In the midst of a long recession, my family and I found it wise to go on a cruise to Mexico. Although I felt like an excessively rich snob lavishing in all manner of vile indulgences (multiple trips an hour to the self-serve ice cream machine) while complaining about a lack of service to a staff of foreign workers who leave their home seven months at a time for little pay, cruises themselves aren’t really expensive. Traveling itself is the expensive part.
I had romantic opinions of
Mexico before going there. I
imagined myself on a sailboat,
staring thoughtfully at the horizon,
while hurried crewmembers
dock on a nice little pier. I would
then enter the city of Cozumel
and rein riches upon the poor
masses of merchants. I knew the
economy was bad in America,
but I figured surely our dollar is
worth more than theirs. I fantasized
about buying a real sombrero
and perhaps a maraca and
eating authentic Mexican cuisine.
I would listen to mariachi bands
on the street and traverse narrow
roads, stopping along the way to
chat in Spanish with locals.
In one word, I would be in another
country for the first time
and immersed in a language I’ve
studied four years but only within
the cramped halls of academia.
I worried only slightly about
culture shock – the bad water,
rampant pickpocket criminality,
vulgar street Spanish, beggars
and vagabonds. But I was too
good for culture shock, because I
was a cultured man. I embraced
diversity.
Before I even embarked upon
my adventure, I could smell the
sands of Cozumel.
I departed the nasty waters of
Mobile, Ala., and in more than a
day’s time I had reached Mexico.
Sure, it wasn’t I who literally got
there; I simply rode along lazily
as my captains did all the work.
Nonetheless, in spirit, it felt like
I personally made the journey. I
personally completed my longdesired
quest to seek a new land,
a new adventure.
I was sure it was going to be
a learning experience, a pivotal
event in the lifetime of one
Southerner whose assumed traditions
and beliefs would be
challenged, unsettled and fi nally
shattered in order to create a new
man with a new worldview. I was
going to fi nd myself, my true self,
in Mexico.
So I arrived, although it wasn’t
on the picturesque pier I had
imagined. In fact, there were
no windows for me to look out
of while I waited for nearly an
hour while crewmembers taxed
their minds trying to fi gure out
a way to get my brother and me,
both of whom are troublesomely
handicapped, off onto the dock.
They seemed so surprised to see
us. I suppose in Carnival Cruise
Lines’ vast history, I was the fi rst
disabled person to decide to go
on one of their cruises.
But, lo, I and my household
were fi nally offi cially in Mexico,
casually bypassing the welcoming
mariachi band’s donations can
and trying to ignore those masses
of merchants, who didn’t sell
goods for very cheap after all, so
we could find somewhere to eat.
After paying $80 for a taxi ride
(the disabled class being slightly
more expensive than most), we
settled into an authentic Mexican
restaurant, drank virgin margaritas
and ate a “margarita pie,”
described as a Mexican version of
America’s “famous key lime pie.”
A note on the menus, which were
in English, assured us the water
at the establishment underwent a
rigorous purifying process. While
we ate, a middle-aged Mexican
couple serenaded us with a xylophone
to the tunes of popular
American oldies.
As it turns out, there are few
locals roaming the streets and
shops in Cozumel. I saw quite
a number of old white people,
including a Willie Nelson impersonator
who I chatted with
for some time. Besides those who
worked at the counters and drove
the taxis, Cozumel has a great
number of temporary immigrants,
those who, like me, stay
for two or three hours to eat a
chimichanga and buy a sombrero
and a T-shirt souvenir. In fact, for
a fl eeting moment, as I peered
out my taxi’s window onto the
small streets, I thought perhaps
I was in Orlando or some retirement
home in Florida.
Returning to the dock to wait
for crewmembers to fi gure out
once again how to get my wheelchair
and me back onto the ship,
I gazed down in defeat with the
truly unsettling realization that I
felt home in Mexico. I didn’t see
or talk to many Mexicans. Apparently,
the merchants, those
wise guys, account for America’s
infl ation. I didn’t get to drink
any of Mexico’s famous dirty water,
and for a second, I thought
my taxi driver was going to have
the guts to steal a bag my friend
left in one of the seats. Instead,
he tracked us down and returned
it to us.
So, I have no frightening experience
to share with you, other
than the fact that I still haven’t
found myself. I may have to go
somewhere more exotic, like
Baghdad, to do that. I did buy a
sombrero and a T-shirt. In lieu of
gratuities I had to pay, I couldn’t
afford the maraca.
Matt Watson is the opinion editor
of The Reflector. He can be contacted
at [email protected].