FIRST (TRAVEL) PART II

INTERLUDIO, the following of happiness.

You open the door to the room, the light diffusing through the closed curtains. It is nice, long, with a large queen bed, across from a large television; stepping down into a seating area, with a loveseat that opens into a guest bed and another television. “It would be difficult to watch two televisions so close,” you think, opening the curtains, letting in the sunlight onto the parquet floor. Opening the sliding door to the balcony, you immediately feel the wetness, the heat, the briny smell of the ocean. From the balcony, positioned in the center of the hors hoe shaped hotel, directly below is the manicured plaza, perfectly symmetrical, architectural conquering of the jungle, leading to the resort-only beach. A private beach, you think. Never have I thought of staying at a place with a private beach. Is this what happiness looks like? Clean swept sand, manicured grounds? It is pretty, but something is missing.

Lying on the bed, stretching, leaving behind the airplane, the taxicab ride of more than an hour, the bed is soft, good linens, down pillows. You could close your eyes and sleep, the lingering scent of the sea is relaxing, even at this distance. She is unpacking her suitcase, hanging bright colored slip dresses; your bag is zippered, closed by the door. Closing your eyes, you wonder if this the happiness that the driver asked about. Quiet, non-moving emptiness with waves in the distance, content in the moment.

“We should go down to the beach and take a picture at sunset,” she says, breaking the silence, taking her clothes into the bathroom to change.

The cue is not subtle and you follow her to the closed door, your eyes pausing at three inverted call-liquor bottles above the minifridge: vodka, tequila, and bourbon, all that is missing is gin and sweet and sour for a Long Island Iced Tea.

“Do you want to eat first, or afterwards,” you say to the closed door.

“Let’s play it by ear,” she emerges wearing a brightly colored sun dress and looking . . . beautiful; you haven’t changed and you can see it in her eyes that travel clothes are not appropriate.

“Give me a sec.” opening your bag and placing it onto the bed, searching for the bright cornflower shirt that was a birthday gift; almost grabbing khakis, but thinking better, she prefers when you are wearing jeans.

“They are going to make money off of you,” she says at the hotel room bar. “You may be the only sober person in this entire hotel, especially since no kids are allowed.”

Buttoning your shirt, laughing in agreement, but not the funny kind, hint of bitterness: “who stays at an all-inclusive resort and doesn’t drink, right?” You are already thinking of asking the cleaning staff to replace the Modelo with Diet Coke, but they only serve Pepsi products.

In the lobby, walking past the exclusive bar, next to a sign illustrating that only guests with chartreuse wristbands can access, you notice that you have the appropriate color for entry. The bottles are pretty, 12-year-old scotch glowing in the downlighting. Momentary afternoon dream: must US promises be kept in Mexico? Only one answer to mind: yes. You remain lost in thought, when she decides she would rather wait in the line for a lobby bar-cart that is staffed by special bartenders, making a “drink of the day;” a chocolate martini with cinnamon and shaved cocoa. There is no non-alcoholic version and you decide to wait for dinner before locating a soda. Taking a taste, she exclaims that it is “perfect,” almost offering you a sip, but changes her mind. Perfect, you think, remembering how good that first sip was, but how not-good the mornings were. “Pretty.”

You walk down the promenade towards the sand, her hand in yours, the temperature cooling to a comfortable 85; the colors of the sky are beautiful: oranges, tangerines, and ruby-red swirls over the ocean, above the nearby palm trees.

“We made it in time,” you say, your arm now around her waist as she finishes her drink. You take it from her hand and there is a gentle kiss. “I am glad we decided to do this, to come here.” At that exact moment, you mean it.

She laughs and takes out her camera to capture the moment, the changing light. Smiles are real, for the first time in months you are in the moment, not in head, not the hospital room, or lost in the empty house.

“Let’s get something to eat,” she says, moving away from the sand, up the stairs towards the communal dining room, the much-talked-about buffet, everything you could ever want and more, as the concierge bragged.

After walking the various stations, plates laden, finding a table, a back-waiter arrives, offering drinks: cocktails, beer, wine. “Diet, please,” you respond, his façade remaining polite, if there is judgment he hides it well.

“I will have a margarita,” she tells the young man. “Patron please, on the rocks with Tajin.”

“Absolutely Senorita,” he says with a wide grin. “There is a show put on by the staff tonight,” the waiter explains as he brings the drinks. “Great fun. Espectacular. Muy buena”

You compliment the food, much fresher than expected, and she finishes her drink. A second is brought without more than a nod. The selection, multiple choices of different cuisine within an Asian theme, the only problem you think, may be avoiding overeating.

“What was up with the cab driver, asking if you were ‘happy’?” she says leaning forward, unprovoked, and you wonder if she is reading your mind or your face, his comment circling thoughts since the drive.

