Aterrizaje

I have always wanted to visit Mexico, but never imagined that my first trip to the country would take the form that it did. For one thing, I always imagined I would go with my dad. I wanted to visit Monterrey, where the Mexican side of my family came from and where several relatives still live. We would stay with family or friends and get to see the region from a local’s perspective. What really happened was that Charlie's parents invited us to spend a week with them at a beach resort in Mazatlán where they had timeshare weeks to use. I didn't know much about Mazatlán other than the fact that it was a popular destination for American tourists, similar to Cancún or Cabo San Lucas. While this was very different from what I envisioned my first Mexico trip ­– my “heritage” trip, if you will – would be like, I was rather looking forward to a week of lazing about, getting high doses of vitamin D, and eating all the tacos.

We had a well-stocked mileage account with Delta thanks to our previous travels. For this reason, I chose to book a ludicrously long and arduous itinerary with them. I soon regretted that choice and would be kicking myself even harder on the two-stop return journey the following week. We had decided to use our miles to splurge on first-class tickets since this seemed to make long international flights more bearable. If you can afford it, a little physical comfort goes a long way during what is generally a fairly restrictive and uncomfortable way to travel. Our journey started with a red-eye flight departing Seattle at 12:35 AM destined for Minneapolis, of all places. There we would endure a four-hour layover, followed by another four-hour flight to Mazatlán. The first leg of our journey was on an older plane with surprisingly uncomfortable seats for a first class experience. As a result, we barely slept a wink. The only good thing about the seemingly illogical connection was that we got to eat Shanghai noodles at an airport restaurant called Shoyu. It had been recommended by a musician friend who flew through there frequently and ended it up being the best airport food I have ever had.

By the time the second leg of the flight commenced I was exhausted enough to doze off, only to be periodically shaken awake by turbulence. When my body finally gave up on sleeping, I was disappointed to find that only two of the four hours of flight had elapsed. Soon after, the captain announced that we had crossed into Mexico. I leaned over Charlie to get a glimpse of it out the window and saw the barren brownness of the Sonoran desert, veined with the snaking patterns of dried riverbeds. Later, when Charlie got up from his seat to use the lavatory, I took advantage and occupied his empty space, pressing myself against the window as we approached the low greenish foothills where the Sonora meets the western Sierra Madre. The geological features of this area were magnificent. Dark green trees blanketed even the steepest, most serrated edges of the sierra (which also means “saw” in Spanish, by the way). As we moved deeper into the system, the ridges became pointier and the raised areas more folded over one another like a pleated fabric. Occasionally, and in the remotest of areas, a little village would appear atop one of these seemingly impassible areas, in the tiniest of clearings where the ground was just level enough to press together a few modest dwellings. I tried to imagine what life would be like for those people. I knew that at one point my grandmother had lived in a similar place called Mata de Guaje, a tiny community on the outskirts of Monterrey.

As we neared Mazatlán, the sierra began to lie down into vast expanses of bright green farmland. On the horizon was the shining Pacific Ocean, which looked like a band of deep grayish blue set firmly atop the edge of the land. As the plane descended over the fields in the direction of the runway, I saw fast flashes of tiny wooden huts, farm machinery, and other evidence of occupation.

We landed without incident and were ushered through a painless immigration and customs procedure with the usual humorless staff one encounters during these situations. As soon as we were cleared, we exited and were immediately given a sales pitch by an aggressive but slick timeshare salesperson. We didn’t even realize it until he invited us to give him one hour of our time. We declined and instead proceeded to the lobby to meet our driver, a short, broad and very cheerful man named Juanito. He made sure our documents were in order and inquired as to why I could speak Spanish. When he asked whether Charlie knew any, I told him that he worked in a kitchen and had only learned the bad words. Juanito found this very amusing.

While waiting for a few more passengers on our transport to clear customs, we chatted with a nice couple from Virginia who were staying at the same resort as us, the Mayan Palace. They gave us a few pointers for places to eat and activities. Then another tourist wrangler appeared and led us all outside and onto a large charter bus. Out the window, a jeep full of camouflage-dressed, heavily armed Sinaloa state police sped by.

