“Do you boys like Mexico?”

Mexico. Land of tequila and tacos, sombreros and siestas. Sun and sea, Sol and Corona. Relaxing. All-inclusive. Terrifying.

Last week I completed my first (and probably last) ever genuine “holiday” type vacation in Cancun, where I did not do any of the following:
- wonder which hostel I should book for tomorrow
- decide if I should eat the dodgy street food
- wear the same jeans for seven days in a row
- avoid eye contact with strangers
- visit a new part of town every day

I’ve been thinking about this, and I want to be very clear that while I am critical of the notion of “all-inclusives” for myself, I found both our resort and Mexico generally to be beautiful, with wide-open skies, clear water, lovely flora and fauna (mangroves, birds, coconut palms, rat-pigs, etc.).

Caveat: I booked this trip with the understanding that it was less a “vacation” and more a “scientific experiment” to prove the hypothesis that all-inclusive resort vacations where the main attraction is the beach are not for me. This carries on the tradition of an earlier experiment where I proved that Danielle Steel was not for me by reading one of her books. That way, when I said “Danielle Steel writes trash”, I was speaking from a position of authority, not talking out of my ass.

Here’s a summary of my core problems with resort life:

1. I hate feeling trapped.
2. I hate not using my brain.
3. I hate being coddled.

The trapped feeling was the result of many factors. We were issued scary bracelet-manacle-handcuff things (see below) that we were told we had to wear the entire time we were at the resort ON PAIN OF DEATH. Okay, maybe not death per se, but without it I would not get fed, as the awful White Bracelet of Power was the only thing indicating that I was a human being who had paid the Fiesta Hotel Group oodles of money and was thus worthy of food and shelter.

Upon removal, bracelet-monitoring resort robots would instantly detect my naked wrist, relegate me to “refuse” status in their tiny databases and bodily remove me to fend for myself on the Yucatan peninsula. I hated it, and it kept scratching me when I rolled over on it in my sleep.

Remoteness was a factor. Being 2 hours outside of Cancun and 40 minutes from Playa del Carmen meant the only convenient thing to visit near the resort was a massive highway. The one time we took the “Colectivo” bus into town, we didn’t spend much time there. The transition from resort-vacation to adventure-vacation mode was too abrupt for comfort, and my Scottish self loathed the idea of paying for dinner twice: the pre-paid buffet at the resort was wrapped in dollar-signs in my mind.

Yes, I visited the ancient ruins of Chichen-Itza. It was interesting, and swimming in a cenote (freshwater underground pool) before walking around the ruins was probably the highlight of my trip. But seeing the appalling living conditions of the Mayan villages we passed along the bus route stole some of the glory from the ancient pyramids.

It would probably be healthy for me to stop using my brain more often. To let the old grey cells idle in neutral, let the meat-CPU cool down every now and then and just meditate on the sea. But I simply can’t turn it off. Drinking works to a point, but to stop myself from spending hours meditating on the economic plight of the Mayan natives would involve a dawn-to-dusk commitment to alcohol that I am not willing to endure; there’s too heavy a penalty the next day when the Hangover Fairy visits.

Yes, I brought books. I finished three while I was there. But “all-inclusive” does not include room service, just a minibar full of pop and beer. So, instead of lounging about in the morning enjoying a hot cup of tea (Mexico’s worst failing: they serve LIPTON, gasp, horror!) and a biscuit while reading in my PJs, I had to suit up for the loud, bright, human-infested buffet as soon as I wanted food in the morning. Wireless Internet is not available in the rooms, so if you want to check your email you have to go to the lobby and sit amongst drunk, smoking louts (which explains a lot about why this blog post is being written a week late). Not my idea of luxury.

I think the biggest problem I had was with the society on the resort, or lack thereof. The people flaunting their bikini-bodies on the sand, playing beach volleyball, and lounging by the pool soaking up the sun’s rays are not of my nerdy, book-loving, computer-addicted tribe. They are sun-worshippers; the sun strikes fear in my heart. “Put on some SPF!” I wanted to yell at the young woman slathering herself in tanning oil. “You’ll have melanoma before you’re 45!”

Every day when I tried, against all reason, to run 5km in the sweaty, sticky heat, part of me wanted to leave the perfectly-manicured, almost video-game perfect grounds, and dart off into the jungle, to see some “real” Mexico, and maybe meet a Mexican who would not make a self-deprecating joke about themselves, but actually converse with me about something *real*.

My final issue, not enjoying “coddling”, is really the nail in the coffin of why I should not go to an all-inclusive again until I am either a baby-mama seeking respite from the daily grind of housework or a very old lady. The whole point of these getaways is to be pampered. To have unseen staff clean your room and launder your towels, make your food and wash your dishes. It’s creepy; I don’t like it.

The buffet encourages excessive consumption of foods you would never normally eat. To add insult to overindulgence, I couldn’t enjoy my forbidden hash browns because of the morbidly obese man wearing a NASA shirt standing directly behind me in queue, heaping six of the same on his overburdened plate – an instant reminder of the evils that result from gorging on the buffet.

I think the trip could have been improved considerably if I had gone with a large group, or if I was brave enough to try SCUBA diving, or if I was a better drinker and could choke back more than 3 glasses of margarita without wanting to hurl.

No, but seriously, go to Mexico. See the friendly rat-pigs. They’re so cute! Look!

Baking, Shucking & Mudding on the East Coast

This weekend D & I went on a 4 day mini-break to visit friends in Sackville, New Brunswick.

