Mexico Time

We are waiting on a shuttle from the Cancun airport (CUN) to Puerto Morelos, half an hour south. The driver checks on some paperwork after shoving a couple dozen suitcases into the rear. Sweating in the sun, he reviews his clipboard, makes a call, consults his coworkers dressed in matching tropical shirts.

The Americans behind us are having none of this.

‘Vamanos!’ one of them orders. ‘Let’s go!’

‘Can’t they get some air conditioning in here?’

‘Must’ve had it parked in the sun for hours!’

They’re a couple of families escaping the cold north for a few days at Christmas, just like us. But they can’t escape their typical American proclivity: loud, boorish behavior that assumes superiority over foreigners.

They hector about minutes after half a day in transit. They see themselves at the center of the universe even here at the edge of the jungle. Early morning flights, wrestling matches with luggage at security, non-existent airline food service, all have conspired to make them surly.  And loud.

They resort to dissembling. ”My kid is sick,’ one of them says. ‘Let’s get moving before he throws up in your van.’

The driver relents, though surely he knows that riding through the heat in the rear of hotel transport won’t cure an upset stomach. One of the passengers continues to badger. She inquires about yet another American proclivity: an obsession with time. In shrill and failing high school Spanish she asks, ‘What time is it here? Is this Mexico time?’


WordPress prompt word of the day: Proclivity

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