Why we are here in Cozumel instead of Panama is its own story but I will tell that tale later.
Suffice to say we are here, two days of panicked rebooking of reservations, and eating travel-related fees, and precious little sleep.
In the background as I write, children are screeching and crying. Not the jungle experience I anticipated for this latest January vacation excursion.
You see, my gf and I plan a trip every January (or thereabouts) to someplace warm and beachy. Half of it is simply to get away from (well, for California) cold weather. The other half is these trips are fact-finding missions, as we are seeking a place where maybe we’d like to stay for a longer while come the fatal day I finally hang up the old diopter and follow focus, and let younger people with better eyesight take over those chores.
So anyway… we are in Cozumel.
We find that, at the tropical January places, what appeals to us is what is referred to in these parts as “beach clubs”.
(I just told my server David that the plate of chips and guacamole he served us was “fantastico”, which is not a word I’m pretty sure, but I’m pounding watered-down margaritas at a brisk pace, attempting to get buzzed quickly to numb myself.)
Beach clubs are the cordoned-off properties (usually, but not always limited to resort areas) where there is a pool, a bar, a restaurant, a private beachfront with lounge chairs, you get the gist of it. You have to pay for this decadence; the days of free coast line, even in countries in Central and South America, is sadly and rapidly dwindling. The fantasy (as perfunctly captured in The Shawshank Redemption, and probably many other such movies) of a person, finally free of their literal and spiritual shackles, combing the edge of the water as they walk along the beach to an uncertain future and suddenly come across their prison (or work) mate restoring his craggy catamaran, was probably always a fantasy long ago, and even more so in 21st century world terms, where corporations are quick to acquire as much beach line as possible and hire (exploit) the poor and humble and hard-working locals to serve watered-down daiquiris and shrimp ceviche to the droves of (mainly) white people who venture via Southwest Airlines and Carnival Cruises to these warm and still beautiful islands south of the states.
Thus, I bring you to Mr. Sanchos.
We booked Mr. Sanchos a couple nights ago, sight unseen. I could only could rely on the Google/Yelp reviews which were quite good (therefore I should have been warned); I paid the deposit and prepared to spend the $68 per person fee which promised all the wonderful all-inclusive beach club things, including, presumably, unlimited food and drink.
“Inclusive” is a dangerous word. It is in direct opposition of “quality”. It is more a partner of “excess” and “subpar” and “watered-down.” I have steadfastly avoided inclusive in the past, especially when it involved resorts and beaches and such bastions of presumed luxury settings. It usually promises a lot and delivers what you should expect. Nothing is for free, and while inclusive is not free, nor is it traditionally luxurious (perhaps there are instances of luxurious inclusive resorts and clubs, and of course everything is relative). But if you have Budweiser tastes, then inclusive most of the time may very well be for you. But if you want the finer things (better food, better booze, better environment), that usually comes with a higher sticker price.
Still, there are many people who are more than happy to be here and I’m looking at many of them now. They are here, predominantly white, and (mostly) overweight and starting to get that drunken look (the time is about 11 AM), when the eyes start to pinch and squint, and the grin starts to bend sharply at the mouth, and the laugh begins to resemble more a cackle. There’s a far amount of ink as well, although not high quality ink. You and I are pretty familiar with these people by now: they were encouraged to come out from the shadows around election time 2015-16, and now they are loud and proud and happy to stick a flag in the sand and wave their Tecate in the air and claim this parcel of the crowded beach as theirs, because after all “I’m paying for it ain’t I?!?”
I would describe Mr. Sanchos as a (mostly) adult Chuck-e-Cheese, with the arcade ripped out and replaced by hundreds of tables, swimming pools, thatched roofs, palm trees, and cheap booze. A person with a large costume donkey head greets you at the entrance gate, along with a girl with a camera, ready to cash in right off the bat ($10 American for the photo op). It’s obviously a very popular; you go on Yelp and it garners a 4.6 out of 5, and many 5 reviews. Many of the people who reviewed it are folks who clambered off of cruise ships in search of land and overpriced trinkets (small skulls adorned with your favorite college or pro football team seem really popular at the moment). Cruise ship people are another subset that fits comfortably in an environment like this. For reference I suggest reading the essay from the brilliant David Foster Wallace, “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again,” which succinctly outlines the experience of a 7-day Carribean cruise.
