Of Course

The last envelope was my passport. There, now you no longer have to anxiously wait to hear the outcome. With the passport gripped in my hands, I started jumping up and down, a huge grin on my face, and feeling unbelievably relieved. The lady laughed at my over the top reaction. I thanked her a good 20 times, and then left.

I had one more errand to complete before I could lie in my hotel all day, watching CNN (the only channel in English) until it got too depressing and I switched to whatever Spanish movie was on. Probably the highlight of my TV watching experience over my three days being sick at the hotel was watching Matilda. That brought me back... I thought that movie was the bees knees back when it first came out. 

The last errand I had to complete was retrieving the wire transfer that my friend had sent me a few days earlier. Wire transfers through Western Union from the States to Mexico are, in theory, extremely simple to complete. You can go to a number of locations all over the US (like grocery stores) and simply j the bank employee to whom you wish to send the money, how much you wish to send, and where the recipient is located. Then, all the recipient needs to do is head to almost any bank in Mexico and ask for the money after showing ID. 

This time, I had an ID. Granted, emergency passports look like they were forged with minimal effort by some college kid in his parents' basement. The font on the front is significantly larger than a regular passport, it only contains about three pages, and the photo looked like it was hastily placed on with a glue stick.

At least my new picture was better?

I felt confident that with my official ID, getting the transfer would be a piece of cake. But wait, remember how my trip was going up until that moment? Yeah... not so great. I left the passport place and walked next door to one of the banks. I specifically told the lady by the front door that I needed to pick up a wire transfer from the US when she asked me how she could help. She said that would be no problem and told me to take a number like you do at the DMV. I waited for 20-ish minutes and got called to the counter where the lady there told me they don't do Western Union wire transfers. I left in a huff, walked to the other bank literally next door (because it's so logical to have two banks side by side) I asked if they did Western Union transfers and the guy said no, but to try four other banks nearby. He wrote them on a piece of paper, and I hopped in a cab to the first on the list.

The man drove me to the bank, located inside of a department store selling bikes, mattresses, etc. I came to discover later that most banks are inside of department stores. Why? No idea. I waited in another fairly long line (but at that point in my trip, I was accustomed to long lines) until I was called to the counter. I asked the man if I could pick up a Western Union wire transfer and he said of course, I just had to show the confirmation number and my ID. I showed him a picture of the top part of the receipt that my friend who wired the money sent me. He sent me just the top part of the receipt because that was where the confirmation code was printed. The man entered he entered the code into his computer and said it was the wrong number of digits and that I needed to call my friend and ask him to take a picture of the entire receipt. The receipt was so long it took four pictures to capture the whole thing. I showed it to the man and he just shook his head, saying it was impossible. Of course.

Off to the next bank. This one was hidden in another huge store selling phones, furniture, and other random items. On the wall behind the bank counter was a sign that said Western Union, so of course they would be able to help me, right? No. I experienced deja vu as the EXACT same thing happened at this bank as the one prior.

My energy all but spent, I headed over to the last bank on the list. I asked a saleslady where the bank was, and she told me it was on the very top level. Of course it was. There was no elevator (plus I have an irrational fear of elevators), so I walked up multiple flights of stairs to the top. After I'd ascended the last set of stairs, my legs felt wobbly and I imagine I looked like a newborn giraffe as it learns to walk as I headed to the bank.

Me. 

This time, there was no line. I walked right up to a lady at the counter, asked about the transfer and showed her my passport. I asked if she needed to see the code and she said no, and in less than five minutes she handed me the money.

I'm pretty confident that those other bank employees were completely incompetent. It certainly didn't seem like an extensive or difficult process at all at the final bank. But of course, it was the last bank I went to that I finally got help.

I exited the line, and right then it hit me. I had spent the last little drops of energy and needed to rest. Thankfully, the top level of the store was the furniture section, with little fake bedrooms set up as well as kitchens. It was very Ikea-esque. I waked to the closest fake bedroom and collapsed on the bed. I lied there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rapiest of all Christmas carols, "Baby, It's Cold Outside," followed by "All I want for Christmas is You." Eventually, I regained enough strength to descend the stairs, hail a cab, and head back to the hotel.

