We left Charlottesville early yesterday evening. I drove to Dulles. Traffic was not bad, though I prefer to do this route in the daytime. At least there was no snow or ice. We filled up with gas at some place near Chantilly, a place nobody would confuse with its counterpart in France, and Google guided us faultlessly to the Alamo car drop. As we waited for our bus we watched some hapless guy accidentally drive his rental car into a light pole. What a way to end your trip!
We had some issues at TSA because the bar code that AeroMexico had sent us by email was enormously large. When they could not use their scanners the agents were totally confused. We were sent from the Pre-check line to the regular line. John finally suggested that they might take a picture of the scan with a phone and see if it worked. One of the agents was willing to try that and indeed it worked.
At that point we were happy to be headed towards our gate, but the plane would not board for another three hours. We thought about eating, but not only were we not particularly hungry but all the restaurants had already closed for the night. So we just sat around the gate idly looking at our phones and hoping the wait would soon be over.
We boarded the plane a little before one o’clock in the morning. We did have exit rows on the flight, but it was still pretty crowded. We both took some medication and hoped for sleep.
We woke up a little before the plane landed about five in the morning. After it landed, we took our luggage and went to customs and immigration. As usual, clearing Mexican immigration was fairly easy. We then decided to look for the check in counter for Aeromar to see if we could get our boarding passes and possibly check our luggage. This was also not particularly difficult. We went off to have some breakfast. We had a mediocre meal at Tok, a place that is probably the Mexican equivalent of Appleby’s.
We were planning to head into Mexico City for an adventure this morning, but shortly after breakfast John announced that he had to check into a hotel. I was disappointed, but I understood that he did wanted to feel better than he obviously did. I noticed some signs in the terminal for “hotel” and I followed them. We found a branch of the Spanish NH hotel chain. They offered us a half-day stay for about 130 dollars. It was more than I wanted to pay, but I hardly wanted to go searching around, either. We took it.
John slept for a couple hours and took a shower. By this time he was energetic again and all excited about going into the city. I did not think there was enough time, but I was not willing to completely refuse him. He went downstair and talked to the man at the taxi and tours desk. He arranged for a man to drive us into town for lunch, wait for us, and drive us back, all for 500 pesos or about 26 dollars.
John wanted to go to our favorite restaurant in the capital, the Cafe de Tacuba. Many years ago we slipped into town between flights and had a wonderful lunch there. No such luck this time. There was a huge line in front of the place Our driver stopped at some other celebrated spots in the historic center, but all of them had lines as well. We finally gave us and settled for a branch of the Lion Grill chain. They were at least featuring Chile en Nogada, a famous Christmas speciality, and I insisted John order it.
We were done a little early so we walked around. At the Placio de Iturbide, a colonial place now operated as a cultural center by the National Bank of Mexico, there was an exhibition of “nacimieintos,” the traditional Mexican Christmas folk art scenes. These were charming and beautifully displayed.
Less traditional, but equally beautiful, was this display of angels.
We arrived back at the hotel, packed our stuff, and tried to find our gate for the flight to Puerto Escondido. I went to the Aeromar counter to ask them about the gate. John started to feel sick right about this time and thought he was going to pass out. I asked the agent for a wheelchair for him, trying to explain in broken Spanish about his extremely low blood pressure. I am not sure she understood, but a beefy young man showed up about ten minutes later with a wheelchair. We went to the front of the security line. We were apparently too early to go to our gate, so he took us to the Aeromar lounge. We did not probably have the correct credential for this privilege, but as he was in a wheelchair the woman motioned us to go in anyhow.
As far as airline lounges go, this was hardly Emirates. There was almost no food and the trash from previous visitors had not been cleared from the tables. I drank some nasty coffee from an espresso machine. John looked at the news in Spanish on the television. About a half hour before the flight was supposed to leave, our young man showed up again with the wheelchair. He took us up and down elevators and ramps and finally left us in a ground floor waiting room. Apparently we were supposed to board a bus to a remote area of the runway and walk up stairs to the plane. Nobody seemed to speak much English around here, and when we were still waiting there when the time for the plane to depart had come and gone I wondered we had done something wrong. But other passengers indicated that they were on the same flight as us, so I tried to patiently wait.
We finally made it on the plane. It was one of those small jets, probably the work of the Canadian Bombardier firm. Poor John had almost no leg room, but at least the flight was only about an hour. He seemed to nod out. I had to listen to some idiotic millennial two rows ahead of me spout nonsense about how America was fifteen years from a revolution against corporations, an apocalypse that he apparently happily anticipated.
When we arrived at Puerto Escondido I had an unpleasant surprise. John’s suitcase had arrived, but mine had not. I was not alone. At least ten of the passengers, including the millennial, were also missing their luggage. The woman at the desk initially told us to just come back tomorrow afternoon, but the bilingual passenger threw a fit for me and she agreed that they would deliver it to our hotels. She took my luggage tag. I have no great confidence I will ever see my clothes again.
We took a taxi into Puerto Escondido. I knew that the town had grown considerably since I was last here, but I was frankly appalled by all the development, particularly the string of hotels and restaurants lining the old surf beach. This had been almost pristinely empty when we first came there. And the Santa Fe hotel had nearly doubled in size as well.
Our room is in a “bungalow”, a two cluster of four apartments on the other side of the street from the Santa Fe. It classically Mexican construction, concrete, cinderblock, and rebar all painted bright colors and ornamented with faux colonial woodwork and balustrades. At least the landscaping is nice.
We walked down the honky-tonk strip that now covered my favorite beach in Mexico. John had an extra pair of swim trunk and flip flops though neither of them fit me very well.
We will see what tomorrow holds. I am thinking that this trip proves indeed that “You can’t go home again.” It seems like a colossal mistake.
