¡Hola amigos!
I convinced my traveling companion to check out our current stopover by simply saying its name: Isla Mujeres (Sp: Island of Women). It’s a small island off Cancun on Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula.
Cancun is much like that regular Love Boat stopover, Acapulco: full of Americans looking for love in all the wrong places, glitzy floor shows and dinner at the Captain Merrill Stubbing’s table – all without the need to break into a Spanish-speaking sweat.
Isla Mujeres, a short ferry ride away, is much more my speed. Sure it caters to the tourist trade, but it’s cheaper and less cheesy than Cancun, and it appears to have retained its Mexican Caribbean character (ie. dotted with garishly-coloured and rundown buildings, wonkily-paved streets, palm trees just crying out for a camera-draped tourist to capture them against a glorious sunset etc, etc.). CC-CC senor!
As for the titular local lasses... well this actually seems to be the island of men touting for trade. "Hey amigos, where you from? You wanna hire a moped, golf cart? You need a place to stay? I got tortilla, cigarettes, cigars..." No gracias, no.
If idyllic sandy beaches, beautiful bathtub-warm water, cheap and plentiful beer is your thing, why don’t you join me? I’ll be on the beach, or in Casa Maya hotel’s hammocks strung up in the cool shade of its coconut grove. Tee hee, you know I just couldn’t help myself.
I’ve taken to this not working lark with surprising ease. Admittedly, it’s not like I’ve gone cold turkey. For holiday reading, my dad gave me Joan Brady’s memoirs of her time as an apprentice at New York City Ballet while Balanchine was shaking things up. Sharp focused, unflinchingly honest: highly recommended. Then, Jonathan and I went to Ballet Folklorico when we were in Mexico City. Just when I thought I was out... they pull me back in.
Next stop: Havana. I’m sure the Cubans will be just as taken with my impression of a one-year-old baby speaking Spanish as their Mexican counterparts.