I took a nice, long nap and upon waking I figured I should probably try to eat. However, I was terrified at the idea of leaving my hotel room, as something bad was bound to happen if I attempted to do anything at all. But I needed some grub, and I finally had a voracious appetite, so I walked down to the hotel restaurant and stuffed my face with a burger. Not too long after, I puked it up. Lesson learned: start with basic foods before jumping from nothing to one of the heaviest foods out there.

Of course, it was a mistake to have left my room. I should have ordered room service. When I ventured back to my room, I realized the key didn't work. The front desk dude "fixed it" and so I walked back and tried again with no luck. I repeated this process one more time, and it still didn't work, so the front desk guy called maintenance and sent them to my room. I sat in the hallway across from my door, simply waiting in my state of exhaustion. After a good long while, the maintenance man came and changed the batteries for the lock thingy because of course, I got the room with the lock filled with dying batteries. I went inside, threw up the rest of my burger, and went to bed for about 16 hours, hardly able to grasp the fact that tomorrow, I'd be back in Colorado. 

Illogical Maps and Glass Shards

Man, I am so ready to be finished writing my saga. Yet here I am, hammering out one of the last blogs in this series when I should probably be doing something more productive.

In the last segment of my tale, we left off with me lying in my hotel room watching Coraline and drifting in an out of delirium because of my sheer depletion of nutrients and, therefore, energy. I was truly shocked by the amount I could sleep in my state of illness- I must have gotten 15 hours or more of shut eye. Even upon waking at nine to get ready to head to the passport-pickup location, I felt drowsy and as if I could sleep another 15 hours. The woman at the consulate told me to go to the passport pickup place at 10, as that is when they are typically delivered.

I got dressed, grabbed enough money for the cab, and put the map to the passport place in my pocket. I showed the map to the first cab driver I could wave down, and for a good five minutes he just stared at it, his eyes furrowed in confusion. He informed me that he knew the general area, but had never heard of the business.

The maps I was given in Mexico seriously baffled me. Some gave incorrect directions entirely, while others, like the one the cab driver was holding, had certain sections scaled down smaller than others for no apparent reason. Also surprising was the cab drivers' lack of knowledge of the city in which they worked.

He drove to where he thought we were going with one hand on the wheel and one holding the map. The way cab drivers drove down there was ever-so-slightly concerning, one of them texting the entire time without even attempting to hide it. Our journey to passport pickup place took around fifteen minutes. He handed the map to me, and based on landmarks written on the map, I realized that we had allegedly arrived. I couldn't see the sign for the shop, however, and I should have waited until I actually knew where I was going before I got out of the cab, but I didn't wait. I figured with the map showing exactly which two shops it was between, I'd be able to find it quite easily.

I think I've got you all trained by now to expect that essentially nothing I had to do on this trip was easy at all, and finding the passport place was yet another one of those things. I looked at the map and  saw Bancomer, then directly next to it, according to the map, was the passport place. Once I reached the restaurant on the map, I had gone too far. I felt so unbelievably confused. The lady at the consulate the day prior specifically told me it was between the bank and the restaurant, but all that was there was a row of abandoned-looking buildings. I wandered back and forth for at least 15 minutes, squinting at every sign on every door to see if I had somehow missed it.

I finally caved and asked a lady cleaning outside of a store if she had any idea where the place was. She looked at the map with a puzzled expression and said she had no idea, but that the man selling mangoes on the street corner a few feet to the left would know for sure as he had been the corner-mango-selling-dude for many years and knew the area well. I walked over to him, ready to collapse from my physical weakness and my frustration, and showed him the map. He said that the street on the map used two different scales and so the four lines depicted on the road were meant to be four entire blocks. Why?? I mean, if you are going to make an illogical map like that, at least add a small explanation about it. So, I walked back the direction I had already gone, this time really staring at all of the buildings and looking inside each one.

