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Amy Invades Central America


As not all of you are aware, I decided to head south south of the border to Mexico a mere week or so after rolling in from my road trip (or the “Amy Attacks America” trip as Tremaine so lovingly coined it). I wrote the following on a white beach on an island called Isla Muyeres off the coast of Cancun (presently I’m typing this in my cold apartment overlooking a snow-packed park) and have decided to share it with y’all…….

Sara (“Take It All” Stasiuk) and I have been in Isla Muyeres 8 days now (leaving today) and, suffice it to say, we did as much “damage” to this little island as two nutty Canucks know how… The drama, of course starts before we even get to Mexico. Upon checking our bags at the Winnipeg airport, the customer service agent notifies me in polite airline-ese that I cannot get on the plane with an expired passport and no birth certificate. I very quickly feel my high-strung excitement morphing into high-strung anxiety. Thankfully, I am told that a lawyer makes daily/weekly appearances to the airport to “help” out poor saps like me by charging $40 for a letter of notary. Three words for you- bless the ambulance-chasers (sorry, Scotty, I know you would have done it for me for free). Seeing as my ticket was non-refundable, I had to restrain myself from hopping all over Joe Q. Lawyer and kissing his Aramis-balmed face.

As they call our seat numbers to board, Sara considers leap-frogging her way to the plane but rationalizes (?) it would be too hard on the knees. I concur but try to convince her to do so regardless because it would satisfy two of The Three Tiers (it wouldn’t be good for her but it would be entertaining for herself and entertaining to others- see previous travel e-mail if confused). She doesn’t take the bait and we stroll onto the plane like (seemingly) normal people.

After what seems like 4 days and 3 nights, we arrive in Cancun. And after what seems like 3 days and 2 nights, we arrive at Porto Juares where we have to catch the boat to the island. Yet, after what SEEMED like a modest consumption of alcohol at the port restaurant in the company of an older French couple from Saskatchewan, we manage to miss the boat. We proceed to console ourselves portside while waiting for the next boat with lime margaritas provided free (I only had to minorly compromise my dignity for them) of charge by the waiter, Pablo. They must make their margarita stronger in Mexico because I found myself eagerly following the compulsion to entertain the portside workers with my cartoonish ways. They couldn’t understand a freakin’ work I was saying but they were killing themselves regardless.

A half hour boat ride later we find ourselves drunk on an island with no hotel reservations at midnight. Like chicks following the mama duck, we tag alongside our honorary parents (the French couple) to their hotel and end up scoring a room from Salvadore, a randy security guard who feels the need to hug us repeatedly.

Now settled, we head to the bar, The male attention borders on well-meaning intrusion. Everyone’s positive and friendly (the island is quite touristy), though, and we decided we’re going to dig this island (perhaps, literally- who knows?) We decide it’s time for a moonlit stroll on the beach, however, failing to take into account the “security” outside the waterfront hotels.

“Wild dog on dress!” Sara semi-frantically exclaims as I turn around to see a medium-sized dog biting a sizable hole in her sundress. Oddly, I’m calm in these type of situations.

“Sara, just relax. They (there was a pack of them) are just as afraid of us as we are of them.”

She extricates herself from jaws belonging to the hound from hell and we walk away giggling nervously. “Sara, you know that thing I just said about them being afraid of us?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t mean a fucking word of it.”

The scenario keeps us in hysterics until we pass out from jet lag (or alcohol-induced fatigue or both) Our first full day and we are pumped. Like a bulimic at Robin’s Donuts, we devour the wonderfully humid air. The hot sun feels incredible on our pale Canadian skin. We decide to breakfast at a bistro but accidentally enter the establishment through the “window”. Not cool. All hopes of being mistaken for sophisticated European tourists on sight were thrown out the window (you don’t have to laugh at the lame pun).

