It was an interesting experience. I met some really sweet people. Who obviously were amazingly blessed by the families of that little church in Playa. It was so gratifying to watch how the members of the group I was traveling with interacted with the Latinos.
I made a list of some of the things it occured to me that I should be consciously thankful for. Most are daily conveniences we take for granted, never giving thought to what a major luxury these items are for most of the other people on the planet.
Right up there at the top is potable water. You turn on the tap to wash your hands, get a drink, brush your teeth, add water to meal preparation, wash dishes after you eat. They can't drink the liquid that comes from their faucets, if they are fortunate enough to have running water in their homes. Trucks with big tanks on the back come through the neighborhoods selling potable water, that is pumped into storage tanks on the tops of most homes, to be accessed through gravity feed into their homes for drinking and cooking. When you see people trying to be careful with food preparation, but having to wash the bowl, knife, cutting board from water that comes out of a garden hose, it is a scary proposition to think: I'm going to be eating what they are serving.
In addition to the tank trucks that cruise the neighborhood offering to sell safe drinking water, there are also trucks that roam the streets with loud speakers on top announcing the arrival of tanks of propane gas. If your propane tank runs out and you are in the middle of cooking your recently-neck-wrung chicken, then what do you do? Throw it out? Terribly wasteful in a subsistence society. Serve it half-done??? Runny chicken, anyone? Ick. I think they do a lot of their cooking outdoors - think of how hot it would be if you were cooking on a gas grill inside your house (and you have ceiling fans and a thermostat you can adjust!). So add the complicating facts of insects, falling leaves, dusty streets, kids running around everywhere.
If they don't live in those planned communities with each family alloted the square footage of the average carport, they are living in walled compounds. Do you feel safe in your house? No burgular bars here. No ten foot high concrete block walls, topped with concertina wire or broken glass to deter intruders. Just hoping to remember to flip the locks on all the exterior doors every night, most of which have glass panes.
Lots more, but just an over all feeling of thankfulness for the USA, Constitution, and public safety, and military that keeps me safe
Friday, July 20, 2012
south of the border, part (6), as I have used all my spanish numbers
At some point the following afternoon, our calm, patient, resourceful spiritual advisor made the blessed discovery that my MIA suitcase magically appeared in the back of one of the vans. Halleluiah! If you want to see the face of a Happy Camper, you need to see the photos of me when I was told what was lost had been found. I am pretty sure I did the 'happy dance' right there in the dusty Mexican streets, with Hispanic on-lookers backing away... and likely thinking: 'those crazy gringos!'
You do realize that the mysteriously missing/reappearing suitcase was claimed at the carousel, and languishing in the van all this time: it didn't belong to 'anyone' in particular.Therefore: Everyone assumed it was just sort of 'generic' and another of the bags that had been packed full of give-aways (which I am still thankful they did not actually give away) that the Ocala congregation had collected to donate to the members of the Playa congregation.
So all is joy. Do you want to know what happened? Me too.
It seems that my plain little black canvas roller-bag was passed along to a couple who only had one piece of luggage between them. My anonymous piece got 'checked' with the other baggage to go on as cargo, when I had intended it would be my 'carry-on' after I checked in the huge, weighty bag full of 100+ used T-shirts. I was the last person in the check-in line in Tampa, and gave not a thought to what had happened to my own personal stuff. Stupidly, completely oblivious to the possibility that I would get to Mexico with nothing but a beach towel to wear all week. And no toothbrush.
I do not yet fully comprehend how I could be so careless as to let the bag get away from me with not the first sign of a luggage tag for identification. I did at some point console myself with the thought that the TSA guys, if they did not deliver it to the bomb squad for detonation, would find Rx bottles with my name on them. And in the unlikely event they would want to make an effort to track down the owner of the prescriptions, would find me in Mexico, wearing my beach towel. And needless to say: there are now numerous tags on that same suitcase that would help it find it's way back home.
When I got my toothbrush, clean underwear and stash of chocolate back, it became a much better experience than I would have (not) had otherwise...
You do realize that the mysteriously missing/reappearing suitcase was claimed at the carousel, and languishing in the van all this time: it didn't belong to 'anyone' in particular.Therefore: Everyone assumed it was just sort of 'generic' and another of the bags that had been packed full of give-aways (which I am still thankful they did not actually give away) that the Ocala congregation had collected to donate to the members of the Playa congregation.