The four lines next to the highlighted square apparently represent four  blocks

FINALLY, I came across an abandoned looking office building with the tiniest sign written in marker on construction center saying SMC, the name of the passport pick up. I could't even believe that that was the place. Inside was one lone employee sitting behind one lone desk starting blankly at the floor. She asked me if I had come for a passport, I said yes, and she told me they were running late and to come back in a half hour or so. Of course.

I decided to take a little stroll, in spite of the sketchy look of the area in which I wandered. I mean, I had basically no valuables on me, and was ready to mace anyone in the face or stab him or her in an instant if he or she tried anything. My legs were so wobbly from lying around in bed for almost three days straight, so I had to take a seat for a bit and rest. Honestly, I felt like a newborn giraffe as it tries to learn to walk and starts stumbling about awkwardly, all four legs shaking, until it teeters over or run into something. 

I popped a squat in the cleanest looking grass patch I could find and called my friend back home, trying to kill time. Across from me, a wall covered in graffiti with a tall gate chained shut loomed tall. As I looked closer at the wall, I realized that shards of glass were poking out the top of the entire wall. Curiosity washed over me; what could possibly be behind an ominous wall like that. I eagerly waited as I watched an employee walk towards the gate to unlock it. However, he opened it just enough for him to slip through to the other side. 

I got over my curiosity, checked my watch, and decided I'd head back to SMC to see if the passports had arrived early. About five minutes after I walked in the door, a truck pulled up to the store. The man came in with a stack of envelopes. He laid them on the desk in front of the lady at the desk. She looked through them one by one, my anxiety growing exponentially as none of the envelopes contained my name. She continued to sift through, and I began to panic.

The Lady Cop

In the last epidsode of Marisa's Misadventures in Mexico, we left off at the United States consulate. I waltzed back into the sad little office in the sad little building and laid the photos in front of angry lady. She had me fill out the most monotonous forms you can imagine, and then asked me how I'd like to pay for the passport. I asked if I could use a card (since I had all of the information on a card back home) even though I already knew the answer. The woman started shaking her head at me before I could even get the whole question out. So I laid all the money I had on the counter. She then oh-so-lovingly informed me that there were two issues: first, some of the cash was in pesos, and some in dollars. It had to be entirely in pesos. Second, I was EXACTLY ten dollars short because I had spent it on my second set of passport pictures. What kind of insane cosmic injustice is that?! At that moment, I wanted to throw a cinder block at consulate lady. Unfortunately, none were lying around. I asked her if the bank would let me accept a wire transfer as long as I brought my passport copy and she just shrugged and said "hm, probably not." Can you even wrap your mind around how wonderfully helpful she was?? What an angel.

I now realize why the consulate was in the same building as a liquor store- after the horrendous experience all I wanted to do was down some tequila, even though I would have puked it right up.

So I stormed out and walked across the street to the bank. My friend had already completed the wire transfer on his end, I just had to pick it up. I walked up to an open banker and told her my name and said I needed to pick up a wire transfer. She said she needed to see an official passport first. I showed her the copy and guess what she gave me? Yup, the "look," and probably one of the worst ones I'd gotten on the entire trip. I tried to explain to her the insanity of the situation, and how it was a stupid Catch 22 that I needed an official passport to get the money that I needed to get the passport. Her vacant expression told me she had long ago mentally checked out of that conversation. I could feel slight panic begin to well up within me. It was really, truly looking like I was out of luck and would have to cash in my life in the US for one in Mexico.

The other task I had to do before leaving Mexico was file a police report to show them at immigration at the airport. So I figured I may as well do that since the police department was nearby and it was something I could shockingly do for free. I went into the wrong part of the building and they told me where to go, so I entered some little room and a lady asked how she could help. I began recalling my tale, describing the robbery in the best Spanish I could muster. As I told the story, I could feel the tears welling up behind my eyes. I tried so hard to keep the food gates closed, but alas, the tears came careening down. She gently patted my arm, and after my story I told her what was going on right now with all of the passport nonsense and how there was no way for me to get a wire transfer. She looked at me with a gentle, calm expression and told me to tell someone in the United States to send money to her, since she had an ID. She let me snap a photo of her license (which showed a great deal of trust if you ask me) to send to whomever would wire the money.

