As promised, a bit of a recap from my trip to Mexico. Let me start by saying that anytime you fly from Reno at 6:20 am there is absolutely no freaking need to be at the airport more than one hour before flight time. Holy crap. We were told by the travel agent that we needed to be there two hours early. Both being pretty familiar with the local airport, Christy and I decided that an hour and a half would suffice. It was too damn long. We checked in no problem, got to security and cruised right through. With the cab ride being slightly less than anticipated, we actually waited the full hour and a half to get out of town. Brutal.
We flew from Reno to Denver, then from Denver to Cancun. Why am I telling you this? I don’t know. But on the plane, each seat back had a TV with satellite on it. Awesome. But they charged for the service on the domestic end of the flight, so I listened to music and watched the coolest thing in the world. The little Mapquest rendition of where the plane was relative to the world. That was kick-ass. I want one of those for my house. But instead of it being an illustration, it should be a satellite image. That would be cool.
Security in Mexico is just a bit different than in the U.S. They let you off the plane and you could just cruise onto the runways and shit. I would have done it if I hadn’t had to refinance my house for the vacation. I was out of money to pay the Federalis to let me enjoy myself down there, so I had to be a good, law-abiding tourist. And tourist I was – look at my clothes! Aside from my wanting to run along the runways of Cancun, there is customs in Mexico. You pass through the part where they make sure you’re not sneaking in to work some lucrative taxi-driving job or something, then you move on to the part where they are supposed to check your luggage. You walk up to a guy standing next to a stoplight. He tells you to push a button like you want to cross the street, and the stoplight lights up. If you get green, you go without any further trouble. If you get red they grab your shit and throw you into a small room where they strip you down, put a cage of rats on your face, and tell you 2+2=5. If you argue, they break fingers. If you still argue (cuz I mean come on, we all know 2+2=4, right?) they torture your loved ones in front of you. Finally, when you agree with them, you get to go have vacation. Actually, I’m not really sure that happens if you get the red light, but that’s what it looks like happens.
Speed is not important at the customs area. It’s not important in Mexico, but this time we’ll only focus on customs. See, we picked up our luggage and were the first from our plane to get to customs. Bad move. As soon as we came around the corner and were in the clear, people started shouting at us for rental cars, taxis, currency exchange, hookers, cheap prescription drugs, and discount amputations. We’d been warned, but this was ridiculous. we had a van supposedly picking us up, so we went by all that crap. But it would have been nice to have some other saps be the first to get the barrage so we could at least hear it and be prepared.
Our van was another story. We waited for an hour to get picked up, then waited for more people to join us. They fit 11 people in the damn van. Then, the driver honked his ass off at just about everyone on the road. He entertained, though, with the honking and all. Plus, the hour-long wait enabled me to use the bathroom and pick up our first beers of the trip. The biggest disappointment of the entire trip, though, took place in this time. I asked the guy who was hooking our ride up what the best beer down there was. His answer, much to my dismay as a brewer and connoisseur of fine beers, was “Corona, maybe Dos Equis.” Good part of the van trip: three couples that were all season ticket holders to the Oakland A’s and the ensuing mention by me, and understanding by them, of Moneyball
Eventually, we made it to the resort.