Agents’ Meeting in Mexico

The problems with my trip to Mexico for the Air France Agents’ Meeting were fore and aft. The middle was delightful.

We may be next door to Mexico, but you can’t get there from here.

• TACA flies Belize/Salvador/Mexico and back daily. However the schedule necessitates overnighting in Salvador both ways, a waste of time and money.

• It is possible to fly to Miami and back to Mexico, but it is prohibitively expensive.

• One of the local airlines flies a 5-passenger Cessna from Belize to the Mexican town of Chetumal just across the border. However, they reach Chetumal at 8:30 am and the only flight to Mexico City leaves at 4:30 pm. That’s a complete waste of a day. I thought I had a good return connection until after I had bought the ticket; the little airline announced that I was the only passenger so they were canceling the flight.

• Result: Three-hour taxi ride between Belize and Chetumal to make connections with Aviacsa to and from Mexico City. Cost, nearly what I would have paid going via Miami. The one good thing is that the driver, Mr. Arnold, is an old friend who works for our company regularly. We had a pleasant visit each way.

 

I went to Mexico a day early so I could do some shopping. This time, I stayed at the Hotel Aristos on El Paseo de la Reforma. The Stauffers and I liked it very much when we stayed there several years ago. I had to ask my associate at Air France, Mexico City, to help me make reservations. I could tell by the tone of her subsequent faxes, suggesting other hotels, that she did not think I would be pleased by my choice, no matter how happily I remembered the hotel.

I wasn’t. I remembered the lobby as unostentatious and the reception clerk as exceptionally friendly. This time, the lobby was grander and the staff equally starchy. Last time, our rooms were large and brightly welcoming in spring greens. This time, the room was divided into bedroom and well-furnished sitting area—convenient, but more crowded. For once, I found beiges and dark browns depressing.

The bed-light hood jutted out from the wall the entire width of the king size bed. It was set so low that it was impossible to prop up with pillows to read or watch TV without one’s head being thrown forward so sharply that nothing but one’s lap was in view. Miserable. For this I paid almost double what I had paid the first visit, despite the current peso devaluation.

On the plus side, room service orders were delivered quickly by gracious waiters. The food was good. On the minus side, there were no plugs for either basin or tub in my expensive room. I washed stockings in a wastebasket and had showers instead of the luxurious bubble baths I had anticipated.

 

The hotel’s location was conveniently in the Zona Rosa. I set out early my first morning for my favorite jewelry shop. I walked at least an hour, up and down almost-deserted streets, before I found it. It was closed. The shopkeeper next door assured me that the store opened late—11 or 12 o’clock. I spent the intervening time walking many more blocks before locating a beauty salon and then having my hair done.

When I returned to the jewelry shop, it was open. The talented elderly man who owned it was at the counter. He had sold me a smoky topaz ring some years ago that was in the suitcase stolen in France. I found a similar stone in a setting I did not like. However, there was an amethyst of identical size in a handsome setting, typical of his best work. The jeweler agreed to exchange the stones. I now have a new smoky topaz ring in a lovely gold setting. It is round instead of rectangular and, to me, not quite as handsome as the lost ring. Still, it is attractive and I am delighted to have it.

I took with me to Mexico another ring I had bought there, a turquoise set in gold. The stone was dull and stained. Jewelers in Colorado told me that it probably could not be cleaned. Mr. Willender confirmed it. He had a charming malachite exactly the same size and shape. I asked him to put it into my setting. Next time I am in Colorado I will buy a turquoise set in silver. I prefer that anyway.

That should have been the end of the story. However, I couldn’t resist looking at his entire collection of this type ring. The amethysts were gorgeous, but I never wear lavender or purple. Most of the topazes were too bright a yellow. Unfortunately, I found one that wasn’t. It was a large, beautifully-cut, soft yellow stone. The jeweler explained that it also was a smoky topaz, but a light one. It was in a lovely setting, too large for every-day wear but an ideal compliment to most of the clothes in my wardrobe.

It is not safe to wear my diamond rings much in Belize now. These Mexican rings are handsome, I think, and moderate in cost. It is not wildly extravagant to have several.

The jeweler promised to have all the rings set and sized by three that afternoon. Then came the business of paying. He had assured me in the beginning that he accepted Visa. However, he asked for a down-payment. I suggested his making an impression of my card. No way. I offered him a us$50.00 bill. Not nearly enough. I retreated to a far corner of the store and extracted a $100 bill from my Bosom Buddy stash. He was grudgingly satisfied. Then he announced that he would prefer cash for the balance, too, because he lost money on credit card sales and, after all, he had given me large discounts. True. He probably cut the cost down to somewhat more than he would have charged a Mexican. I told him that I had not brought much cash, but I would check how much I had.

Back in the hotel I found I had about $150 left. I was not about to give him that. I determined to go back and tell him that I couldn’t pay more cash so would not take the large topaz. By the time I returned, he was all smiles and quite happy to charge the balance. I am sure he clipped me on exchange, though I got him to lower the rate some. There’s only so much one can do in a foreign country. Furthermore, I knew that the rings were slightly better than good value for the money. I emerged an extremely happy woman with my new wardrobe of stones.

 

The handcraft market was only about a block away, so I headed there. It is a warren of small cubicles crowded with silver jewelry and larger pieces glowing under bright lights. Every foot of the way another vendor calls for one’s attention. It is overpowering. It was latish in the afternoon. I had walked miles that day. I was too tired to cope with the harassment or single out one piece from the thousands. I fled back my cave in the hotel.

Next morning, I returned to the market as it was opening. Very few people were around. I found a charming young woman in one of the first cubicles. With her help I found several small gifts to take home with me.