My parents wired money to her, and she and I walked over to the bank together. Since I had just been there trying to get money, she told me she thought I should wait outside lest I look suspicious. While waiting outside, it was taking a bit longer than I felt it should. I started to worry that I had been screwed over again and that she had taken the money and gone out some other door. Right as that thought hit me, however, she returned with all of the cash I needed. I gave her one of those hugs that you REALLY mean, the kind you give someone when they have done something truly above and beyond (like, saving me from an eternity in Cancun).

Oh, one last little tidbit about the horrible consulate woman is how unnecessarily rude to me when I asked her if, since I was in the consulate, I was technically in the United States. She gave me an unnecessary stink eye and told me that that was just a dumb myth (but with her weird gross accent it sounded like "mitt"). Way to burst my bubble, lady. Some people...

Anyhow, with the proper amount of money in hand, (thankfully I had a different lady helping me this time and she was MUCH nice) the only thing I had left to do was raise my right hand and swear that I didn't do anything in Mexico to jeopardize my United States citizenship. She then told me where to go to pick up the passport which would arrive in 24 hours. Then she just HAD to add "although, sometimes the delivery truck gets a flat." Thanks for those words of encouragement...

I was still sick as dog, vomiting water and anything I tried to eat, so I spent the rest of my day lying in bed in my hotel room watching American news which depressed me, so I switched to Coraline, which is probably one of the creepiest movies I have ever seen.

Creepiest. Movie. Ever.

So, did the passport arrive on time? Tune in next time to find out!

C yoU Next Tuesday at the Consulate

Alright, I know a decent amount of you reading this series of blogs are jonesing for this next segment and the one or possibly two to follow, so I'd better sit own and get to it. Those of you who have been pestering me to just finish my tale already, know that it is working.

I awoke at seven for my appointment at the consulate which wasn't until nine. I figured with all that had been going on and with the luck I'd been having, I should probably be as early as possible. So, front desk lady was the same one who manned (or...womanned?) reception on the day earlier, the day of my arrival. When I first checked in, I told her I needed directions to to consulate for my appointment the next day. Instead of just Google mapping it (yes, that is not a verb. Now there's not just "googling," there's "google mapping"), she decided to ask four employees if they knew where the American Consulate was. They all just shook their heads and shrugged. So, finally she looked it up and printed me a map and handed to me with no further instruction. I found the first cab I could and asked him to take me to the place highlighted on the map. Cab Driver Paco was a kind but far too chatty individual, which is something I have trouble dealing under normal circumstances and even more so when I am depleted of all energy from illness and cranky in general about what I had to go do.

Fifteen or twenty minutes or so lead us to the destination on the pathetic little map from the receptionist. The destination, however, looked like an abandoned strip mall, leading us both to believe the consulate was elsewhere. Paco asked another cabby in the parking lot if he knew where the United States Consulate was, and he just shook his head and said he knew where the Canadian one was. I guess Paco decided that a Canadian Consulate would be just as good for meeting my needs as the United States one, so he drove me there. I ascended the stairs of a tall white building while Paco awaited me outside, and I asked the Canadians where my consulate was. They said it was a good couple of miles farther down the street in a building called Europea (which turned out to be a shared structure between the United States Consulate and a liquor and smoke shop. Classy.

I felt super prepared. I brought the last of my cash which happened to be just enough for cab rides and the emergency passport, as well as a copy of my stolen one (hold on a moment while I go wipe away my tears at the remembrance of my lost stamps), and my passport photo with my face that apparently needed to be fixed desperately.