When I put the word out on my Facebook that I was heading to the East Coast for my first proper trip to NB (stepping off the cross-Canada VIA train for 15 minutes in Moncton to get snacks at the Sobey’s doesn’t count), I was deluged by eager recommendations of things to do. Here’s what we managed to squeeze in to four days, and what will have to wait for next time:

Achievement Unlocked
✓ – go to Sappyfest music festival
✓ – visit Hopewell Rocks and take photos
✓ – drive over the Confederation Bridge to PEI
✓ – get sand and mud in your toes at the beach
✓ – eat, eat, eat (I also baked, baked, baked)
✓ – go for a run and breathe lots of fresh salt air
✓ – order a milkshake at Mel’s Tea Room in Sackville
✓ – eat garlic fingers with donair sauce
✓ – build a bonfire at Dorchester Cape (bonfire yes, Cape no)
✓ – drink a pint at Ducky’s
✓ – have lobster in Shediac (lobster yes, Shediac no)
✓ – eat oysters from Malpeque Bay, P.E.I. (in Summerside)
✓ – speak French to an Acadian at “la plage”

Next Time, Gadget
✗ – see Sackville’s haunted schoolhouse on Schoolhouse Road
✗ – walk through the Mount Allison campus
✗ – go whale watching at St. Andrews
✗ – lunch in Grand Falls
✗ – drive to Cap d’Or in Nova Scotia for pie at the lighthouse

New Brunswick was obligingly sunny and hot while we were visiting, and the fresh air was delicious. Despite a 5am wake-up call on Friday to get to the airport, we were revived by a lunchtime boat full of fish at Pink Sushi on the main strip in Moncton, before driving to Sackville to drop our bags.

As soon as we arrived the Megaphones entertained us with some playful backyard wrestling (by all accounts a popular sport in NB), assisted by Beta, a large furry muppet masquerading as a dog. Sunshine and sleeplessness overwhelmed me; I was in dire need of a nap. However, when you’re staying with a family who have nicknamed themselves “the Megaphones”, you have to expect some audio turbulence when anyone in the house is awake. If an airplane at takeoff is 180 decibels, and a chain saw is 110, I’d say the average volume that the Black Eyed Peas were played on the rockin’ stereo in the kitchen was a solid 95dB. Boom boom pow, indeed.

As darkness fell, it was declared time to migrate downtown for Sappyfest, Sackville’s summer indie music festival. After priming at Ducky’s, we ordered some incredibly chocolatey shakes in Mel’s Tea Room that tasted like Nestle Quik with a splash of milk thrown in to water the syrup down slightly, then ambled across the street in the rain to hear some great amateur rap at Uncle Larry’s.

Saturday morning dawned clear and beautiful, so D and I strapped on the running gear, harnessed the dog and hit the rural backroads for a nice 6km in the sunshine. The only people we saw on the whole run were two old guys sawing logs in a wooded lot. I’ve never breathed so deeply in my whole life.

The afternoon was spent on a road trip with P & L across the billion-dollar Confederation Bridge between NB and PEI. Because we had a 5-year-old along for the ride it was IMPERATIVE that we stop for ice-cream, so we eschewed Charlottetown for Summerside. Salt-water taffy and Green Gables potato chips were bought as souvenirs at the brightly-painted wooden tourist wharf, then we settled down for some freshly-shucked Malpeque oysters and a pint each of locally brewed Sir John A. Honey Wheat and Island Red on an ocean-side patio. Rumour has it that oysters and other shellfish should be eaten only in months with an “r” in them (note: August has no “r”) but I found nothing to complain about.

When we got home, everyone else was up for an evening of Sappyfest but I felt like staying in and finding my inner domestic goddess, so the Megaphones headed out to hear some music while I relaxed and raided the kitchen for baking materials. At 2am when the crowd got home, there was a huge vat of chili-without-chili and 12 piping hot “from scratch” peach-raspberry custard tarts waiting on the stove.

On Sunday the delightful C drove us out to see Hopewell Rocks, which was well worth the $8 admission fee. We arrived just before absolute low tide and walked along a shady green path to the view point overlooking the vast red mud flats below, where kids were frolicking and sliding about, looking like they had just emerged from the primordial ooze. C was in awe of how far out the water retreats in the Bay of Fundy, since last time he’d visited the tide was further in.

We took the metal staircase down to the seabed and walked over the rocks and seaweed, which I think is called dulse, and D squished his toes about in the muck (see video below). It was humbling to see where the curve of the rock showed the high point of the water, and to shudder at the thought of being trapped on the floor of the ocean when the surf started to roll inexorably towards the rocks.

Sunday night we ate criminally expensive lobster (note: don’t buy them cooked at Sobey’s, it’s highway robbery) and had a night at home with red wine and a crackling bonfire in the backyard. I went insane and decided to spend the evening engaged in a bake-a-thon, starting with Jalapeno-cheddar beer bread, followed by pecan butter tarts, lemon curd raspberry tarts, and then prepping the yeast-dough for butter croissants and pain au chocolat to be made the next morning. All from scratch. It was a bit of a baking rampage, to be honest. I was making pastry like it was going out of style.

Monday morning found me exhausted and hungover, and everyone else in the house relatively perky. I finished rolling out and baking the pastries, and then joined the convoy bound for the beaches in Acadian country, specifically la Plage de l’Aboiteau in Cap-Pelé. We went, we played with crabs and got sand in our hair, walked on fluorescent green seaweed that was soft like hair underfoot, got our toes nibbled by wee shrimpy creatures, then scoffed down some fried clams before taking A to the airport and D & I back home to pack our bags. Then it was off to downtown Moncton for a bit of Mexican food and some afternoon drinks to brace for the long night’s flying with a stopover in Montreal. And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming.