Mexit, Part 1 of 2

This is part 1 of 2 of our Mexican vacation, also known as Mexit.

View upon arrival.

It's Tuesday, and we arrive at the hotel, which we picked in part because it doesn’t have television, so clearly this isn’t a multi-million-dollar all-inclusive resort. And the point of this vacation is to experience a little bit of Mexico’s culture, so we’re excited about staying at a small, family-owned place. Instead of being shown where the 18 restaurants, the spa, the golf course, and the Maui Jim sunglasses shop are located, we are given delightful tour with helpful instructions that include:

• Those are the spider monkeys--please don’t feed them. I resist the urge to ask their names, but I silently christen the three wide-eyed spider monkeys staring down at me Snap, Crackle, and Pop.
• Here’s the bottled water, and you can always ask for more, or refill it from the filtration system in the lobby. I then explain to Chris that this means that the bottled water is also what we should use to brush our teeth. The first time I brush my teeth, I wet my toothbrush with bottled water, then immediately run it under the tap. Dammit! I try to think back to AP Biology to best determine how to disinfect my toothbrush. I’m sure “douse it with more bottled water, then wrap it in a hand towel for a few minutes” was not one of the preferred methods, but it’s what I did. I have not died yet.
  
• Throw all paper in the waste basket. Again, I spell it out for Chris: we can’t flush toilet paper because of the septic system. He clarifies this with me to make sure he heard correctly. I point out the small bathroom trash can with a lid and a garbage bag, which is emptied daily. Chris eyes me suspiciously.
• Oh, and by the way, there are jaguars.

This is Snap.  Or maybe Crackle or Pop.

With newfound appreciation for American sanitation and animal control, we head to the small bar for lunch. I am thrilled to be greeted by Jesus. (Bartender Jesus IS the best Jesus.) He pours me some Don Julio on the rocks, and shows me he can also wiggle each of his ears independently. I respond by showing him I can roll my tongue. Who needs a common language when you can do stupid human tricks?

Thank you, Jesus.

Jesus also notices that by Day 3, I’m exclusively drinking bottled water, and pulls me aside, and in hushed tones, genuinely asks if I’m okay. I feel like I should make some sudden shocking revelation worthy of his concern, like “don’t tell anyone, but an Angel of the Lord visited me in a dream to tell me that I am with His child, and I’m not sure if the Savior likes pina coladas.” 

But the uninteresting truth is that I have developed a cold, which leads me to the fact that high school and college language classes have completely failed me.  For instance, I can have the following conversations in French and Portuguese:

• Would you like to form a rock band? I would like to form a rock band, and, in fact, find this preferable to studying.
• Do you want to go to the disco, or do you want to play checkers?
• The butter, it is expensive.

Everyone likes to complain that “what they should really teach you in high school is personal finance, and how to use Excel, and whatever the hell ‘escrow’ is.” And all of that is true. But what they should really teach you is how to ask for pseudoephedrine, in Spanish, French, German, and Italian. And look, if you never get a cold in a foreign country, you can at least have a fulfilling career making meth for the mafia or one of the cartels.

I have no pseudoephederine and no way to ask for it or even mime it. I talk to the local Mexican doctor via phone, and based on my descriptions of my symptoms, he tells me I need Tylex. I assume Tylex is Mexican Dayquil and not the bathroom cleaner of my childhood, although I guess they both kill germs. So I thank him (en Espanol!) and the helpful lady at the front desk says she can call the farmacia, if I’d like.

I would like.  I'd like this even more than going to the disco or playing checkers.

She calls, but the pharmacy doesn’t pick up the phone that night, which is just as well, because I look up Tylex and it’s a flu medicine with Codeine in it. Aaaaaand I’m allergic to Codeine. In fairness to my post-secondary education, I was taught how to say “I am allergic to fish” in two other languages, and I could easily substitute the word Codeine. But begs the question, why fish? I’m not allergic to fish, and seriously, is that a common allergy? Wouldn’t it be better to teach kids how to say “I’m allergic to peanut butter?”

Je suis allergic a beurre de cacahuete.

Hmmm, turns out I do know how to say that I’m allergic to peanut butter. Fine, high school, fine. You did teach me something after all. Even if it wasn’t how to disinfect a toothbrush with materials commonly found in a Mexican bungalow.

The bungalow in question.

Okay, back to my cold. By harnessing the power of the internet, I determine that I need Tabcin, which is actually the equivalent of Mexican Dayquil. And I message Debbie and Greg who are arriving the next day, and tell them to please bring me some Backup American Dayquil, because God only knows if the pharmacy will answer the phone this time. Which, surprisingly, they do. They then promise to deliver the Tabcin to the hotel for 180 pesos, which I agree to, because it’s not like I have any other choice. The Tabcin, it is expensive.  Unless I can teach Snap, Crackle, and Pop how to run errands, or ride a jaguar in to town, I'm going to have to pay for delivery.

How do you feel about instructing the monkeys to get pharmaceuticals?

While I’m lamenting the fact that I’m spending $60 on Mexican Dayquil, I learn that the exchange rate is no longer 3 pesos to the dollar, like it was the first time I went in Mexico in the 90s, but now 21 pesos to the dollar. 

As my teacher sister says: “Reading gives us information!” 

I now feel foolish, yet elated. I can have medicine (even Codeine!) delivered to my dwelling for the low, low, price of $8ish dollars, so I immediately start plotting how to get a farmacia located near my house and/or place of business. At this point, I also realize that the Don Julio tequila on the rocks that I thought cost $20, actually costs $3, and I start to wonder what the hell I’ve been doing on the phone with actual medical professionals, when there is $3 tequila to be had.

So that’s what we did the first day and a half when we weren’t just sitting on the beach: got some cold medicine, didn’t die from drinking the water, had some tequila, and found Jesus at the bar. 

I hope he’ll forgive me, because I accidentally flushed the toilet paper.