Since I had an appointment, there was no wait. I waked right up to the counter and this heavier lady with one of the strangest accents I'd ever heard greeted me (honestly it sounded like a weird combo between Irish, Scottish, and Boston with a touch of New York). I could tell INSTANTLY she hated her job. Dealing with her was much akin to dealing with an angry DMV employee (let's call him Marcus in this example) who hates his job with a fiery passion and just found out that he is getting a pay decrease tomorrow. To make matters worse, his wife is filing for divorce, he left his lunch at home and he forgot that he put his wallet on top of his car and drove away. Things aren't going well for Marcus...Anyhow, imaginary Marcus' attitude is the same of that of the consulate lady. The first thing she asked me was for my passport photos. She took one irritated look at them and told me I needed to go have them retaken before returning, as the pictures I brought were Mexican sized (which was like, a centimeter shorter). She also told me to put some super random amount of pesos in an account at a very specific bank called Salander for the courier service (that would hopefully deliver my passport the next day) before returning to see her. And she was just so chipper about it too!

Ah, the beautiful trash heaps of Cancun

I had come to expect bumps in the road in everything I attempted to do, so I wasn't horribly shocked. I hailed a cab and asked him to take me to a place where I could get photos taken (because do you think the lady told me where to go for that? Nope. And she just told me to ask a cab driver where to find one. Her position on my list of favorite people list was quickly rising to the top [sarcasm]). So he took me to another sketchy looking strip mall and asked a man standing in front of a door if he knew where a photo shop was. He stroked his chin pensively and then led me to a tiny shop around the back of the mall. Then he said something about how the owner was his friend and his "brother from another mother" and that he would take good care of me, but that the shop wouldn't be open until 10. Of course.

So, I got back in the cab and told the driver (thankfully, a much less chatty one) if he could take me to the bank to do that weird account thing. I had no idea what was going on, but the lady behind the counter seemed to, so I just went with it. Cab driver guy and I then returned to the photo shop and waited until about 9:50 when I walked over to see if they had opened early and, shockingly, they had. The weird dude from earlier's "brother from another mother" did, in fact, take good care of me. I told him I needed United States-sized passport photos, so he took my picture (without heckling me about my face that needed fixing) and told me to wait about ten minutes. 

I spent about ten dollars on the pictures, then headed back to the consulate. Now I was ready. Now I was prepared. Except for one, tiny little issue. 

I Hope Someone Up There is Having a Good Laugh

So where was I? Oh yes, puking out my guts and my hostel bathroom. Now, the situation wouldn't have been quite so bad had the blaring music come back and lasted from about 8 PM until 4 AM. It's unpleasant enough to puke up the sandwich you ate for dinner, especially when it includes entire chunks of mushrooms (I need to chew my food better), but somehow even more unpleasant when you're listening to really, really crappy techno on repeat. Then, just to add insult to injury, my air conditioner decided to stop working and it was probably the hottest night I'd stayed there. So, I got out of bed every couple hours to go puke my guts out, and then in between those puking segments I was lying under just a single sheet in the hottest room you can imagine. OK OK-I admit I'm being slightly dramatic, but when you're trying to sleep and you can't because you're sweating profusely, 80+ degrees with humidity makes any room starts to feel like a Bikram yoga studio.

 

Needless to say, (but I'm going to say it [or rather write it] anyway) I didn't get much, if any sleep. I texted Joel right away because we were supposed to meet for breakfast in town before leaving on the bus (he was heading to the airport and I to Cancun to figure out my passport situation) and I told him I wasn't sure if I would be able to muster my strength to get out of bed. Now naturally, the day that I began my vomiting streak, Joel finally felt better. Because, of course. 

So Joel came to meet me at the hostel and had breakfast (just looking at it made me want to hurl). We finished packing up my stuff and checked out, then dreaded to the station to catch our 10:30 ADO bus to Cancun. The ride back was bittersweet; we chatted idly along the way while Erin Brockovich played in Spanis on the TV screens. He and I went through a lot and I'd certainly consider him a good friend. Even though our relationship kicked off with my threat to mace and/or stab him. 

In Cancun, we had our emotional, but not over-the-top emotional (I mean, we'd see each other again in Boulder so big deal). Then he nabbed a cab to the airport, and I to the Ramada. 