So all is joy. Do you want to know what happened? Me too.
It seems that my plain little black canvas roller-bag was passed along to a couple who only had one piece of luggage between them. My anonymous piece got 'checked' with the other baggage to go on as cargo, when I had intended it would be my 'carry-on' after I checked in the huge, weighty bag full of 100+ used T-shirts. I was the last person in the check-in line in Tampa, and gave not a thought to what had happened to my own personal stuff. Stupidly, completely oblivious to the possibility that I would get to Mexico with nothing but a beach towel to wear all week. And no toothbrush.
I do not yet fully comprehend how I could be so careless as to let the bag get away from me with not the first sign of a luggage tag for identification. I did at some point console myself with the thought that the TSA guys, if they did not deliver it to the bomb squad for detonation, would find Rx bottles with my name on them. And in the unlikely event they would want to make an effort to track down the owner of the prescriptions, would find me in Mexico, wearing my beach towel. And needless to say: there are now numerous tags on that same suitcase that would help it find it's way back home.
When I got my toothbrush, clean underwear and stash of chocolate back, it became a much better experience than I would have (not) had otherwise...
south of the border, part cinco (5)
Church was interesting. Not at all what I am accustomed to- but joy-filled, nonetheless.
The little congregation was outnumbered by the Americano visitors: there were two from a church in Ohio, two more from a church in Indiana, plus the ten of us from Ocala. I don't think there were a dozen Latinos, including children who perpetually wandered in and out. The 'church' was a shed. Apparently last year when the Ocala contingent visited, they had yet to pour a concrete slab for a floor. So not having a dirt floor was a major improvement. The roofing material looked similar to corrugated barn roofing, but was made of some black material, maybe fiberglass, but more likely some form of layered tar-paper. They had some sheets of plywood propped, semi-secured around the sides to act as walls, though the only extended to about chest height. There was a raised area where the minister would stand of concrete across the front of the church, probably about 9 inches higher than the smooth concrete area (where there were three handmade wooden pews and a number of folding chairs). The minister had a hand-made podium/speakers stand (from the trunk of a tree, carefully sanded and varnished after the bark was removed) for the Bible and notes.
And they had two ceiling fans affixed to the rafters which former attendees said was a true blessing. The supports and uprights for the roof were all logs, with bark peeled off, and smaller trees/saplings used to hold the roofing in place. So, saving on expenses of building supplies by scavenging in the undergrowth, and using slices of discarded garden hose to help cushion/secure the nails when they attached the roofing to the network of crosspieces/trees they found for supporting the pieces of corrugated material that keep off rain and sun.
The service started, after youngsters handed out printed Order of Service with both morning and evening schedules listed, with singing from hymnals (naturally printed in Spanish.) I found words I could mentally translate in the bulletin and hymns when I would sound them out phonetically, and was surprised to discover so many words I could understand. After twenty-five years of being a Presbyterian, the Order/sequence was mostly easy to follow... especially with words that were readily recognizable like 'offertory', that though spelled a bit differently were apparent with some thought and mumbling under my breath.
Even though I understood practically nothing of what was said, the lyrics to the songs, or message from Pastor Juan, I had no problem with an awareness of standing in the Presence of the Holy Spirit. Sweet.
After the service, we milled around in the dust of the church yard and introduced ourselves to people who had names we could not pronounce or remember. And divided up to get on the two vans that had brought us from the hotel, along with several of the church members to drive out into neighborhoods and distribute flyers, invite kids to attend VBS in the evenings during the week.
Planned neighborhoods were another eye-opening experience. We drove a couple of miles away from the area where the church lot is located, into a large district that I later found out was designed and built with government funds. The houses all shared a wall with another home, similar to the way we build apartments and housing projects, and built in rows around a U-shaped street, with rows on the inner and outer sides of the U. Each house was probably less in size, square footage than the average two car garage. All the houses I saw had bars on the windows and doors. All had a small front yard, and a space behind the structure that was shared with the house behind it. Most houses had clotheslines strung up criss-crossing the front grassy area, where there was a paved sidewalk leading up to the front door, that was usually standing open, hoping for a stray breeze, as well as paved strips for a car to be parked on, which were rare.