I am amazed and also appalled by how fat we Americans are. I look around this resort and, yes, when one is on vacation, they usually allow themselves a hall-pass to eat whatever, drink as much as possible, and act pretty much any way they choose. That’s why it’s called “vacation” I guess; it’s not supposed to be real life. On vacation YOU are the boss! (note: unless you are male and married, which in that case you are still second in command)
But I’m seeing people so obese that I have to ask myself 1) how uncomfortable must it be to simply do the basic life functions of standing up, walking, sitting down, and 2) what exactly is the life span of someone who is obviously not in good health. There are children here, with obese adult bodies and chubby adolescent faces and swollen feet. It’s sad, to be honest. My gf is an emergency room doctor and countless times has had to explain to obese people sitting uncomfortably in the ER that you must MOVE, move your body, in order to live; even if you can’t stand up, then exercise in your chair (the internet has countless videos and tutorials showing how you can achieve maximum fitness while only exercising in a chair, 7 minutes a day for 28 days, but I digress). But, MOVE. Here, they are supine in so many plastic chairs, eating tacos and living their life out loud. So be it.
The party continues here at Mr. Sanchos. A mariachi band plays for a group at a table; I don’t know if they are paying for that privilege but judging by the turned-backs and body language, they aren’t interested even in the novelty of the moment. The poor locals. I feel bad for almost all of them. My server, David, probably thinks I am just another American idiot, and he isn’t far off. I’m getting a thorough buzz now from the constant parade of margaritas to my table. There’s not much alcohol in them (and although I haven’t seen the pour I can assume the quality of the alcohol isn’t good; inclusive, remember?) but if you order enough anything is possible. You can get drunk on Bud or Coors Light, just keep drinking them.
The mariachi band is playing “La Bamba”, really quite well, to the same table. I’ve seen employees walking around with parrots and iguanas and a camera. I’m pretty sure that’s not an inclusive treat, but at this point the locals know what pleases the (relatively speaking) rich and dumpy Americans, and I have no doubt that many gringos will be going home with a picture of themselves grinning next to an iguana. The “thump thump” of club music that was popular 30 years ago is now pumping along the beach line. No one is dancing so far; it’s only noon and I don’t think anyone is drunk enough just yet.
I just ordered a bottle of water from David. “I need to hydrate,” I say emphatically and he smiles bemusedly. He seems like a good guy. He probably spends a lot of hours humoring intoxicated people. I hope he is happy in his life.
I’m watching small groups of people snorkeling out in the ocean not far off the beach. One enterprising slightly weighty gentleman is wearing his truckers hat while snorkeling, I assume, to keep the sun off his head.
Next to where we are sitting, a very strange sight: a youngish and relatively attractive Latino couple (or maybe just a man and a woman uncoupled?) sitting across from each other with laptops, drinking Coke and water, quietly working. I look over the shoulder of the woman at her laptop and see what appears to be a spread sheet. Seeing them in this environment is akin to seeing a grizzly bear walking down Sunset Boulevard. I can’t decide if they just wandered in here looking for a place to sit down and some shade, or maybe they manage the resort, or run the books for Mr. Sanchos. Anyway, they look very put together and way out of place.
My gf is sober so far today (a wee bit too much fun the night before), drinking Coca Cola Light (made with real sugar, superior to the Diet Coke we consume back in the states) and I ask her to maybe have a drink and join me in my buzzy headspace, one where we can together make Mr. Sancho’s a more palatable experience. I initially had told her, once we had passed the Donkey at the front gate and the realization of what we had done had set in, that upon consuming what was the equivalent of $136 in food, drink and whatever other amenities is included in the price of admission, we would split this place. I don’t want to have the burden alone of drinking $136 worth of cheap booze.
It’s not sunny right now but it’s not unpleasant. A cursory search on my phone reveals that the best time to come to Cozumel is March and April, when the sun is high and hottest, and the rainfall is the least. But I work in an industry where, traditionally speaking, the work grinds to a halt before Christmas and usually doesn’t ramp up again until mid/late January at the earliest. So I plan our warm weather excursions for the beginning of the year, cross fingers and hope for the best. This morning we heard that there was the possibility of FLURRIES (!) in the hills of Ventura, CA, so regardless I think we are doing good.