Now, before Joel left, we made a major mistake by not checking the amount of cash I had left. A mistake that would come to haunt me more than once over the next few days. 

My friend in the States had booked me a three night stay at the Ramada in Cancun and thought it had been paid for. His card was on file with them, but for God knows what reason, they needed the PHYSICAL card in spite of having ALL of the details for it when the reservation was made. People are idiots. 

 

I told them I didn't have enough cash for three nights, food, cabs and a passport, and guess what look I got? Yes the "I don't give two shits" look. I paid her for one night in cash and decided to figure out the rest later. I then asked the receptionist where I could get passport photos taken because I had an appointment with the consul of the next morning. She gave me these very vague directions and I asked if the place was in walking distance and she said yes. however, since I could barely understand her muddled Spanish and I still had no idea where I was going, I decided to take a cab and just tell the cab driver to take me to a place where I can get passport photos taken. 

It was actually a lady cabdriver, which was my first one in Mexico, but whatever I'm not sexist. She seemed to know where she was going. I walked into the sketchy looking little photo shop where they take graduation photos and quincinera ones and all that good BS. I asked them for passport photos, they told me to take a seat, and so I did. They said they would be with me im just a moment and that it shouldn't take longer than 10 minutes.

Now, remember that I had been puking my guts out all night day, I looked like total shit, and I hadn't been able to shower. So keep that in mind as you listen to the next part of the story. I walked into the photo area, where this old man took one look at me give me a concerned expression and asked me if I wanted to "fix my face" or at the very least "comb my hair." Wow, what a compliment! Take me now, sailor!

                                                         

I told him no, I did not want to fix my face, I'd rather remember this horror of a trip with a picture to match. He took the photos, handed them to me, and I returned to the hotel where I began yet another puking session the onset of which came from half a Gatorade. 

I spent the rest of the evening watching Coraline, which if you haven't seen it is creepy as all hell, and fell in and out of sleep and delirium, ready for my appointment with the consulate the next morning. Or, at least I thought I was... 

Mexican Maladies

I was starting to believe that I had a curse upon me, seeing as how right when I arrived Joel got sick. The kind of food poisoning you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy. We called it an early night and he headed to his hostel and I to mine. I had this nutty idea that I would somehow get good sleep at Humble Bumble. Not the case. Music began blasting around 9 pm and didn't stop until 2 or 3 in the morning. I don't mean the kind of loud music you can block out with ear plugs, by the the way.

It made me look back at my late teens and early twenties and wonder how on Earth I had the energy to do that while traveling- stay up until the wee hours and dancing and chatting and drinking. I am so, so over it. 

The next morning, Joel met me at Humble Bumble because mine had free breakfast, but he decided his stomach was still too wonky to try and eat at the moment. So I scarfed down my omelette and we headed to the beach. Joel was beginning to get weak from the food poisoning, so we took a cab. Then we spent essentially the entire day on the beach, lying in the sun and alternating between reading and napping and, in my case, journaling. It was so relaxing for me but I felt horrible for Joel. He just seemed to feel worse and worse as the day progressed. Finally, after having been on the beach for like 9 hours, we headed to a nearby restaurant where I ordered him s side of white rice to try and get something in him. I had beans and rice and friend plantains, as well as some of the best guac I've ever had.

After eating some of his rice, Joel straight up had to lie down, which was fortunate because we were eating on a couch. We then walked slowly to find a cab that took us to a pharmacy so I could pick up some NyQuil for Joel which they didn't even have so I just got something just looked like NyQuil. We then went our separate ways. 

The next day when Joel met me for breakfast, he looked so extremely depleted. Much to both of our surprise and delight, there hadn't been any music the night prior at either of our hostels so we finally got a good night of rest. Joel was so low on energy he didn't even think he could make it to the beach. So I went for a quick jog, he lied in a lawn chair and waited for my return.