It became apparent the church member who was with our small group of gringos was noticing children's toys in front of the houses, or small articles of clothing hung out to dry that would identify families with potential VBS attendees. We must have given out 75 to 100 flyers in that neighborhood on a blistering hot afternoon. I had been told in years past there had been over 100 attending as numbers swelled during the week, including parents and babies, so they were hoping for a good response to the invitations.
Went back to re-assemble at the church, and then go on vans to air-conditioned paradise of hotel. Where we find the housekeepers always turn the ceiling fans and AC off when they come in to clean rooms. But clean they did. Everything was pretty much spotless when we would unlock the door to fall in every afternoon, flopping on the bed with the fan turned up the speed of possible vertical takeoff. Housekeeping left a little envelope on the night stand every day, and we were informed that the 'expected' tip for their services was two dollars per day. And since the US dollar had more value than pesos, they would naturally prefer to see George Washington's tight-lipped face when they check the envelope.
I have no idea what we ate for lunch. But we had to go back again for the evening service, that was just as muggy hot as the morning. Me still wearing borrowed clothes, but at least I took off the shorts I had been wearing for two days, that I had on under the loaned (but pocket-less) black skirt, since I thought I needed to keep my valuables on my person at all times. So mentally I was cooler with one less piece of clothing, where that aligns with reality or not.
The little congregation was outnumbered by the Americano visitors: there were two from a church in Ohio, two more from a church in Indiana, plus the ten of us from Ocala. I don't think there were a dozen Latinos, including children who perpetually wandered in and out. The 'church' was a shed. Apparently last year when the Ocala contingent visited, they had yet to pour a concrete slab for a floor. So not having a dirt floor was a major improvement. The roofing material looked similar to corrugated barn roofing, but was made of some black material, maybe fiberglass, but more likely some form of layered tar-paper. They had some sheets of plywood propped, semi-secured around the sides to act as walls, though the only extended to about chest height. There was a raised area where the minister would stand of concrete across the front of the church, probably about 9 inches higher than the smooth concrete area (where there were three handmade wooden pews and a number of folding chairs). The minister had a hand-made podium/speakers stand (from the trunk of a tree, carefully sanded and varnished after the bark was removed) for the Bible and notes.
And they had two ceiling fans affixed to the rafters which former attendees said was a true blessing. The supports and uprights for the roof were all logs, with bark peeled off, and smaller trees/saplings used to hold the roofing in place. So, saving on expenses of building supplies by scavenging in the undergrowth, and using slices of discarded garden hose to help cushion/secure the nails when they attached the roofing to the network of crosspieces/trees they found for supporting the pieces of corrugated material that keep off rain and sun.
The service started, after youngsters handed out printed Order of Service with both morning and evening schedules listed, with singing from hymnals (naturally printed in Spanish.) I found words I could mentally translate in the bulletin and hymns when I would sound them out phonetically, and was surprised to discover so many words I could understand. After twenty-five years of being a Presbyterian, the Order/sequence was mostly easy to follow... especially with words that were readily recognizable like 'offertory', that though spelled a bit differently were apparent with some thought and mumbling under my breath.
Even though I understood practically nothing of what was said, the lyrics to the songs, or message from Pastor Juan, I had no problem with an awareness of standing in the Presence of the Holy Spirit. Sweet.
After the service, we milled around in the dust of the church yard and introduced ourselves to people who had names we could not pronounce or remember. And divided up to get on the two vans that had brought us from the hotel, along with several of the church members to drive out into neighborhoods and distribute flyers, invite kids to attend VBS in the evenings during the week.
Planned neighborhoods were another eye-opening experience. We drove a couple of miles away from the area where the church lot is located, into a large district that I later found out was designed and built with government funds. The houses all shared a wall with another home, similar to the way we build apartments and housing projects, and built in rows around a U-shaped street, with rows on the inner and outer sides of the U. Each house was probably less in size, square footage than the average two car garage. All the houses I saw had bars on the windows and doors. All had a small front yard, and a space behind the structure that was shared with the house behind it. Most houses had clotheslines strung up criss-crossing the front grassy area, where there was a paved sidewalk leading up to the front door, that was usually standing open, hoping for a stray breeze, as well as paved strips for a car to be parked on, which were rare.
It became apparent the church member who was with our small group of gringos was noticing children's toys in front of the houses, or small articles of clothing hung out to dry that would identify families with potential VBS attendees. We must have given out 75 to 100 flyers in that neighborhood on a blistering hot afternoon. I had been told in years past there had been over 100 attending as numbers swelled during the week, including parents and babies, so they were hoping for a good response to the invitations.
