Blame Game

Good thing the wine is only $2.99 a bottle, because I sure am plowing through it these days.

I personally blame it on clients.

Anyone with me? Yeah. I thought so.

Cheers.

Recycled

A few weeks ago, my friend Katie told me a cute, sweet story of mid-day urban romance.

She was walking to get lunch, the sun was out, and a handsome stranger approached her. "Excuse me, this may be kindof weird, but life is short, so I figured what the heck. Are you single?"

She laughed, shyly, and said, "Well, kindof." This is the every-girl answer that gives everything and nothing away all at once.

Handsome stranger sticks out his hand, introduces himself (Scott) and says, "I never do this kind of thing, but I couldn't resist - you're so adorable!"

She giggled, nervously, and allowed him to give her his phone number after he says, "We should get lunch, or coffee, sometime. I work at the Tribune right nearby." (He had no cards on him, and she was clutching her phone, so this all seemed normal). He entered his digits into her cell, and then they parted ways. Not before Katie had noticed that he was well-dressed, outwardly normal, and was heading back to the office at the Chicago Tribune, which, incidentally, is across the street from our office.

Satisfied by the unexpected compliment, Katie shared her story humbly and we had a good laugh. We were actually quite proud of Handsome Stranger for his nerve, his suave yet unrefined ways, and his all-around general likability.

Katie was pretty sure she'd call him. And by call him, I'm sure I mean that she'd play coy and text him. Whatever. Not all of us have the nerve...

Anyway. A few weeks go by and Katie has yet to call him, text him, or send a carrier pigeon to the Tribune offices.

Yesterday, I'm at work really early and have just left Starbucks at 6:30 A.M. to head downstairs to meet my colleague for a long trek to central Illinois.

As I turn, clutching my coffee, I hear a guy say, "Excuse me, this may be kindof weird, but life is short, so I figured why not. Are you single by chance?"

I literally am taken off guard JUST long enough to notice that he is nice looking, well-dressed and seemed likable. And then it hits me.

It is THE SAME GUY AND THE SAME LINES. Rings a bell. Loud and clear.

I say, "Well, no, I'm not actually," to avoid the awkward denial of his phone number. He says, in return, "Well, okay. I never do this kind of thing, but I couldn't resist - you're so adorable!"

It was practically WORD for WORD.

Now, either that guy has some serious creativity issues, or he's a total Michigan Avenue player and figures he'll play his odds.

Not sure. I was left holding my recycled coffee cup, a recycled newspaper and the mental replay of recycled pick up lines.

Policia

When preparing for our trip to Mexico, we kept hearing about the Mexican Police (Policia). Apparently they are nasty fellows, and not interested in making your vacation any lovelier. In fact, they have a terrible reputation for picking on American tourists.

So, I carefully observed the speed limit (to the best of my ability) and tried to make heads and tails of the lanes, the speed bumps and the Retorno lane (u-turns). See the previous post for more.

All was going well, until we decide to take a taxi into Playa del Carmen for the evening. Had a great dinner, a lovely time at a local bar, and then a rousing ending to the night at the Blue Parrot, where we danced, made sand angels (don't ask) and watched fire dancers.

Got into the tiny taxi, prepared to shell out our 150 pesos for a safe ride home.

We head out onto the highway, laughing, joking with the driver (in broken, high school Spanish) and were all feeling good (we love tequila).

Then, in the dark, as we rode along through the jungles (literally), with zero street lamps to illumniate our way, we see blue lights flashing.

Now, let's all be honest. Even if you're not driving, those blue lights are enough to make your heart race and palms sweat. Now add to that the urban legends/rumors we'd heard about the Mexican Policia, and the fact that we're 4 American chicks in this tiny taxi, and we're literally freaking out.

Janine is up front with the driver, and knows a little Spanish (un poquito) and she's glancing nervously at the driver. Smart enough to wait it out, we all sit quietly.

He gets out. Walks back toward the cop.

Uh, sir? That's not what we do. We wait, roll down the window and DON'T MOVE.

I crane my neck around (hoping the blue light glare will hide any activity in the car from police view) and see him back there, joshing with the cop.

Uh, sir? This isn't funny.

The cop comes around to us, machine gun in hand (yes, I said machine gun) and rounds the car, with a flashlight in the windows. I manage a feeble smile. Not a "we're guilty, sir" smile, but a "see, we're harmless, sir" smile.

He goes back. Cab driver gets back in. The whole thing lasted about 6 minutes.

The lights go off, we drive away.

Silence.

Janine looks at me. I look at the girls. We say to him, together (as if that's not complicated), in really bad Spanish, "what happened?" (for sake of blog readability, I'll use English here). He replies, in even worse English, "marjiuana."

