Not much in life (at least as far as I’m concerned) justifies getting up at dawn. Late last week, however, I did it anyway. I thought there was one good reason to be up at a truly ungodly hour, but there turned out to be two! The unexpected bonus was the view out my bedroom window, which I include below.
The picture doesn’t really capture the utter beauty of the sunrise, but I hope it gives those of you who haven’t yet bought your plane tickets an incentive to start planning your trip!
The real reason for dragging my butt out of bed that day was that Kim and I were heading to the Pacific coast of Oaxaca for a long weekend. The university at which my students are all enrolled had their graduation ceremony this past Friday. Those not graduating got a day off, and as a result, so did I! I asked Kim what she wanted to do, since we had some extra time, and she said, “Let’s go to the beach!” I explained that all the decent beaches were quite far and spending 18-22 hours in a bus for a mere long weekend might not make for a very pleasant expedition. But Kim was determined and decided that we would fly to Puerto Escondido.
This decision, incidentally, was made at about six pm the night before we left. Time for ticket purchases was tight. We slogged through the mud over to the internet place to check ticket availability. Since it is the low season for the beaches, we had no problem. There were plenty of tickets available, but because of the rather last minute nature of the purchase, we had to call rather than book online.
This is where our problems began…
Kim doesn’t speak Spanish, so I had to do the calling, even though she was doing the paying. As a result, everything had to be translated back and forth, which probably didn’t add to the success of the endeavor. In spite of the complicated nature of the communication and the operator’s unwillingness to be amused by these complications, we got everything worked out. Dates, times, seats, etc were chosen, names, addresses, and phone numbers were given, all that was left to do was pay!
So I said to the gentlemen who was unenthusiastically assisting us, “We’ll be using a Visa card…”
“Visa?” He asks.
“Yep.” I say cheerfully.
“Oh, we don’t accept anything but American Express unless you are Mexican. If you are Mexican, we will accept a Visa or Mastercard, but for foreigners, we only accept American Express.”
“HUH?” I say, and turning to Kim, “Do you have an American Express card?”
“A what?” she says, confused.
“They only take American Express,” I mutter, my hand over the phone.
“I don’t! I mean, who ONLY accepts American Express?” she says.
I relay the bad news to the man on the phone, still puzzling over why Mexicana airlines (a not inconsequential international carrier) will only accept American Express from foreigners.
He says, “Well, that is o.k. You can come to the airport by 11 tomorrow morning and pay in cash. But you must pay in cash. I have made a reservation in your name, so give that to them along with the full amount of the ticket in cash, and you can still take this flight.”
I thank him for his “help” (however reluctant), hang up, and relay the information to Kim. We decide we will get up bright and early to catch a bus to Mexico City to deal with this in the morning. After all, the beach beckons…
We pack, head off to bed, and I remember that I haven’t called my usual taxi driver and now it is too late. “Not a big deal,” I decide, “I can just hail one out in the main street tomorrow.” Happily, I drift off to sleep, unaware of the drama in store!
In the morning, after some time with the sunrise, I head up to the main street a couple of blocks from my house to hail a cab. I figure it won’t be too much trouble. It is, after all, a major thoroughfare, and it is rush hour, too! I stand there for quite some time, finally flagging a taxi down. I tell him that I am going to the bus station in Puebla. He doesn’t want to go there, he only wants to do the run in between Tonancintla and Cholula. He takes off. I continue to wait. Finally, after much failed hailing, a second taxi driver pulls over. I explain where I going. He says, “O.K., but I have one more run to make and then I will come get you.”
I say, “My bus is at 8:30, are you sure you can do both.” [Yeah, I know, dumb me, but I’d only had one cup of coffee and it was still early! I thought there would be time.]
He insists there will be no problem. I take his phone number just in case. He swears on his mother’s grave that he will be at my house no later then 8:00 am.
Satisfied, though the tiniest bit nervous, I head back to the house for another cup of coffee and a bit more time contemplating the fading sunrise and still amazing sky. Kim and I kick back in front of the house, feet up on our luggage, and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
At 8:15, I call him.
“I’m coming!!! I’m coming!!!” he shouts without preamble before hanging up on me.