Went back to re-assemble at the church, and then go on vans to air-conditioned paradise of hotel. Where we find the housekeepers always turn the ceiling fans and AC off when they come in to clean rooms. But clean they did. Everything was pretty much spotless when we would unlock the door to fall in every afternoon, flopping on the bed with the fan turned up the speed of possible vertical takeoff. Housekeeping left a little envelope on the night stand every day, and we were informed that the 'expected' tip for their services was two dollars per day. And since the US dollar had more value than pesos, they would naturally prefer to see George Washington's tight-lipped face when they check the envelope.
I have no idea what we ate for lunch. But we had to go back again for the evening service, that was just as muggy hot as the morning. Me still wearing borrowed clothes, but at least I took off the shorts I had been wearing for two days, that I had on under the loaned (but pocket-less) black skirt, since I thought I needed to keep my valuables on my person at all times. So mentally I was cooler with one less piece of clothing, where that aligns with reality or not.
south of the border, part quatros (4)
So we gave up, went out to get on the van with what the Delta people would let us have, anxious and sad over what apparently never got onto the flight and wondering how long it would take a security guy to pick it up, send it back through an x-ray machine and root around in my clean underwear. Completely annoyed at myself when I realized that there was nothing on the handle, outside that anyone could use to connect the bag to the rightful owner. Already thinking, trying to remember the name of that town in northeast Alabama where I have read that all unclaimed luggage eventually lands to be auctioned off. And irritated to have a swim suit I searched for and found that I really liked - thinking about some strange person in Alabama enjoying it tubing down a muddy river holding onto the cooler with the iced beer.
Extremely irritated at myself when I realized I could only identify the bag by telling whoever was holding it hostage that it had a pair of green-striped flip-flops in there (I'd had to buy when I found myself flip-flop-less in Biloxi) Not very much info. to give some great big burly TSA guy, who would be looking through my personal possessions. Everyone going to Mexico would have shorts, t-shirts, swimsuit, the usual vacation accoutrements for life in the steamy tropics.
So while our main source of support in the States pestered the Delta people in Tampa, and I fretted over my missing clothing, my delightful, charming roommate got busy offering me necessary articles. She had a black skirt (we were instructed to be prepared to wear below-knee skirts or dresses to church) and personal items. I knew I could buy toothbrush/paste, but profoundly frustrated to have to shop for necessities that I already owned, just could not find. And I didn't want to spend my travel funds on those necessities... but not at all prepared to go without the most basic of personal furnishings and be 'airish' all week.
Our calm, patient sponsor/leader/religious resource assured me we could go to a nearby department store and get whatever was needed - and I am sure he was completely right - it's just that I didn' t want to invest in replacements. But went anyway, and bought a couple of things. Amazed to discover that one can buy most any sort of pharmaceutical on the street corner. Not literally, but there are 'pharamacias' often on three corners out of four at any given intersection. The problem being I was not sure about how to translate the dosage to metrics (me, being the hopelessly arithmetically inept). So I bought something that I was extremely dubious about, along with an over the counter item that seemed pretty safe. But I was so leery about the OTC meds, that require an Rx in the US, I could not make myself actually ingest it, for fear it was massively wrong doseage, being either 'way to much, or not nearly enough and just overly anxious about taking it.
We muddled on. Got food on Saturday night, and I went to bed wearing my clothes.
Got up Sunday morning - and I guess I never brushed me teeth. Ick. Put on the borrowed skirt and stuff I had tossed and turned in all night, and went off to Hispanic church.
Extremely irritated at myself when I realized I could only identify the bag by telling whoever was holding it hostage that it had a pair of green-striped flip-flops in there (I'd had to buy when I found myself flip-flop-less in Biloxi) Not very much info. to give some great big burly TSA guy, who would be looking through my personal possessions. Everyone going to Mexico would have shorts, t-shirts, swimsuit, the usual vacation accoutrements for life in the steamy tropics.
So while our main source of support in the States pestered the Delta people in Tampa, and I fretted over my missing clothing, my delightful, charming roommate got busy offering me necessary articles. She had a black skirt (we were instructed to be prepared to wear below-knee skirts or dresses to church) and personal items. I knew I could buy toothbrush/paste, but profoundly frustrated to have to shop for necessities that I already owned, just could not find. And I didn't want to spend my travel funds on those necessities... but not at all prepared to go without the most basic of personal furnishings and be 'airish' all week.