“I have no idea,” you respond in a matching confidential tone. as though conversation could be overheard or eavesdropped. “I assume he just noticed that I was tired, but it was a little weird.”

“Very. I cannot believe that he talks to all of his passengers like that.”

You put your hand across the table, resting it on hers. “I am happy we are here. Really.” Are you providing affirmance for her, or for you, it is entirely unclear to speaker and audience. “Let’s finish here and go to the spectacular, very good show.” You do not want to continue this thread any longer.

The performance is an event; a cross between a talent show with choreographed dance routines, and an 80’s rock and roll band performance, both Mexican and American pop songs, even with a sing-along with the audience. Bartenders are shaking margaritas and cocktails in two bars in the back of the theater, and one just twenty feet from the entrance. You both soon make friends with a young couple seated next, also on their first trip together, wondering if they are even twenty years old. They remain physically attached, arms intertwined, her legs in his lap, touching every part of each other, their youthful beauty and excitement in full display. Watching them, a memory appears, unasked for, uninvited; a vacation from the past, a lifetime away. Realizing your face reflects your thoughts and noticing the distance between, you put an arm around, mimicking the affection across the table, when your vacation partner suddenly shouts over the music: “we should have drinks! Shots!”

“Yes! Yes!” the pretty young people join in and you volunteer to go to the bar; the clean faced young man attempts to disengages from his amor, passionately and drunkenly kissing her, promising to “be back in a second. No really, I will be right back. I promise. Right back.” He continues to assure, only leading to more kisses.

At the bar, as you wait for the drinks to be poured. Over the Conga drums solo the bartender smiles and asks: “How is your night? Are you having a great time?”

Really? What is with everyone’s concern about your well-being? You consider asking what it is about your face that invites inquiry and assurances; is there something specific on your forehead or is it just your face that keeps prompting unsolicited questions? Literally, what-the-fuck, ‘what do you care’, you think to ask as he moves with the music, cocktail shaker adding to the percussion. ‘It is none of your business, and I am getting tired of everyone asking,’ your internal monologue continues increasing in tone. You see him turn back to the glasses, pouring the chilled tequila into salt-rims, wedge of lime attached, his dancing more elaborate to the song. Turning he puts the drinks in front of you with a bigger smile and you realize that this was his banter; he is not asking a question.

The young man’s hand slaps you on your shoulder, a little too rough, and he leans in close, as only a happily drunken person will do: “you do not drink, like at all?” The scent of tequila on his breath makes you cough, strong; how many meaningful conversations did you subject to others, ignoring appropriate speaking distances in your alcohol-fueled excitement.

“Nope,” you say, stepping back just twelve inches. “Not at all.”

“It doesn’t bother you when we drink, or when you get the drinks?” He says as he moves closer again. “You don’t miss it?”

“No. Really,” you emphasize with return the pat to his shoulder, possibly a little firmer, smiling to match the grin on his face. “I drank enough before I quit to last a lifetime.” He finds this hilarious, much more than deserved, and taking a drink off the bar he suddenly and unexpectedly clinks the glass to toast your soda.

“You are funny!” he exclaims, his exuberance spilling half of the drink on you, on him, on the bar top, causing him to lose focus and grip on the glass, but you catch it before it falls to the floor. The bartender stands back at first and then the two men high five, with a “whoo hoo!”

After the show you separate from the new friends at the elevator in no less than five minutes, with earnest promises of meeting for breakfast and volleyball, YES, Volleyball! You are the only one of the four to know that the excitement of the night will not carry forth to the morning. Hugs are exchanged, despite only meeting three hours before, and you still do not know or cannot remember either of their names.

“They are so nice,” she proclaims to the empty room and stumbles as she tries to remove her dress, tripping and falling on the corner of the bed, face forward. Raising her head she blinks slowly, “whoa. I shouldn’t have dranken those shots of tequila after the show.” You attempt to help her to pull the dress over her shoulders, her position fighting progress. Once free, hair in multiple directions at once, pointing her finger, she says: “you enabled me, getting all of those drinks.” She tries to roll over, to sit and again emphasizing her pronouncement with extended finger, falls back into the bed in her matching black lace bra and panties.

You rise, open the door, the sounds of the surf crashing in the distance, the air cooling as the clouds roll, rain likely in the night. Lying next to her, softly rubbing her face, knowing you won’t sleep because of the caffeine consumed, you kiss her cheek; her eyelids and her breathing are heavy. “I am sorry,” you whisper with a smile, knowing the minor role played in these events, “next time I will cut you off earlier.” Your fingers gently tracing from her face, down her neck onto her clavicle and the cleavage of her breasts.

She places her hand over fingers, holding them in place. “Not tonight,” she moans. I don’t feel great,” as she rolls to her side, clutching one of the down pillows tight to her stomach. “Tequila. No bueno.”

“It’s okay,” you say softly, rising to get her a glass of bottled water and two Tylenol. “We have all week.”