When I got back, I had sweat trickling from areas I didn't know sweat could come from. I was ready for a shower, and needed it especially after 7 days without one. I got into the shower with a head dribbling out cold water at the lowest water pressure you can imagine, soaped myself up from head to toe, and then guess what happened? The water ran out after about two minutes. I mean, I was so annoyed but based on how the trip had panned out so far, I wasn't shocked. So I put a mug under the tiny trickle of water dripping from the sink until it was full and then repeated until I got the soap off of me. It was the most magical shower of my life. 

Afterwards, I returned to Joel who was then lying in a hammock reading. I lied down on a lawn chair beside him and did the same. I told him I was going to venture into town for a bit to try and find him meds and get myself a drink from Starbucks. Town was relatively close, and it took me no more than ten minutes to find some Pepto at a pharmacy. That finally seemed to improve Joel's condition, but he was still so weak and just wanted to lie around and read, which was fine with me. At the end of the evening, he took the cab back to his hostel and I went to my room in mine. And that's where my six-seven day saga of puking and nausea began. 

 

At Least Things Can't Get Any Worse

Prior to boarding the bus to Tulum, a British girl asked me if it was the bus to Tulum. I told her it was, and she asked me what was wrong because YES I had been crying, which I guess was very apparent. I told her about my recent robbery, and she expressed how sorry she was and told me to tell her if she could do anything to help. 

While riding the bus to Tulum, my mind was blank. I am surprised that I wasn’t panicking or at least trying to formulate some plan in my mind about what to do next, how to go about getting money without any identification and without any credit or debit cards. But I just wasn’t. Maybe my brain was simply exhausted from the mental strain through which it had been in Cuba and was just over residing within my skull, finally ready to mutiny against its stupid owner. So I just rode the bus while staring out the window blankly. 

When the bus pulled into the station in Tulum, I realized that I was screwed once again unless I could magically come across enough money for a cab or if I were magically within walking distance of my hostel or a very sympathetic cabby. The latter seemed highly unlikely. Then I remembered my British bus-mate. I walked up to her after grabbing my bag and she happily obliged to loan me money, and said she would just share a cab with me. It ended up being illogical to do so since our hostels were in entirely different directions, but I appreciated it anyway. She told me her name was Lucy, and to come to her hostel if I needed anyone else. Thanks to Lucy’s generosity, I was able to make it to my hostel. I told the receptionist, a frighteningly tall and serious German woman that since I had no money, I had no way to pay unless she used the card on file that I used for the reservation. She asked if I was planning to cancel it ASAP, and I said good point, and she took pity on me and said we could figure it out later. 

I got in touch with Joel, told him I had arrived in Tulum, and asked him to meet me at the Humble Bumble Hostel. Yes, that is a real hostel, and that is its real name. 

 

Now, a lot of you may be reading this blog series and thinking “wow, it really can’t get any worse for Marisa.” Okay, go ahead and take that perspective you pessimist! While I am admittedly not the most optimistic of individuals, I just had to keep a little spark of hope. It actually turned into a running joke with one of my other friends back home with whom I was communicating and who also saved my bony ass more than once while I was away- we kept saying “well, at least it can’t get any worse."

 

At the very least, I still had my phone. And all of my limbs. The phone was a major one, since I used it to coordinate with people back home. The amazing friend to whom I continuously refer had arranged to send money directly to Joel, who then could use his ATM card to withdraw the money for me. Joel paid German receptionist woman for the first night, we rented bikes, and rode to the beach. 

Another “uplifting” aspect of being robbed was that I really only had one valuable to keep track of- my phone. So, that was slightly liberating. See? I was still a glass half full kind of gal at that point. 

 

We arrived at the beach after a rather lengthy bike ride just as the sky was beginning to darken. It really was picturesque; the sun setting and giving way to glimmering stars as day transitioned to night. We took off our shoes and strolled along, enjoying the smells of the ocean and people watching. 

Things were looking up. Plus, as my friend back home and I would joke, things couldn't get any worse, right? Just as that thought hit me, Joel announced that he wasn’t feeling well at all, and that we needed to find a bathroom right away.