Ramblings
[Gray Line airport shuttle, Cancun, Mexico]
[excerpt from my diary] “There will be no sleeping on this trip,” the two college boys sitting behind me on the shuttle say. How very different a trip they’ll have compared to me. The airport smells like that of Taipei…it was welcoming. Chatted with the drivers of the shuttles. I brought out my rusty Spanish; it’s been two years since I last needed it. I’m surprised at how much I remember, enough to carry a conversation, almost. Many of the vocab words escape me, but the men are patient and offer me the correct words when I cannot remember. They asked for my age. One is 30; he asked if he looked old. Truth be told, he did, but I’m not going to tell him that. Some of what []’s bugged me about has sunk in. Despite it being balmy and warm out, I do not take my long sleeve v-neck off, as it would leave me with only a tank top on, and I do not know the lay of the land nor how safe it would be to show that much skin. I am mildly concerned with leaving my duffel in the open trunk of the shuttle, as we wait for more passengers. I am sitting in front, perhaps thought of as the best seat, and offered to me by the nice men. I am a novelty to them, I’m sure, an Asian girl from NY speaking Spanish. I am reminded of how irritating American tourists are; a mother yells into her cell in the background, complaining that there’s no one around to take her to her hotel. Classic American haughtiness. I am ashamed to be associated with them. Other shuttles have come and gone, filled up faster than mine. What’s the use of not checking in a bag if I don’t get to reap the benefits of not waiting with the crowds? The guy checking me in was surprised at how little I had packed….They’ve shut the trunk. I seek to put on my seatbelt. The buckle is broken. This bodes well. I feel naked without a seatbelt on. The lights on the road, their color and the way the road curves reminds me yet again of Taiwan. There’s a number of hotels, all next to each other, on the side of the road. It feels like the strip (Las Vegas) meets Bevery Hills. We must be near a sewer because it sure smells here. We arrive at Omni Cancun Hotel and Villa. I must confess, our arrival is coupled with no small measure of relief on my part. We had driven past a police car, who shined his flashlight at me. I worry my not having a seatbelt will get me in trouble. He’s stopped a white van that looks just like the one I’m in, minus the decals stating it is a “Gray Line” shuttle. Do the decals save us? [end excerpt]
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