So I feel like I owe you an explanation as to why we are in Cozumel, and not Panama, the country where months ago we booked passage and lodging and planned for a week long vacation within the islands of Bocas del Toro. It’s a long and kind of tedious story to have to recount again; bear with me. It starts back in September, when I went to process my application for a Global Entry number, and the gentleman across the desk at the Consulate advised me that I probably should renew my passport (scheduled to expire on March 10, 2024) before my trip to Panama. He unnerved me enough to start the process immediately and I was even going to pony up the extra $60 it took to expedite the processing. However, if you recall, we were in the throes of what can only be described as a governmental shit show, as the GOP was threatening (the first of numerous threats) to shut down the government. I imagined all elements of government-related services grinding to a halt, and my passport stuck in dry dock for who knows how long and maybe even past the date we were scheduled to fly out of Los Angeles to Panama in early January. I opted to wait, assuming that a passport that expired in March would be suitable for getting me into/out of a foreign country.
Four months later we were dropped off at the Tom Bradley terminal at 10 pm for our overnight flight direct to Panama City. From there we would shuttle over to another airport and take our puddle jumper flight over to Bocas del Toro, where we had a house rented, ready to enjoy everything the islands off the coast of Panama had to offer, including Filthy Friday (Google it).
At the terminal, it was chaos. Earlier that week, a Boeing 737 Max 9 jet had its panel detach during an Alaska Airlines flight from Oregon to California. This resulted in the FAA grounding all Boeing 737 Max 9s until further notice. This affected many airlines at many airports, including Copa (the airline we were flying) at LAX. There were lines stretching through and around the terminal as agitated passengers waited, some for hours, for cancelled flights to be rebooked. Fortunately, we heard that our flight was one of the fortunate ones, so even though we moved at a snail’s pace, we eventually took our place at the desk, and handed our passports over to the Copa agent. He spent about a minute typing and staring at his screen. Then, like a croupier dealing an ominous card, he pushed my passport back to me. “You can’t fly,’ he said.
“Your passport expires less than three months after your return date. Panama won’t let you enter the country.” You could have punched me in the face and shocked me less. Our flight was preparing to leave in about an hour. I felt both flustered and sick.
“You can’t be serious. This is our vacation,” I stammered, as if that would make a difference. He stared at me, blankly. He had been dealing with upset passengers for hours, I guessed. He just wanted to move on to the next customer, and plow to the end of his shift. “What am I supposed to do?” I asked.
“Well, you can go over to the consulate, and see if they will issue you a new passport.” It was Saturday evening, almost midnight. “Are they open???” I asked, already knowing the answer. “They open on Monday morning,” he said. He pushed our passports back to us. We took our pile of luggage and trudged away.
We found a couple open seats to slump into, and struggled to cope with the reality that our flight to Panama was no longer OUR flight. It was just another plane flying to another country. I flailed my way through the internet on my phone, trying to figure out a way to get to the consulate early enough on Monday in order for us to attempt to salvage our vacation. I felt like a desperate man. I realize these are first-world problems, but when you spend months planning for, and booking, and looking forward to a vacation, and literally the moment before you are passed through towards your gate and hear the words, “Enjoy your flight,’ and you instead are kicked to the literal curb with your bags and grandiose plans, it’s bound to shake a person up. On the curb, the wind was cold and brisk as we shuttle-bussed to our Uber, and tail between our legs, rode home.
In the Uber I was disillusioned and defeated, but manic. As my gf passed out next to me, I dug into my phone, scrambling through the internet. “Where can I travel in January where there’s warm weather without a passport?” I typed. The answers came: Puerto Rico, The Virgin Islands, Florida, Hawaii, etc. Once back at home, my gf kissed me, assured me it was going to be ok, and went to bed. At this point it was after 2 am, and all I could think of is that we were supposed to be on a plane RIGHT NOW traveling south landing in Panama City around 10 am. And now we weren’t. I sat at the dining room table, my laptop in front of me. I stared at the suitcases, grouped in a pile on the floor across from the table. Our bags were packed. The dogs were boarded. The dull light of the laptop made my eyes ache. “We HAVE to go, somewhere,” I thought, preferably somewhere warm, where I could press my toes in the sand, sip a drink, catch up on my reading (I had three books in my carry-on bag), maybe tan or even burn a little, and decompress. My board shorts were in the suitcase. I started looking, considered Puerto Rico, then cast my eyes towards Mexico.
I blurrily sorted through various spots in Mexico: Cancun (too party-touristy), Cabo (worse), Puerto Vallerta (expensive). Then I started reading about Cozumel, a small island on the eastern coast of the Yucatan Peninsula, across from Playa el Carmen, and north from Cancun. The more I read about it, the more I could feel its separation from a larger land, the warm sand, the calming breezes. I could almost taste the salt in the air, or maybe I had fallen asleep momentarily at my laptop. I shook myself alert and searched AirBnb and various airlines to see if it was indeed a viable option. I read that, unlike Panama, Mexico would allow those from the outside the country in as long as their passport did not expire before they returned to their native country. Those were the words I needed to see.