The drive seemed long, but probably didn’t exceed 40 minutes. I looked out the window the whole time, observing locals going to a fro, analyzing the different types of dwellings and businesses. These varied from brightly painted, well-maintained, gated buildings to falling down wooden sheds draped with holey tarps and cardboard. Smatterings of mostly unintelligible graffiti decorated countless walls. The one spray painted tag that stood out to me read, “SKELETOR”. We even drove by a prison complex that had an unnecessarily long name painted in large black letters on one outward facing stone wall. When literally translated, it read something like, “Center for Carrying Out Legal Punishments against Crimes” and underneath, very simply, “Mazatlán Penitentiary.”

When we finally arrived at the resort, a swarm of bellboys on the cusp of being bellmen, who were dressed in blue guayaberas, came out to greet us. It became immediately obvious that they were trying to pile on the courtesy in hopes of earning tips. We tried to insist on schlepping our own luggage so that we wouldn’t bankrupt ourselves paying for simple things we were able-bodied enough to do. The check-in process was long, but the staff was courteous. One of the bellboys escorted us to the suite we would share with Charlie’s parents on the ninth floor of one of the resorts three buildings.

The lobby, pool area, restaurant, and multiple lounges we passed along the way gave us the impression that we were staying in much nicer place than we would ever try to afford on our own. However, when we exited the elevator on the ninth floor, the property immediately took on a feel of a low- to middle-class high-rise apartment building. Our flat was just around the corner and as soon as the bellboy opened the door, the smell of mildew assaulted my nostrils. This odor is typical of places near the ocean, but I have never stayed in a place where it was quite this strong. The bellboy left and we surveyed the scene. It wasn’t dirty, but all of the flooring and furnishings were so old that they looked dirty anyway. One room had a rock-hard king size bed, which would go to Tony and Elena. The other room was dark and windowless and contained a shabby, deflated twin-size sofa bed with a low trundle that could be pulled out next to it. Since the height of these sleeping surfaces differed by about eight inches, cuddling would be out of the question. There were no sheets either. We contemplated sleeping in separate sections on the marginally more comfortable looking L-shaped couch. Our bigger concern was the lack of accessibility. Charlie’s mother Elena uses a wheelchair and would have a hard time maneuvering through the tight spaces of this flat. We didn’t think Charlie’s parents would be pleased when they arrived.

It was about an hour and a half before the parents got to the resort and we spent much of it sitting on the nice furniture in the lobby, swinging at a mosquito that kept trying to land on us. At one point, a young female staff member with a pith helmet walked by. Her unusual headware caught my attention and I inadvertently stared at her. She noticed me, made eye contact, and then held my gaze for longer than was comfortable. Charlie noticed this and then we discussed whether she was looking at him or me (but it was obviously me). I was totally getting a gay vibe from her.

When Tony and Elena arrived, we exchanged warm greetings and then explained the situation about the room. Charlie’s dad, Tony, went to the desk to try to straighten things out since he had called weeks ahead to specifically request an accessible room with a walk-in shower. Those particular rooms were booked up for the next two weeks, of course, but they managed to secure another that would suffice for the evening. Charlie and I would remain in the originally assigned flat that night and the following day we would consolidate into another suite that was better suited to Elena’s needs.

Once the parents were squared away, we reconvened in the lobby to eat dinner at the resort’s main restaurant. The food was decent, but not as amazing as the price indicated it should be. The service was maddeningly slow for how empty it was and our hunger only augmented our annoyance. It took several suggestive stares from each person at our table to get the waitstaff to bring the bill. Bellies full, we retired to our respective rooms for the evening. Charlie lay down on the rock-hard king size bed with his still-shoed feet hanging off the edge and was snoring within five minutes. Shortly after, I settled into the musty linens for what I hoped would not be a fitful night of back torture.