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 Travel & Outdoors | March 2006 
Two Trips Find Same Spot, Different Worlds
 Rob Borsellino - Des Moines Register
| | Dreams of the Yucatan - Moser |
In the spring of 1980, I spent a week on the beach in the Yucatan, on the east coast of Mexico.
It was a big deal for me, my first trip out of the United States, my first time in the Third World — unless you count visiting my cousin Tony in Jersey.
A lot of what I saw, heard, ate and drank that week stayed with me over the years.
Last week I went back, and I was curious to see how things had changed.
It didn't take long.
We got off the plane in Cancun, went through customs, got our bags, and there was a woman greeting the tourists. She was handing out Pizza Hut coupons. Buy a one-topping at the regular price and get a second topping free.
I took the coupon, smiled and said "gracias " — using about 80 percent of my Spanish.
So things were off to a good start.
We got in the cab, and in the hour drive between the airport and the hotel we passed villages, beaches, little roadside markets. We saw new homes being built, workers in the open fields and folks cleaning up after a hurricane.
We also saw McDonald's, Burger King, Blockbuster and a huge billboard advertising a Wal-Mart Supercenter. So it didn't seem as foreign as I remembered. It was like the Mexicans were reaching out, welcoming us.
Over the next seven days, I noticed a few more things to make us feel at home.
There was the music.
The last time I was there, you couldn't go an hour without running into some guy in a sombrero with a guitar in his hands.
For $2 he'd dance around and sing "La Bamba." Give him $4 and he'd do "La Bamba" and "Cielito Lindo." Throw him $5 and he'd shut up and leave you alone.
We didn't see any of those guys on this trip, but there were other things to look at and listen to. On Saturday night, we went to a see a Michael Jackson show. There was a Jackson look-alike on stage jumping around, lip-synching "Thriller" and "Billie Jean," moon-walking, wildly waving his left arm while his right hand was embedded in his crotch.
Not as sweet and engaging as some local guy dancing and singing "La Cucaracha," but it was a nice evening.
Then there was the alcohol.
The last time I was there, I remember sitting in a neighborhood bar, drinking shots of tequila, trying to fit in.
At one point I noticed that the liquor bottles had something in them — worms.
That's what you get when you go into a cheap bar trying to save a buck. Then I found out it wasn't even tequila. It was mezcal, a liquor that's locally brewed.
So what's with the worms?
Nobody at the bar was in any condition to explain. So I just waited about 15 years until the Internet was invented and I looked it up:
"The worm is supposed to endow special powers. The addition of the worm to bottles of mezcal dates from the early 1950s and the eating of the worm is often made into a ritual of machismo, a young man's rite of passage. However, the worm isn't particularly traditional; it's a modern marketing ploy, a gimmick."
This time around I didn't see anybody swallowing worms or even drinking mezcal. Half the folks my age are in recovery and drinking virgin pi–a coladas. The other half are traveling with the family and don't want to get wasted in front of the kids and grandkids. So they're ordering user-friendly drinks with names like Pink Lady, Limonada Electrico and Fuzzy Navel — mostly fruit juice with a half-shot of something.
There was one other thing I noticed on this trip. A lot of women on the beach were making sure the upper part of their bodies was tan. That could have been going on the last time I was there, but I missed it. That mezcal is powerful.
So this trip went on for seven days, and I was impressed with how this place has grown, but it hasn't lost its charm.
I didn't want to leave. I was thinking about taking a plane to south Texas and paying some guy with a van to slip me back over the border. Maybe get a job at a meatpacking plant in Puerto Vallarta. |
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