cancún, day 0
It is eleven-thirty here in Cancún, which means it is half past midnight back home. My stomach is howling. I haven’t eaten since dinner almost six hours ago. I would go out and get something but there is truly nothing within walking distance of our Airbnb and it’s probably too late anyway. Maybe I will lose weight on vacation for once.
We ate a home-cooked dinner out of plastic takeout containers at the airport before we boarded. I don’t know why my mom insists on cooking up until the very last hour we leave (typically before I go on vacation I empty out my fridge days before so as to not waste food spoiling and get by on takeout the last few meals), but steamed broccoli, fried rice, diced pineapple, and sautéed rice cakes probably beats anything I could get at the airport, so I shouldn’t complain.
On the flight we were sandwiched between two pairs of screaming boys. I am by nature rather irritable and behavior like that reinforces my never wanting kids, though I like to think those incidents bother me less the older I get. You know, emotional maturity and all that.
In spite of my childhood (or maybe because of it?), I can’t help but look at misbehaved kids and think like my parents would, i.e. that a vicious beating would shut them up and snuff out undesired behaviors. I know we live in a different time and that sparing the rod is in vogue now, but when I hear shrieking for the third straight hour I can understand why my parents hit me so much growing up, as much as I hated it. (As you might imagine, my brother and I were very well-behaved children in public. My mom instilled the fear of god in us at an early age.)
I’ve only gotten to see Cancún in the dark so far, but the sheer size and opulence of the well-lit resorts in the hotel zone impressed me. I admit that begrudgingly, because I hate swanky resorts and everything they stand for, from their outsized environmental footprint to the economic inequalities they perpetuate. I know that as a tourist I am part of the problem, but that doesn’t stop me from getting worked up seeing the stark economic contrast between the resorts and the surrounding areas their workers live in.
Per my directive we are staying not at a resort but instead in a small airbnb in the hotel zone with white plaster walls and porcelain tiled floors. Plastic plants stand in each corner under whining air conditioning units working overtime and my feet hang off the edge of my double bed as I write this. It’s a little rough around the edges, as you might expect of a cheap place like this—the shower door latch is rusted shut and the walls are daubed with caulk, but I don’t mind much. It reminds me of my old apartment in Santiago, not so much in appearance as much as in size. I find small austere living spaces charming. The simplicity of my surroundings makes me feel a little less tangled inside.
(Besides, as someone that so vocally hates everything about the all-inclusive pigpens that are the resorts, I have to walk the walk. If that means an empty stomach and some sand between my thin sheets, so be it.)