Our calm, patient sponsor/leader/religious resource assured me we could go to a nearby department store and get whatever was needed - and I am sure he was completely right - it's just that I didn' t want to invest in replacements. But went anyway, and bought a couple of things. Amazed to discover that one can buy most any sort of pharmaceutical on the street corner. Not literally, but there are 'pharamacias' often on three corners out of four at any given intersection. The problem being I was not sure about how to translate the dosage to metrics (me, being the hopelessly arithmetically inept). So I bought something that I was extremely dubious about, along with an over the counter item that seemed pretty safe. But I was so leery about the OTC meds, that require an Rx in the US, I could not make myself actually ingest it, for fear it was massively wrong doseage, being either 'way to much, or not nearly enough and just overly anxious about taking it.
We muddled on. Got food on Saturday night, and I went to bed wearing my clothes.
Got up Sunday morning - and I guess I never brushed me teeth. Ick. Put on the borrowed skirt and stuff I had tossed and turned in all night, and went off to Hispanic church.
south of the border, part tres (3)
So we got to the airport in Cancun and de-planed. Following a long line of fellow passengers down a hot, humid, muggy hallway to who-knows-where. Down the escalator, into a big room with the long serpentine conveyor that eventually began disgorging luggage from our flight. Fellow travelers began to pick their belongings off the carousel, and wander off in the direction of the arrow that pointed to ground transportation. My group was plucking their bags off the carousel, I was watching for the two huge pieces I had checked that were full of supplies and T-shirts to be donated to the congregation in Playa. I dragged them off, and started looking for my little innocuous, plain, black canvas personal bag. Huh? Where is it? Donde? What? 'My bag's not here!' Impossible to locate in the plethora of plain black canvas zippered bags, so I assumed someone else had picked it up off the conveyor belt. We checked claim numbers against all our varied pieces, and they all came out even... What? Where is my toothbrush, clean underwear, shorts with a dozen pockets? Necessary Prescriptions? Socks? Snacks? Chocolate!!!!
I learned A LOT about traveling through this experience. Mostly what to NOT do.
Mistake number uno: There was absolutely nothing on the outside of my handy, convenient, little wheeled suitcase that had any connection whatsoever with Me. So I know now to put lots of identifying marks, duct tape in loud colors, baggage tags with name and contact info., ribbons, yarn pom-poms on luggage before it rolls out the door of the house.
I learned A LOT about traveling through this experience. Mostly what to NOT do.
Mistake number uno: There was absolutely nothing on the outside of my handy, convenient, little wheeled suitcase that had any connection whatsoever with Me. So I know now to put lots of identifying marks, duct tape in loud colors, baggage tags with name and contact info., ribbons, yarn pom-poms on luggage before it rolls out the door of the house.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
South of the Border, part duos (2)
So we met at the church in Ocala on Saturday morning, and loaded ourselves and suitcases up on the little bus to go to the airport in Tampa. I had been reminding folks that I would like donations of used, but clean/wearable T-shirts to take along and leave in Mexico. Due to the generosity of several people I rolled and packed over 100 shirts into a large canvas zippered bag: so many I could not actually pick the bag up by myself to put in the back of my car for the drive to FL.
I had a backpack full of reading material, a small case on wheels and the huge canvas bag bulging with T-shirts. We unloaded in great haste and confusion at the doors to the terminal, I went to get a cart because I knew I would not be dragging the heavy canvas bag up to the counter. Someone else put another big wheeled suitcase on the cart that was also full of give-away items for the congregation and community: lots of interesting useful things like combs, reading/magnification eye-glasses, pony-tail holders, many pairs of flip-flops, along with at least another 100 or more shirts to be donated. I was trying to manage the big cart, so laden with large baggage I could barely see to drive, wearing my backpack, and trying to pull along the wheeled case full of a weeks' worth of shorts and shirts for hot-muggy-Mexico wear.A fellow traveler, one of the group from Ocala, offered to roll my personal suitcase in the terminal for me. So he took it off my hands, as I blundered my way through the foot traffic, following along, with the stacked up baggage on the cart.
