[For the uninitiated, I’m recounting a recent trip to Mérida, Mexico in excruciating detail. I’m on day four, and I’m still in the airport. When I was born, I was inoculated with a phonograph needle. Sorry]

First there was a short line to talk to one of two immigration officials. They smiled and greeted us in ingles, because certain things are obvious. White as a sheet and a foot taller than the population is a giveaway, I gather. We tried our pidgen espanol on him, which got a smile, if not a true exchange of information going. How long are you staying? What is the purpose of your trip? Ka-chunk goes the stamp on the passports, and adioses all around.

After we ran this gauntlet of two polite questions, we weren’t hustled to a dank cell and beaten by an unshaven dastard with a gold tooth and wearing a greasy uniform two sizes too big for him until we give up our money belt, and then tossed into a mud puddle in the alley out back to allow the narcoterrorists to hold us for ransom. You know, like all our relatives warned us would happen when we set out. People really do have some interesting ideas about Mexico.

We entered a big hall where the luggage-go-round held court. The entire room, and all the other areas of the building, were entirely covered — floors, walls, columns, everything — with large, creamy polished stone tiles. The effect was the kind of futurism found on British space opera entertainment from the 70s. It was ever so much more elegant than Atlanta or Portland, if somewhat austere.

We haven’t traveled anywhere in a very long time. We were counseled that all savvy travelers only bring carry-on luggage with them. One for the overhead, and one for under the seat. Unfortunately, everyone gets the same advice, and when everyone does the same thing at the same time, it doesn’t work anymore. In Portland, they warned us that we were going to be sitting in the bleachers on the plane, and the chances of finding space in the overhead compartment by the time we boarded were slim to none. Also, our Mae West would be a rubber duckie, and the oxygen masks that dropped down in an emergency would have a coin slot, so bring change. The airline offered (demanded) to check our little overhead sized bags into the regular cargo hold for free, because after all, it was empty because no one will check their bags. We were assured that we wouldn’t have to grab them in Atlanta. They’d be sent on to Mérida automatically. Uh-huh.

I waved goodbye to our bags like they were soldiers pulling out on a rusty troopship. They might return, but certainty is not closely related to airline luggage handling in my experience. Wonder of wonders, they appeared promptly on the carousel in the aeropuerto. The carousel has a single sign that tells you not to sit on it, or ride it. This is helpful, because I’m an American, and I might get up to anything. Better warn me off early.

Then comes Customs. It was a card table with two little girls in spanking uniforms holding court. There was a big American family already being processed, so we had to wait. They were inexplicably trying to get some apples past the checkpoint, over and over. We waited patiently while the teenaged daughter pitched a minor fit in English about losing her apples. Eventually one of the uniformed young ladies stood up and approached us. I loomed over her tiny self like bad grades on a report card. She smiled and asked, in good english, with a twinkle in her eye, well within earshot of the others, “Do you have any apples? No? Go on ahead, you’re fine.”

Other miracles began to follow on the heels of the resurrection of our luggage. We’d been awake all day and the night before, and were hungry and bleary. We had to kill two hours before our rental house would be available. I’ve killed two hours, and more, in various airports. Believe me, when an airport kills an hour, it shoots the corpse even after it has long stopped breathing. Not Mérida. There’s the usual this and that in the little mall of the terminal. Coffee shop, tchotchke stalls, car rental counters, taxi stands, a bank, that sort of thing. I noticed a very inviting bar facing the concourse, and I wondered how slurred pidgen spanglish would sound to our landlord when we finally showed up. My wife pointed out there was a real restaurant hiding behind the bar.

So we sat down and expected airport food, which is generally served in a trough to farm animals when air travelers aren’t available. And while we didn’t get a miracle of loaves and fishes, we did get one of first-rate lime soup and grilled chicken. I started reciting lines from The In Laws without thinking:

“…they make a chicken sandwich here. They serve it on a hard roll, they heat it up. With orange juice, you know. Grande, a big one. Or pineapple juice. And coffee. Do you take coffee, Shel? Espresso, with that beautiful foam.”

Lime soup sounds weird but it isn’t. It’s really turkey soup, and they toss in a slice of lime and some crispy tortilla strips and it’s kinda heavenly. It’s soul food down here.

The miracles continued when the bill came. A Mexican peso is like a nickel in the USA. Bills denominated in pesos make for amusing interludes when the check comes. Unlike the United States, when you’re done eating, and not before, you signal the waiter, who immediately comes over instead of playing hide-and-go-seek with you. You simply say, “La cuenta, por favor,” and show him/her a payment card. They immediately return with a handheld point of sale machine. You insert your card and take care of the whole transaction there and then at the table. I’m aware that Americans prefer to give the tattooed, meth-y, purple-haired waitress their credit card and watch her wander off and do various things with it in the back room, but the Mérida method seems superior, if less exciting.

Of course, since pesos are nickels, you’re still doing third-grade math in your head, wondering if you’re looking at a lunch tab or a property tax bill. Once you work it out, you realize two people just had cocktails, appetizers, full meals, and coffee, and the bill is around $25. In an airport, mind you. In Atlanta I paid twenty for a cup of coffee that tasted like polonium, a bottle of water, and a bun.

Tipping is actually somewhat uncommon in Mexico, so I had to search the recesses of my mind for, “propina?”, and the waiter smiled and showed me the screen he was looking at, that had 10, 15, and 20% buttons at the bottom. I pressed the 20 button, and the waiter lit up like a slot machine. I’ve never made anyone so happy for five bucks, except maybe a bouncer when I left a club once after five minutes and didn’t ask for my cover charge back.

[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]