[If you just staggered in (I know I did), I’m recounting a recent trip to Mexico in painful detail. Gird your loins (I know I did).]

AeroMexico was different. I’m fully aware that Mexico is supposed to be the second-rate, backward country, at least according to everyone I’ve interrogated in the US. Well, now that I think about it, I never did ask anyone anything about Mexico. We said we were going there, and everyone immediately blurted out that we’d certainly be slain within minutes of touching down. Persons who vacation in the Dominican Republic, where the murder rate is twice that of Saint Louis MO, and which is separated from Haiti by a very sturdy dotted line on a map, a place where people are currently barbecuing each other, expressed concern for our safety.

There are approximately 130 million people in Mexico, and I figured they must be in good cardiovascular shape, what with all that running for their lives 24/7. Or not. I had long since researched the city we were visiting, Merida, the capital city of Yucatan. It is the safest city in north or south America, except Quebec City. And Canada is a me-too America, and lies about their crime rate, I’ll bet. We live in about the safest place in the US, western Maine, and 18 people were shot dead last year for no reason, about a 45-minute drive from my house. I’ll chance it in Merida, thanks.

We had been harried for bits of paper and electronica at various times on the first leg. Almost everyone, especially us, was confused about exactly what was necessary to proceed. Of course I had been made to remove various articles of clothing, and submit to more x-rays than Tutankhamen’s mummy to get on board in the first place, mostly by women in the Portland, Maine airport with architectural hairdos and oddly placed earrings. It was 19 degrees when we started out, but somehow or another it became necessary for my wife to be made to walk barefoot for part of the boarding process. I was allowed to retain my socks, which stuck to the floor a bit and slowed me down, but we managed it.

We swapped from Delta to AeroMexico in Atlanta. Of course the ground personnel for AeroMexico spoke Spanish in machine-gun streams over the loudspeaker at the gate. Then they followed it up with the same messages in faultless English, which is more than I can say for the crew from Portland to Atlanta. English is now the official second language in America.  No one has a first.

We walked up to the counter. We were simply pointed towards a stripe on the floor in front of a camera. A handsome, genial man dressed like he both owned the airline and worked there pressed a button while I was still trying to adjust my non-Mexican-standard height. I could see that only the lower half of my face was visible in the viewfinder. I ended up seeing my face in the screenshot morphed into a sideways, Popeye expression. The man smiled and waved me through, no ticket, no passport, no muss, no fuss, because facial recognition works even when you’re inadvertently pretending to score with Olive Oyl with your sleep-deprived mug, although no one asked for any sort of performance. Everything in my phone had been tracking my every step so Facebook or some other loathsome outfit could show me an ad I’d never see but someone could be charged for. AeroMexico says this is the 21st century so why don’t we use the data we have already and this camera to make your life incrementally less difficult.

So we get on the AeroMexico plane, and the four linebackers have been replaced with Miss Mexicos. I’m not sure if they were from consecutive years or not. I’m not that nosy. We asked in halting castellano when we would get a tourist pass, a semi-visa that you need in addition to your passport. We had been whooshed onto the plane with no review of anything, and worried that we might have missed a step somewhere along the line. They replied in halting ingles not to worry because it was all handled for us, and thought we were a little silly, I’ll bet. Norteamericanos. Sheesh.

I looked around and the plane had four seats across, two on each side of the aisle, instead of the cattle car 737 we had arrived on. My legs fit under the seat this time. There were no electronic screens, which was a blessing beyond description for my tired mind. The pilot came on and said we were flying on an Embraer jet, a 190 I think, instead of the usual Boeing Door-Shedder-Shoulder-to-Shoulder-5000. I thought Embraer only made private jets for diplomats and gun runners, who share similar job descriptions and taste in the finer things in life. The plane had twice as much horsepower and half the decibels of the last one, and we flew at a height above the earth that made me think of John Glenn passing by. There was nary a ripple in the air up there, and the seat belt only kept you from slouching, not striking your head on the cabin ceiling from time to time, which is how the Delta pilots amuse themselves, I think.

[To be continued. Thanks for reading and commenting, recommending this site to others, buying my book, and contributing to our tip jar. It is greatly appreciated]