We give him five more minutes and then grab our luggage and head to the main road. Luckily, there is also a 9 am bus that should, barring traffic, get us to Mexico City in time. Hopefully, we can find a taxi quickly. As we round the corner on the side street that leads to the main road, we see a taxi careening towards us. He comes screeching to a halt (as much as one can screech on a dirt road), leaps out of the still-running car, grabs our bags, throws them in the trunk, and leaps back into the driver’s seat yelling, “GET IN!!! GET IN!!! HURRY!!!!!!”
Kim and I climb into the back seat, and I remind him that he was supposed to pick us up at eight and that our bus leaves Puebla in only ten minutes.
“I can make it, I can make it!” He shouts.
(More careening. I’m wishing that I was the sort of person who could find comfort in prayer…)
The taxi’s dashboard is stuffed with good luck charms, pyramids piled on stuffed animals piled on pyramids. I’m afraid they are there because he has repeatedly found himself lacking in good luck while driving. I imagine a scenario where he adds a good luck charm to the dashboard after every accident. I try not to count them while I fumble for my seatbelt.
“So where are you going?” he shouts back.
Once again, I explain that we are going to the bus station in Puebla on 4 Poniente. “The station with the buses to the airport in Mexico City. We have a flight from there. That is why we needed to be on the 8:30 bus.” I explain, hoping to simultaneously clarify and chastise.
“The airport?” he yells. “But the airport is right here in Huehotzingo! Are you going to the airport or the bus!?!?!? Would you just tell me where you want to go?!?!”
I suspect he is deliberately misunderstanding me to dodge the whole “late” issue. We argue back and forth for a bit until I say, “Oh, just take us to the bus station.”
Kim and I lapse into disapproving silence, possibly induced by the exhaust fumes seeping into the back seat of the taxi.
In spite of the fact that it is now past 8:30 and we have no hope of catching the bus, our driver continues at breakneck speed, running every red light he encounters with his horn blaring to warn off the traffic with the legal right of way. During one such incident, as he flies through the intersection, causing cars all around us to come screeching to a halt (yes really, more screeching!), he reaches into his glove compartment and, in a moment of breathtaking optimism, tosses his business card over his right shoulder at us.
“When are you coming back?” he asks as the card flutters into my lap.
“Uh, Sunday sometime.” I respond reluctantly. “But I don’t know when!”
“Well,” he announces, “You just call me! Call me anytime you need a cab, and I will be there to pick you up and take you where you need to go! Any time you want! I am very reliable.”
This last bit is relayed as we come to a halt in front of the bus station, a mere 30 minutes late. Just in the nick of time for the 9 am bus.
I run in to the bus station to buy tickets, leaving him to cheerfully cheat Kim out of 20 pesos in change.
We get on the bus. Sighing happily, I assume that we have had our “story” for the day. We spend the ride discussing the awful things we might do to his business card.
We arrive at the Mexico City airport shortly after 10:30 (no traffic!!!), and head straight for the Mexicana ticket desk. We approach the man. I say, “We have a reservation for today to Puerto Escondido.”
He searches in the computer, shakes his head, and says, “No reservation here, but I have seats. But they [pointing to two women at the next counter] may have cheaper ones. He shouts across the baggage scale to the woman next to him, who is on the phone, “Do you have seats to Puerto Escondido? They want to go to Puerto Escondido today.” She nods, points to the woman next to her who is doing nothing but her nails, covers the mouthpiece of the phone, and hisses what I assume is “Puerto Escondido” at her. We move down two spots, and the woman pleasantly takes all our information. She, too, is unable to find the mysterious reservation, but whatever, she has seats!
She quotes us a price that, amazingly, is $50 less per person! We are so pleased the reservations aren’t in evidence! Even more amazing, she doesn’t blink when we hand her a Visa card attached to Kim’s US address (let alone demand an American Express!)! She processes everything and hands us the paperwork. It is then that I think, “Huh, she never asked us for our return date.” I look at the ticket. Not only is it a one way ticket, but it is a one way ticket to Puerto Vallarta!