I was the last of the ten to check in, with my two huge bags trundling up on the cart, and happy to be relieved of the obligation. Always a bit paranoid when the taped message about 'don't walk off and leave your bag or accept mystery parcels from strangers' plays over and over in the terminal. But we got every checked, and tagged and ticketed and made our way through Security. In plenty of time to eat some of that pre-fab, over-priced, airport concession food. It was so memorable, I cannot even begin to recall what I had.
In addition to the backpack - my only carry-on - I had a wooden walking stick. I had great plans for finding someone in our group who would be willing to get up and walk several miles with me each morning, as I continue to 'practice' for my hike through the NC hills in August. Not knowing where that walking might occur, and always a little leery of walking about in strange places, I felt that a stick might be handy. As in: the best offense is a good defense. Dogs do roam the streets, but the defense was not needed. That stick turned out to be a major nusiance, as I am not much accustomed to remembering to keep up with an extra appendage, and was constantly returning someplace to rescue it, off the bus, in the terminal, off the van, whatever... it's a wonder it made it back to the USA.
So we land in Cancun and all troop through the hot steamy terminal to the baggage claim area and I can't find my suitcase. All the huge bags full of the 'supplies' we had accumulated to donate to the church arrived, but my little black wheeled suitcase was nowhere to be found. I assumed they had checked the suitcase that was meant to be my carry-on, but it somehow never appeared on the carousel when we were picking our items off as they rotated past the group.
The mystery thickened, when we compared claim numbers, and did not have an extra number for the missing case. I readily admit to saying several bad words, repeatedly. But the people who: were not worried, were not missing clothing, were not wondering where their toothbrushes and clean underwear might be located, were completely unconcerned about their socks, confident they had all their toiletries, certain they would not be frantically trying to replace missing prescription drugs (let that be a lesson for you!) tried to console me with the fact that we could 'go shopping' for whatever I needed. Not something you want to hear when you have carefully planned, thought, arranged, chosen, purchased, packed for a week in a foreign country.. counting out pairs of socks and clean unmentionables to come out perfectly even for the length of the stay.
Plus a huge part of the actual 'go shopping' involves trying to understand a monetary system that would likely baffle even people who can multiply and divide, so you can imagine what it did to my little math-impaired brain. You can get 13 pesos for a dollar, or something like that. The exchange rate benefits the gringo with the Washingtons and Jeffersons and Hamiltons... until you get ready to change it back into American currency before you leave. I was personally so confused by the time I left, I just emptied my pockets and left all the odd pesos for the housekeeper in the motel.
I had a backpack full of reading material, a small case on wheels and the huge canvas bag bulging with T-shirts. We unloaded in great haste and confusion at the doors to the terminal, I went to get a cart because I knew I would not be dragging the heavy canvas bag up to the counter. Someone else put another big wheeled suitcase on the cart that was also full of give-away items for the congregation and community: lots of interesting useful things like combs, reading/magnification eye-glasses, pony-tail holders, many pairs of flip-flops, along with at least another 100 or more shirts to be donated. I was trying to manage the big cart, so laden with large baggage I could barely see to drive, wearing my backpack, and trying to pull along the wheeled case full of a weeks' worth of shorts and shirts for hot-muggy-Mexico wear.A fellow traveler, one of the group from Ocala, offered to roll my personal suitcase in the terminal for me. So he took it off my hands, as I blundered my way through the foot traffic, following along, with the stacked up baggage on the cart.
I was the last of the ten to check in, with my two huge bags trundling up on the cart, and happy to be relieved of the obligation. Always a bit paranoid when the taped message about 'don't walk off and leave your bag or accept mystery parcels from strangers' plays over and over in the terminal. But we got every checked, and tagged and ticketed and made our way through Security. In plenty of time to eat some of that pre-fab, over-priced, airport concession food. It was so memorable, I cannot even begin to recall what I had.
In addition to the backpack - my only carry-on - I had a wooden walking stick. I had great plans for finding someone in our group who would be willing to get up and walk several miles with me each morning, as I continue to 'practice' for my hike through the NC hills in August. Not knowing where that walking might occur, and always a little leery of walking about in strange places, I felt that a stick might be handy. As in: the best offense is a good defense. Dogs do roam the streets, but the defense was not needed. That stick turned out to be a major nusiance, as I am not much accustomed to remembering to keep up with an extra appendage, and was constantly returning someplace to rescue it, off the bus, in the terminal, off the van, whatever... it's a wonder it made it back to the USA.