Uh, sir? Please tell me we're not in a car with you while you're toting drugs across town, or whatever?

Apparently he was clean, but the cop pulled us over because he saw 4 girls, presumably white American girls, and was suspicious. I have no idea how the "flashlight in the eyes" from outside the car was supposed to clear our names, but apparently it did.

Frankly, it all worked out fine (somehow) and we didn't end up going to Mexican prison.

But, damn, wouldn't THAT have been one heck of a blog?!

Driving in Mexico

I've been back from Mexico for less than a week, and I'm still prone to breaking out in giggles over the absolute nightmare that driving was in Mexico.

We were in Puerto Aventuras, which is about 45 minutes south of Cancun. Straight down the coastal highway. Sounds simple, right?

Wrong.

Maybe it is a national joke they play on the tourists, or just some crazy old-fashioned, contrived way to maintain control, but they put SPEED BUMPS on the highway. Yes, speed bumps.

Some are humps, some are those rounded parking-lot style cement knots on the ground, all lined up.

Some just damn near take out the undercarriage of the car.

Or maybe that was just with me at the wheel?

Let's just say this. While I was careening down the Mexican highway, trying desperately to figure it all out, they would crop up out of nowhere. Before I explain the bumps, let's talk about the confusing speed limits. Not to sound totally blonde, but come on.

The speed limits are obviously posted in kilometers, and the rental car was clocking my speed in kilometers, but the sheer math of it all was just too much. You expect me to drive, sing, entertain my fellow passengers AND do math? Yeah right.

I, for one, didn't go to math camp.

The conversion of MPH to KPH is not easy. Something about multiplying by 2, adding 7, subtracting 11 and topping it off with a green X, and there you have it. Your speed. Tu velocidad, if you will.

Now, let's say this. The speed limits went up and down up and down up and down with little to no regard for what was going on. It seemed like the construction guys just got bonuses for every sign they installed, so they went nuts. 80 KPH, 90 KPH, 60 KPH, 100 KPH, all within the span of about 1/4 mile. Or kilometer. Or whatever.

So, in between speeding up and slowing down, I thought "Okay, maybe I'll get the hang of this."

Not so fast, my friend.

Now, add into the mix that the construction guys clearly didn't care much for lines. Lanes be damned. There were NO lane markers in most places. No little friendly white or yellow dashed lines (or solid for that matter) to let you know if it was a two-laner, or a three-laner or a one-laner. Nothing. Nada.

So, the end result was that every driver was all over the place. Feel like passing? Go ahead! Feel like taking a left here? Fine by me - just hit up the Retorno for a trusty U-turn. Feel like driving three cars wide? Have at it.

Then, there were the buses. Apparently the buses pick up and drop off the local workers (construction of the major resorts, mostly) along the road, and there doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason (and sure as heck there were no bus stops) to when they stopped, or why. All I know is that you'd be riding along doing just fine in the right lane, tucked in nicely behind a bus, and all of a sudden, he'd careen off to the right, ending on the shoulder, kicking up dust and slowing at a rapid pace (does that even make sense?)

And when they entered back onto the highway, it was all I could do to swing wide into the left lane(s) to get out of the way.

Being the organized Capricorn that I am, it was all a bit too wonky for lil' old me.

Which brings us back to the speed bumps.

They call them topes. (I have no idea what that translates to, but we decided it was "boobies.") Let me explain.

The signs that they post to indicate a speed bump have either two bumps (boobies) or three bumps (medical mystery). They have a down arrow pointing at the street, where the topes are located. Yeah, that helps. I'm already flying over them at 100 KPH at that point.

Occasionally, there was a topes sign about 100 yards in front of the second one (featuring the aforementioned arrow), and this was your warning. Since I spent half the time worrying about my speed, and half the time worrying about the lanes, this left no brain capacity for Topes Watch '07. So, we coined the phrase "Boobies!" to indicate that there were bumps ahead.

I know, totally mature.

So, the backseat drivers (or front seat passenger, when her eyes weren't squeezed shut in fear) were charged with hollering "Boobies!" at the top of their lungs when this first sign was spotted, giving me time to slow down appropriately, so as not to shred the bottom of our little blue Altima.

Worked great. Just grand. Then, for whatever reason, my Topes Watch team was otherwise occupied, and I didn't see the sign. Maybe that sign wasn't installed yet. But, alas, we went flying over the topes at about 60 KPH (I saw it at the last second and it was just too late). I think that is about 40 miles per hour, but I have no idea (see note about math camp attendance).

Heads hit the roof. Jaws hit the floor. And shit hit the fan. We died laughing. "BOOBIES!"