I relay the information to Kim. She suggests that this might be a sign that we are meant to go to Puerto Vallarta and not come back. I think maybe not. I think maybe it is just more tramite and am having flashbacks to my day at TELMEX.
I explain to the woman at the ticket desk that we have no interest in visiting Puerto Vallarta, but wouldn’t mind purchasing two round trip tickets to Puerto Escondido returning Sunday. We go through the entire process again. She is surprisingly pleasant about the whole fiasco.
Believe it or not, we did indeed make it to Puerto Escondido exactly when we had intended! We hadn’t quite counted on the pouring rain that greeted us, but enjoyed ourselves immensely in spite of the rather damp beach weather. We checked in to a lovely hotel and chose a very orange room with a deck looking out over the Pacific ocean. We settled in to the porch and spent the afternoon reading, watching the storm over the ocean, and knitting.
The next morning we got up and found that it was still raining. Desperate for coffee, we ran next door to a likely looking restaurant called El Jardin. It turned out to be a superb restaurant with an excellent menu and an espresso machine. The restaurant is owned by a slightly crazy Italian man who provides the entertainment for free. That first morning, we took our seats, and he came dashing up to the table, shouting in English with a thick Italian accent, “What are we going to fix for you today, ladies!”
He withholds the menus. This is not a choice to be made with quiet, solitary reading. No, rather, it requires careful, detailed negotiation. We negotiate my waffles for quite some time. He runs through a long list of all the things that he can put on them, repeatedly informing me that they will be the best waffles I have ever tasted, but they can’t be rushed! It will take some time, but I will remember the waffles for ever. We finally settle on waffles with fresh fruit (though he is distraught when he finds out that I don’t care for papaya, moaning, “And I thought you were perfect!”). I add a cappuccino to my order.
“Ah, a cappuccino!” he exclaims, throwing his hands even wider. “I myself, with my own two hands, will make your cappuccino, and it will be the best cappuccino you have ever had in your life!”
Kim decides to forgo the negotiations and have what I’m having. He promises to make her cappuccino, too. He whips around and relays the information, with much drama and detail, to the long suffering waitress, then dashes towards the cappuccino machine. Unfortunately for me, en route, he spies a couple looking over menus. He pauses for a moment, stunned and, I suspect, horrified that they could choose their food this way, then races over and rips the menus out of their startled hands. New negotiations ensue.
I turn to Kim. “I’m thinking the coffee is going to be a while…”
She laughs and nods. We wait.
Finally, he returns with a single cappuccino. He sets it in front of me with a flourish, insisting I will be amazed, and then dashes off to newly arrived customers daring to look at a menu.
Kim and I look at the coffee, we look at each other, sizing one another up. Who is more desperate for the coffee? Who is likely to win the fight? Will there be blood? The waitress, seeing the impending fight to the death, approaches quickly. “Uhm, did you order two coffees?”
We nod.
She takes a deep breath, “I’ll take care of it…”
She walks across the restaurant and stands just out of reach of his madly flailing arms, waiting for him to draw breath. When the inevitable pause comes, she darts in and reminds him of the other coffee.
“Oh yes!” he exclaims, and he dashes back to the coffee maker, leaving his latest customers in mid-order.
Eventually, we get and finish our coffee and waffles, leave an extra big tip for the waitress, and head out. We pass the day pleasantly enough, sneaking in a bit of exploring when the rain lets up for about an hour. At dinner time, it is pouring again, and so we head back to the same restaurant.
We sit, he arrives, we go through our negotiations. He approves of our choices. He says affectionately, “Ah, you girls, I can trust you! You do not order boring food! No, you order lovely, good food!” He hands the menus back to us, as if passing off a sacred trust. As he does, he pauses. He looks at me. He says, “But sweetheart, tell me one thing!”
“Yes?” I ask nervously.
“Today, it rains all day! Very romantic, but not so good for the beach.”
“Well, yes,” I agree.
“Then how, where,” he asks, throwing his arms even wider, “DID YOU GET A SUNBURN!?!?!?”
Before we can answer that we too have been wondering just the same thing, he dashes off to intercept another order across the restaurant. People, apparently, who he does not trust with the menu.
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