(Sorry I missed you yesterday — but what would a holiday weekend be without some slacking off, eh? And speaking of slacking off…)
In a few days, the missus and I will be taking a week’s vacation. It’s our tenth wedding anniversary, and we’re celebrating with a jaunt to Mexico. We’re staying in one of those all-inclusive dealies where our biggest concern should be whether the pool boy has chilled our watered-down mai tais to the appropriate temperature.
Technically, I suppose that’s not true. We’re going to Meh-hi-co, so we should probably also worry about drinking the water, surviving the hot sauce, soothing our inevitable sunburns, and eating the worm. But I’m sure we’ll be too busy slouching and lounging around to bother with any of that.
“I couldn’t tell you what I had for breakfast today or what color underwear I put on this morning. For all I know, I ate my underwear for breakfast.”
One nagging concern, though, is the issue of the language. Between my wife and I, we’ve had exactly two semesters of public high school-level Espanol. And I had them both, so what are the chances I remember a damned thing past ‘hola‘ and ‘cerveza‘? Slim and nada, those are the chances. I couldn’t tell you what I had for breakfast today or what color underwear I put on this morning. For all I know, I ate my underwear for breakfast. And I’m supposed to translate to la policia when we get dumped in a pueblo pokey on a charge of ‘publico intoxicado‘? Gringo, please.
We should be fine at the resort. It’s all-inclusive — and haughty finger-snapping for service is the same in any language, right?
(For the record, I don’t do that. The finger snap is awfully rude, and we ugly Americans have enough to answer for in terms of international manners as it is.
Could I really travel to another country and be that arrogant, when the guy next to me from Omaha is complaining that he didn’t get any ketchup for his ‘chimmeychanger‘? No. I don’t see how I could.)
It’s nice to have expenses taken care of up front, though. We’ve had one other vacation like that — our honeymoon, ten years ago next week — and it was simply fantastic. No schedules, no pressures, food and booze whenever you need it — if this is how the other half are living, then sign me up. Just tell me which bank to rob, or what I need to embezzle from whom. I’m all over it.
Actually, I have an idea that would let everyone enjoy a week in paradise. I say we let anyone who’s interested sign up to stay at the swanky resort of their choice for seven sun-splashed days and seven fun-filled nights. We all deserve a break, and what better way than to spend a week berating the concierge and waitstaff about the lack of towels by the pool and the sorry state of the in-room minibar? Sounds heavenly.
There’s a catch, of course. There’s always a catch, only this time it’s not a nine-hour timeshare seminar for the latest Cancun highrise. Instead, the guests who just pampered their pasty poopers for a week would simply sign on as staff for the next week. So, the haughy have become the hotel maids. The butled become the butlers.
(Except for me, of course. Having the idea in the first place does have its priveleges.)
In fact, the guests would simply change places with the staff. They’re all there on two weeks’ holiday — one group relaxes first, while the other serves. Halfway through, they swap. That ought to keep the finger-snapping to a minimum, when you know your ass belongs to that waiter, come Sunday. Just a thought.
Luckily for us, we’re only staying for a week, so unless we blow all our travelers’ checks on slot machines and salsa massages while we’re there, we probably won’t be signing on as waitstaff for the place. The rest of you gringos will have to find someone else to snap your fingers at.Permalink | 1 Comment