We make our way to the beach- our home away from home away from home for the next 8 days. We notice topless sunbathers and decide that we are going to leave this activity to the Europeans. That decision lasts for about a day and we choose to “set” our “puppies free” (a lovely saying stolen from a good-looking yet morally reprehensible American sport fisherman we met) for the rest of our time here. When in Rome…

We make friends wherever we go from all over the world. The ambience- on the beach, at the restaurants and bars- is so laid-back and delectable, Sara and I design a scale to measure how much “damage” we can do to certain things/people called the Damage Ratio Scale (DRS).

(DEFINTION) damage-an obscure form of defilement where noone/nothing gets hurt/wrecked per se but is affected permanently.

Our first undertaking was going to involve the two of us riding around on a giant tricycle that you could rent on the beach but the owners of said bike told us if the winds were high we could get blown to sea. This possibility kept us entertained throughout our stay- so much so we didn’t even have to attempt the bike.

We go for another night on the town with some fellow Canadians to a place where ladies drink free every night. Sara and I have about 6 pina coladas and strawberry dacqueries each but we just ain’t feelin’ groovy. We choose not to think that our tolerance has become indestructible and go with the theory that the drinks were made weak. Yeah, that’s it.

We find our Bar Italia (our watering hole in the ‘Peg) on the beach- a hut consisting of swings for chairs surrounded by hammocks and facing a beach volleyball court. Happy hour (dos pour uno) lasts from 3-5pm everyday and as Sara and I settle back with our banana dacqueries checking out the tanned volleyballers, we toast to “Paradise”. However, I do believe it is a case in which one must be careful what they wish for. Until this trip, I never thought I’d percieve turning down multiple suitors as a hassle. “No, sorry, I don’t feel like dancing right now.”

“No, I’m afraid I won’t be able to swim with the dolphins with you. I appreciate the offer, though.”

“Supper on your boat? I’m not sure. I think I may be busy. Sorry.”

“No, I ‘m not quite ready for marriage.”

There was this one man who was, fortunately, hanging over Sara one night at the bar. I call him “Negative New Yorker” or “NYN”. Dude just wouldn’t go away. I asked these much nicer-looking guys to help us out by monopolizing our attention and edging NYN out. I guess they didn’t feel this was within their capacity but telling NYN that we were lesbian lovers was. We got rid of NYN but the “news” spread like wildfire around the bar. My choice of words relaying the situation to Sara was slightly disturbing upon reflection, amy: “They found out we’re lesbians.”

sara: “‘FOUND’ out?!!

I’m sure it was the margaritas talking…..

Our hotel was nice- only $25 Cdn for a double/ night. We were right on the water and close to the busy strip but not too close. I was thinking the common belief of most Mexican accomodations being roach-infested was hokum until one night Sara and I came home to find a giant black something scurrying under MY bed. Sara and I ain’t afraid of much but unidentifiable giganta Mexi-bugs would top our lists of phobias if we had one (a list, that is, not a giant bug). Thankfully, “Blackey” didn’t make an encore appearance. Our prayers or, at least, my prayers were answered when we met two cute English guys over breakfast. We snorkelled with them, drank at the beach bar with them, ate a relatively expensive dinner with them, did yoga on the pier with them, and sat on the beach/listened to Pink Floyd/looked at the stars with them. I’m purposely leaving out some detail because it’s not that kind of e-mail but I can say I FINALLY have someone to stay with if I ever visit London (reminder to self- must check that off of My Life’s Things To Do List).

I also felt it necessary to entertain the Brits in my cartoonish ways but, this time, the audience could understand what I was saying (barely). I’ve also learned to master a Sheffield accent perfectly (no, not on My Life’s Things To Do List).

After a brief spell of getting locked in my room (Sara had the key and you needed it to get OUT) and a near case of hyperventilation, I bring us, dear readers, to the present.

Wonderful trip. Wonderful vacation. Wonderful break (from unemployment). Next week- London. Ha, joking.

Have a great day, everyone!

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