe breakfast buffet, where another nice hotel representative, would join us in the morning to tell us all about the wonderful opportunities we would have to purchase one of their…you guessed it…time shares.
And it was all absolutely free, except for the 20 dollar deposit they required to “hold our spot”.
Mexico…who would have thought.
So friendly, everybody wants to share their time with you….
Next up…” Cavorting in Cabo” .