So we land in Cancun and all troop through the hot steamy terminal to the baggage claim area and I can't find my suitcase. All the huge bags full of the 'supplies' we had accumulated to donate to the church arrived, but my little black wheeled suitcase was nowhere to be found. I assumed they had checked the suitcase that was meant to be my carry-on, but it somehow never appeared on the carousel when we were picking our items off as they rotated past the group.
The mystery thickened, when we compared claim numbers, and did not have an extra number for the missing case. I readily admit to saying several bad words, repeatedly. But the people who: were not worried, were not missing clothing, were not wondering where their toothbrushes and clean underwear might be located, were completely unconcerned about their socks, confident they had all their toiletries, certain they would not be frantically trying to replace missing prescription drugs (let that be a lesson for you!) tried to console me with the fact that we could 'go shopping' for whatever I needed. Not something you want to hear when you have carefully planned, thought, arranged, chosen, purchased, packed for a week in a foreign country.. counting out pairs of socks and clean unmentionables to come out perfectly even for the length of the stay.
Plus a huge part of the actual 'go shopping' involves trying to understand a monetary system that would likely baffle even people who can multiply and divide, so you can imagine what it did to my little math-impaired brain. You can get 13 pesos for a dollar, or something like that. The exchange rate benefits the gringo with the Washingtons and Jeffersons and Hamiltons... until you get ready to change it back into American currency before you leave. I was personally so confused by the time I left, I just emptied my pockets and left all the odd pesos for the housekeeper in the motel.
South of the Border (not the one on NC/SC state line)
It's a long story, but I need to get started before it gets 'lost in the sands of time'.
I was in Mexico all last week, as things evolved, mostly just along for the ride.
I drove down to Ocala on Friday the 6th, spent the night with friends and got up Sat. to go with a group of nine on the church van to Tampa, then on to Cancun. If we had really been going to Cancun, The Resort, it would have been a totally different experience, and I have actually 'been there, done that' (and if someone is interested in footing the bill, I could easily enjoy going back again.) The flight was less than two hours, but due to traveling west, in another time zone, so appetites and sleeping habits were confused for several days - taking just long enough to acclimate before we were headed back to the US as scrambled brains/confusion began to level off.
We had reservations for a week in a little local hotel that apparently caters to an international clientel l - many of the books on a bookshelf, available for loan, were printed in German. The group I was traveling with had several members who had been on this venture previously, but most were as uncertain about expectations and as lost in a foreign environment as I was. Looking back, I am pretty sure one of the best things of my experience was the remarkable luck that occurred when rooming assignments were made. I am thankful for the person who I ended up 'bunking' with. Even though the accommodations were clean, tidy, pretty much to US standards (though you have to diligently remember to not rinse your toothbrush under the running water of the tap in the bathroom), it would not have been nearly as pleasant if I had not had the good fortune to be in the same room as my new BFF: Fran.
Even so, I got off to a really bad start when we arrived in Cancun, went through the airport to retrieve our luggage and I could not locate my bag.... more later....
I was in Mexico all last week, as things evolved, mostly just along for the ride.
I drove down to Ocala on Friday the 6th, spent the night with friends and got up Sat. to go with a group of nine on the church van to Tampa, then on to Cancun. If we had really been going to Cancun, The Resort, it would have been a totally different experience, and I have actually 'been there, done that' (and if someone is interested in footing the bill, I could easily enjoy going back again.) The flight was less than two hours, but due to traveling west, in another time zone, so appetites and sleeping habits were confused for several days - taking just long enough to acclimate before we were headed back to the US as scrambled brains/confusion began to level off.
We had reservations for a week in a little local hotel that apparently caters to an international clientel l - many of the books on a bookshelf, available for loan, were printed in German. The group I was traveling with had several members who had been on this venture previously, but most were as uncertain about expectations and as lost in a foreign environment as I was. Looking back, I am pretty sure one of the best things of my experience was the remarkable luck that occurred when rooming assignments were made. I am thankful for the person who I ended up 'bunking' with. Even though the accommodations were clean, tidy, pretty much to US standards (though you have to diligently remember to not rinse your toothbrush under the running water of the tap in the bathroom), it would not have been nearly as pleasant if I had not had the good fortune to be in the same room as my new BFF: Fran.
Even so, I got off to a really bad start when we arrived in Cancun, went through the airport to retrieve our luggage and I could not locate my bag.... more later....
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