After a few hours sleep, I woke up and went back to work. I now had a viable destination, and a mission. I managed to wrangle the full refund from our AirBnb in Panama, reserved another space in Cozumel, and spoke with the airline to make sure I wouldn’t be turned away yet again when we arrived at the airport, bags in tow, for the flight south. Nervous, but equally assured and desperate enough, I booked our flights to Cozumel. We would leave at midnight that night. The packing and dog boarding would not be in vain.
After a couple more margaritas (in small plastic cups, about 8 oz. servings, brought to us in almost alarming succession, I lost count) we decide it’s time to venture more directly into “the scene at the pool.” The swim-up pool is more like a wade-up, but it is in the center of the property and seems like a reasonable entry into the social stratum that is Mr. Sancho’s. We find a place near the pool bar to drop the valuables, and I put my foot in gingerly. It’s cold. Well, colder than expected. A young guy and girl (two of many youthful clientele I suspected were both from the cruise ships and under 21 but the legal age to imbibe in Mexico is 18, so let’s party) roll past me and plunge in with no hesitation, telling each other “hey it’s warm.”
“Warm? Warm?!? You think this is warm?!” I say to them, good naturedly.
“It’s warmer than the ocean!” (Disclamer: I went into the ocean later and the ocean was maybe a little warmer than the pool. The folly of youth)
I clench up my parts, and step into the pool up to my waist. I wade forward, and my gf comes to joins me, promptly slips on the steps, screeches, and back-flops into the pool.
“That’s one way to get in,” I say (Later, she told me the look on my face was one of faint surprise and buzzed satisfaction). I help her to her feet, glad that she didn’t (this time) hurt herself. My gf has a tendency to trip or slip or otherwise put herself in peril, and one of my ongoing jobs is to help alleviate the consequences by grabbing her before she can fall. In this case, I’m only moderately successful. But we are in it now for real. She jumps on my back and I walk us up to the bar, almost wiping out myself by slip-tripping on the hidden slant of the pool floor below the surface.
The scene around us is a mash-up of young, nubile adults and older, much less nubile adults, all crammed into the pool making noise, as the prerecorded sounds of some type of beat analogous to house music thump-thumps faintly over the din. A bunch of frat bros are gathered together, getting an early start on spring break. Surprisingly they don’t seem that all interested in the group of about 10 college-aged co-eds splashing around the bar. Judging from the trucker caps a couple of the girls are wearing, it looks like they might be from either (or both) Ol’ Miss and Texas A & M. It’s good to see these fierce SEC rivals hanging out together in a joyous, watery glasnost. Maybe I’m selling Mr. Sancho’s short. We find a couple of submerged seats at the pool bar.
(Pro tip: order the traditional margarita on the rocks while in Mexico. I’m sure many people know this but still it bears mentioning. The first time I ever had a traditional Mexican margarita was at a bar called Hussong’s in Ensenada. The bar, as I remember it, was a simple structure, ocean-kissed, sand on the floors, and jam-packed with people, both gringos and locals. My margarita was in a small glass (not a huge goblet), no frills, and tasted fresh-made, slightly sour, and refreshing. And all of the places I’ve been in Mexico since, even at Mr. Sancho’s, the bartenders understand the perfect simplicity of a proper margarita.)
We sip our margaritas and watch the action around the pool bar. There are the frat bros, and the sorority girls. A black couple, large and tatted-up to the hilt, are saddled in to the right of us in the corner of the pool. They’re pressed together and he nonchalantly plays with her boobs, seemingly unaware and unaffected by the surroundings. I look up to the pool deck next to us as another-not-petite-yet-friendly girl (they are everywhere!) walks towards us then stops. “Oh you caught me!” she says sunnily.
“I did?! What were you doing?”
“Vaping! It’s against the rules here.” I’m mildly surprised to hear this, as it seems like it’s anything goes at Mr. Sanchos.
“Well, you know,” I said, “rules are for those who get caught.”
“I always get caught!”
“It’s because you are so beautiful. You stand out.” She grins broadly, obviously liking what she hears, and walks away. I look at my gf and she smiles back at me, ever tolerant. I have always been, for the most part, a happy drunk. There are many people who might be surprised to hear that, but it’s true.
