The Reflector

In the midst of a long recession, my family and I found it wise to go on a cruise to Mexico. Although I felt like an excessively rich snob lavishing in all manner of vile indulgences (multiple trips an hour to the self-serve ice cream machine) while complaining about a lack of service to a staff of foreign workers who leave their home seven months at a time for little pay, cruises themselves aren't really expensive. Traveling itself is the expensive part.

I had romantic opinions of Mexico before going there. I imagined myself on a sailboat, staring thoughtfully at the horizon, while hurried crewmembers dock on a nice little pier. I would then enter the city of Cozumel and rein riches upon the poor masses of merchants. I knew the economy was bad in America, but I figured surely our dollar is worth more than theirs. I fantasized about buying a real sombrero and perhaps a maraca and eating authentic Mexican cuisine. I would listen to mariachi bands on the street and traverse narrow roads, stopping along the way to chat in Spanish with locals.

In one word, I would be in another country for the first time and immersed in a language I've studied four years but only within the cramped halls of academia. I worried only slightly about culture shock - the bad water, rampant pickpocket criminality, vulgar street Spanish, beggars and vagabonds. But I was too good for culture shock, because I was a cultured man. I embraced diversity.

Before I even embarked upon my adventure, I could smell the sands of Cozumel.

I departed the nasty waters of Mobile, Ala., and in more than a day's time I had reached Mexico. Sure, it wasn't I who literally got there; I simply rode along lazily as my captains did all the work. Nonetheless, in spirit, it felt like I personally made the journey. I personally completed my longdesired quest to seek a new land, a new adventure.

I was sure it was going to be a learning experience, a pivotal event in the lifetime of one Southerner whose assumed traditions and beliefs would be challenged, unsettled and fi nally shattered in order to create a new man with a new worldview. I was going to fi nd myself, my true self, in Mexico.

So I arrived, although it wasn't on the picturesque pier I had imagined. In fact, there were no windows for me to look out of while I waited for nearly an hour while crewmembers taxed their minds trying to fi gure out a way to get my brother and me, both of whom are troublesomely handicapped, off onto the dock. They seemed so surprised to see us. I suppose in Carnival Cruise Lines' vast history, I was the fi rst disabled person to decide to go on one of their cruises.

But, lo, I and my household were fi nally offi cially in Mexico, casually bypassing the welcoming mariachi band's donations can and trying to ignore those masses of merchants, who didn't sell goods for very cheap after all, so we could find somewhere to eat.

After paying $80 for a taxi ride (the disabled class being slightly more expensive than most), we settled into an authentic Mexican restaurant, drank virgin margaritas and ate a "margarita pie," described as a Mexican version of America's "famous key lime pie." A note on the menus, which were in English, assured us the water at the establishment underwent a rigorous purifying process. While we ate, a middle-aged Mexican couple serenaded us with a xylophone to the tunes of popular American oldies.

As it turns out, there are few locals roaming the streets and shops in Cozumel. I saw quite a number of old white people, including a Willie Nelson impersonator who I chatted with for some time. Besides those who worked at the counters and drove the taxis, Cozumel has a great number of temporary immigrants, those who, like me, stay for two or three hours to eat a chimichanga and buy a sombrero and a T-shirt souvenir. In fact, for a fl eeting moment, as I peered out my taxi's window onto the small streets, I thought perhaps I was in Orlando or some retirement home in Florida.

Returning to the dock to wait for crewmembers to fi gure out once again how to get my wheelchair and me back onto the ship, I gazed down in defeat with the truly unsettling realization that I felt home in Mexico. I didn't see or talk to many Mexicans. Apparently, the merchants, those wise guys, account for America's infl ation. I didn't get to drink any of Mexico's famous dirty water, and for a second, I thought my taxi driver was going to have the guts to steal a bag my friend left in one of the seats. Instead, he tracked us down and returned it to us.

So, I have no frightening experience to share with you, other than the fact that I still haven't found myself. I may have to go somewhere more exotic, like Baghdad, to do that. I did buy a sombrero and a T-shirt. In lieu of gratuities I had to pay, I couldn't afford the maraca.

Matt Watson is the opinion editor of The Reflector. He can be contacted at opinion@reflector.msstate.edu.

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