Warner and I left Atlanta yesterday morning and arrived in Cancun at 11:30 am. From the airport, we went to Isla Mujeres by ferry where the warm breeze and beautiful view were only slightly marred by the presence of two older, many-times divorced men sitting behind us singing the “white men’s blues” the whole way over. We didn’t know which was more offensive – their hatred for their ex-wives or their love for George W. Bush and Richard M. Nixon, whom they deemed misunderstood by the nation and the press. That song of women, their boy-toys, and the rights of old white men, was almost all forgotten when we stepped off the ferry in Isla Mujeres, dodged the touts, and dragged our suitcases through the brick streets to find our hotel, Xbulu-Ha. We met the maid, Lupita, were read the rules – “no scandalous behavior” and "no blood stains", left our winter clothes behind and headed off to Picu’s for fish tacos. These were delicious; Warner especially loved the octopus. We enjoyed the first of what I hope will be many delicious orders of guacamole.
After that, we went through the town, made a detour at an abandoned beach resort on the gulf side of the island, remarked on the constant construction of elaborately cut bricks – and watched a man as he had to discard several missed cuts.
When we got to Playa Norte, we promptly stretched out on chaises longes. I went for a swim, Warner read about Hinduism, and at some point, as the sun began to sink below the horizon, we realized that my watch had stopped hours before.
It was a good sign, and we decided that whatever time it was,
we were ready for our next meal.
We headed off to La Lomita ("little hill"), a local restaurant serving comida “muy rica y muy tipica." We sat at a table outside and watched the cats and dogs that ran through the street, as well as the people on various eccentric means of transportation. After finishing an extraordinary ceviche and the “filete islena” – a marinated, baked fish with vegetables, we went on another stroll through town.
We stopped for a lemonade at Manana, the hippy café and did some more people watching.
It was a successful first day in Mexico, and we sang no white-man’s blues.