While we stand at the bar, a young woman wades up. She knows the name of the bartender so it’s obvious she has made herself familiar with his work. She’s a big girl, like so many on the property today. But she seems very pleasant, with a round pink face and broad smile. I find that once I start to get that happy-go-lucky daytime buzz I tend to get very chatty, even with strangers whom I probably wouldn’t consider approaching in sobriety. We strike up a conversation. Her name is Kiera (“like Sierra with a K,” she says with her soft southern twang); she says she’s a student from Missouri College (?) on a cruise that was to originate in Panama City but had to re-launch from New Orleans due to a hurricane. My gf turns excitedly to me.
“See?!? I told you there was a reason why we didn’t go to Panama!” We both believe in the idea that the universe works in fateful mysterious ways, but mostly in our favor.
I ask Kiera, “So, you were supposed to start your cruise in Panama?” She looks at me quizzically. “Panama City in Florida,” she says.
I realize that she is speaking of one of the crown jewels that is a part of the expanse known as the “Redneck Riviera.” I once traversed the RR in a car trip I undertook with a friend when I was in my 20’s, living in North Carolina. We drove south from NC, spent our first night in a dreadful and desultory hotel outside of Jacksonville ( I couldn’t sleep, waiting for drug dealer gun shots that never came), then traveled along the coast line through Florida, Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana, ultimately ending up at a Comfort Inn in New Orleans for some cheap drunken revelry. I look at my gf.
“Panama City, Florida,” I say, with a knowing nod. We all laugh at our confusion. Kiera tells us she’s on the cruise with her brother and his girlfriend. She says she is on winter break from school and has decided while on the cruise to change her major to Elementary Teaching. She feels more passionate about teaching children than about accounting (her current major), which isn’t difficult to believe. Kudos to her: a good teacher is more important to society than any lawyer or politician, or accountant, for that matter.
Behind her, the group of underage-in-the-USA girls wearing the Ol’ Miss and Texas A & M caps are yelping and rocking and loudly singing the Texas A & M school song. I’m not sure why they aren’t also singing the Ol’ Miss school song, or maybe they did and I missed it?
“I met all those girls on the cruise ship, they’re from Mississippi and Texas,” Kiera says. Kiera seems very sweet and good-intentioned, and, in the Maga-scorched political climate of 2024, is someone I probably would have made some quick assumptions about and would have avoided, much less talked to. But I’m glad I did. I need reminders that, despite what appear to be untenable philosophical and political differences largely built along regional and even state lines, there are a lot of good and unassuming people just trying to figure out the day-to-day of what is not always a simple life with obvious answers. We say our goodbyes and she goes to join her brother and friends.
As we nurse our margaritas at the pool bar, we start to see the exodus. The cruise ships have come calling for their benefactors, and large numbers of slightly burnt, buzzed, and stuffed cruisers began shuffling in groups towards the gates, some clutching the chochkies they bought which will surely be placed thoughtfully on the shelves and mantles next to their 65″ HD televisions.
Mr. Sanchos is suddenly a ghost resort. Void of the cruise ship groups, there’s now just a smattering of guests left behind, including us. We make our way down to the shoreline, where a few hours ago it would have been impossible to find a lounge chair, and pick out a couple along the now-vacant line of chairs stretching along the shore like used cars on an abandoned car lot.
I sit and close my eyes and listen to the dull crash and smooth crackle of the waves on the shore, and the subtle retreat of those same waves. I can feel the salty breeze from the ocean. This is why you come, not for the food, or drink, or festivities. You come for this feeling.
A waiter comes by and I order our last margaritas of the day. Drink ensconced in hand, I lay back in my chair. I expected to be relieved now that the overly loud and crass riff-raff were festooned upon their party ships, and starting their journey to the next stop on their tour of excess, far away from us. But it feels strangely anticlimactic. I was expecting a feeling like triumph, like when you are the out-manned underdog and the stakes are therefore high, but in this case there is nothing beyond the victory line other than the disquieting realization of “now what?”
We stay for about 15 more minutes but frankly it feels boring now, after all we’ve seen and experienced. We gather our belongings and head towards the front gate, past the disinterested vendors who are no longer hawking cheap plastic totems, past the ignoring waiters who have served their last Tecate’ and nachos, and past the life-size sombrero’d mascot who is flanking the exit, donkey head still intact, but now hands free, tapping through his cell phone and plotting his dinner plans for the evening.
