Wednesday, February 29

We explain to Diane that there is no February 29th this year but she insists that she paid for it and she's "Damn well going to get it." Dick shakes his head knowingly and we all agree to humor her -- today, and throughout the rest of the trip. It's a decision that becomes more and more necessary as the days go by.

Wednesday, March 1

Our stay at the Dolores Alba, a small, family-run hotel in downtown Mérida, proves uneventful. Maureen is relieved to find that there are no chickens running through the hallways, the beds are clean, and the rooms are well kept. We hardly notice the bullfighters convention which has filled the hotel with colorfully dressed matadors, picadors and toreadors wearing funny hats and practicing their art in guest rooms, the lobby and and throughout the courtyard at all hours of the day and night. Dick discovers that they're not unlike most Shriners, but draws the line when a group of picadors ask him to strap on a pair of cow horns and run up the stairs to his room shouting "Viva Zapata!"

We buy our bus tickets -- not at the station, where Diane insists it would be "too easy" -- but from a man with a beard and a wrinkled tuxedo who Diane finds lounging by the hotel pool, drinking cheap margaritas and smoking Havana cigars.

Then it's off for a tour of the city. Diane produces a bottle or "organic sunscreen -- no PABA, no harmful oils, no harsh chemicals" at least that's what it says on the bottle. I wonder aloud if she got it from the same guy who sold her the bus tickets. But not wanting to offend Diane, and mindful of our agreement to humor her whenever possible, the three of us smear the oily substance all over our arms, face, and hands. It's a clear liquid with the distinct smell of overripe bananas. At the local Mercado, Diane insists on trying out every available hammock. Maureen and I help Dick awkwardly roll in and out of various hammocks so that Diane can see if they are truly "matrimonial" size, which Diane insists on -- while a busload of camera-toting Japanese tourists excitedly snaps away.

The chosen hammock in hand, Diane realizes she doesn't have the right change and all four of us dig deep into our "hidden pockets," roughly sewn denim pouches that hang down our pants legs to discourage pickpockets. (One of Diane's "travel tips.")

Maybe it's the humidity, but the bundles of pesos have stuck firmly in the bottoms of the pockets. We hop around madly, looking like four crazed tourists attacked by killer bugs or involved in some obscure religious ritual.

By now, we've attracted the attention of the local policia, who strides forward, boldly shouting orders in Spanish, and causing the Japanese to scatter in all directions. At the same time I take a closer look at my hands and arms. Wherever the sun has struck them, the flesh has turned a vivid green. I look at Maureen and Dick, who's faces are now the color of lime jello. Although they both still bear that slightly pleasant smell of bananas...

Thursday, March 2

Breakfast -- for those of us able to eat it is delicious. We plan our day excitedly, knowing that at the rate we're going, these might be our last days on earth.

First a walk down Calle 60 with its many parks, where Dick can't resist sharing grass cultivation tips with the local groundskeepers. Dick explains that not only does he have a Ph.D. in groundskeeping, he also has a green thumb -- and by God, thanks to Diane's sunscreen he really does.

Diane rustles everyone into a nearby cab and informs us that we are now going to the henequen factory. Maureen asks "what's a henequen" but it turns out that there really is no punch line. Diane explains that henequen is what they make rope out of.

"You mean we're going to a rope factory?," Maureen states obviously. (Maureen has a nasty habit of stating the obvious.)

Dick immediately begins sketching out a plan on the back of a paper sack. He won't show it to Diane, but I glance over his shoulder and I see that it involves tying Diane up and possibly hanging her by her thumbs -- it's a crude sketch at best, but I get the general idea. Dick glances up and shakes his head knowingly. He seems to be asking if I'm in on the plan or not, but before I can transmit the obvious answer, the cab grinds to a stop in front of a long, low, red brick building.

I won't give you all the details of our trip inside, but let me summarize some of the comments from the guest book:

• "Definitely fibrous"
• "Gave me a new appreciation of rope"
• "Sorry to miss out on the free samples"
• "Loved the Mariachis..."
• "Enjoyed the people with the green faces..."

Progresso

Yes, we made it. Our first close-up look at the ocean. Dick nonchalantly tosses Diane off the end of the pier, and the three of us retire to the Restaurant Carabela, where we feast on fresh shrimp and watch Diane dive for 50 peso coins to the delight of passing sailors.

Read On

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