 

The Air France group gathered at the airport and set off for Acapulco by bus. It was a beautiful bus, two sections separated by a small galley and lavatory. People were free to wander back and forth, visiting with friends. An open bar was set up in the little galley. The lunch was food from Air France Premiere Classe, served on regulation trays. Superb wines. The highway was excellent. A splendid promotional film from Panama was shown on the video screen. Passengers took over the microphone to tell jokes, in Spanish, of course. It was a five-hour trip, but a relatively pleasant one.

 

You may have Acapulco. I consider it a disaster. Too many high-rise hotels. Too many neon-lighted shops lining the streets.

Our hotel was lovely. The ground floor was mostly open-air, including bars and restaurants. My room was large and lovely. One entire wall was glass, with sliding doors onto a balcony overlooking the bay. Directly in front of me, waves washed onto the beach. To the left, the ocean swept in a long curve, washing in behind an uneven series of large rocks. The bay was tightly circled by high hills that became a wall of lights after dark. I never closed my draperies against the view. If anyone from the nearest window, a football field’s length or more away, happened to see me in my slip, they were welcome to the sight.

 

What to say about a business conference? It was interesting, stimulating, helpful. It also was a strain, being conducted fully in Spanish. Food in the hotel was good, but not special. The final dinner in a restaurant on the top floor looking out over the bay was lovely.

 

Air France flew us all back to Mexico City. We laughed about the 40-minute flight compared to our 5-hour arrival. I could not make a connection with my flight back to Chetumal, so Air France booked me into the airport hotel. The charming young marketing manager from the Panama agency also stayed over. When I mentioned that I intended to go to the zoo, Giovanna asked if she could go with me. Naturally, I was delighted. When we met for lunch after checking in, Giovi said she had telephoned her fiancé in Panama. He was absolutely delighted that she was going to the zoo and told her it was one of the finest ones in the world. She said he is an animal nut (like Carli and me). I took Giovi to lunch in the hotel. We arrived barely in time to heap plates with goodies from the Mexican-type buffet before it closed.

The taxi left us at the wrong gate at Chapultepec, so we walked for at least 30 minutes before reaching the zoo entrance. The zoo is free to the public but there was a two-block-long waiting line. We were horrified. However, it moved swiftly. The reason for it was that Security Guards ran people through a field of narrow lanes, shunting aside people carrying things to eat or drink and, probably, weeding out undesirables. We found incredible security throughout the zoo. I don’t think we ever were out of sight of at least three guards. We both clutched our hand bags throughout the afternoon but never saw anything but a happy, orderly crowd of families.

It was a searingly hot afternoon, so many of the animals had retreated to their air conditioned houses or to convenient caves in their enclosures. We never saw the lions or elephants. However, we saw a wide range of other animals, including two grown giant pandas. Giovi could not believe that I recognized every animal except for a couple of ungulates from Asia.

We stopped at the glass fronting one of the primate enclosures. I saw a flash of rust-colored arm with a fringe of long hair circling its elbow. “I think it is a very young orangutan,” I told Giovi. Moments later the little animal inched its way back into view. I was in front of the glass at the left corner. The orangutan appeared to be looking directly at me with a happy smile. Suddenly he leaped down onto the ledge inside the glass and held out his arms to me. I held mine out to him. He touched the glass. Apparently realizing he could not come into my arms, he put one slim, elongated black palm against the glass. I put my hand against the glass on the other side. He held out his arms. I held out mine, then twisted my palms upward in a gesture of helplessness. The little orang’s smile faded. He wrapped both arms around himself and rocked back and forth, dropped his head and looked up under his bangs with the saddest eyes I ever have seen. All I could do was crouch down to his level and show compassion by expression and gesture. There was a large crowd murmuring as they watched the performance, boosting children up to their shoulders to see. The sad little pantomime must have lasted for three to five minutes. Abruptly the little animal rose, planted an enormous kiss on the glass in front of my face, and vanished into his tree.

It was all I could do to keep from smashing the glass and following. It seemed obvious he had been hand-raised and probably had been put into his enclosure only recently. It broke my heart to leave him…

…until we saw his probable father in another enclosure. He was a terrifying giant, splayed out against a high rock wall, inching his way along it. He must have been six feet tall with an arm-spread even greater. His magnificent rust-colored coat fell in tresses fully a foot-and-a-half long from arms and back. The face that turned toward us occasionally was not angry, but had a self-contained sternness far more forbidding than the gentle expressions of the gorillas.

After three-and-a-half happy hours, Giovi and I limped to the nearest exit and taxied back to our hotel. En route, she looked at me admiringly and commented in her somewhat limited English, “You’re really strong!” It suddenly occurred to me that, considering I had arrived at an altitude of almost 7,500 feet an hour or so earlier, our afternoon-long jaunt through the zoo had been a creditable performance for an “Elderly.”

 

Giovi had walked a blister onto her heel. I took her back to my room and supplied her with enough band-aids to hold her until she could buy more in Miami. She was on her way to meet her mother and pick out her wedding dress. Giovi wanted to return to the government handcraft center to buy something she had seen earlier for her mother. I declined her invitation to join her and said I would stay in my room, bathe, and have a room-service dinner. Giovi had been with the young Air France group who followed the final dinner with a round of discos and returned to the hotel after 6:00 am. She was about ready to collapse herself.

My room-service dinner arrived with commendable promptness. I opened the door for the waiter and was amazed to see on the tray a delicate bud vase with a single red carnation amid greenery. Before I could recover, the waiter had extracted the flower, bowed low, and handed it to me. I was so taken aback that I barely realized that instead of simply putting down my tray and leaving, he had whipped out a table cloth, set my place, positioned plates, and taken the tray with him. P.S. The food was almost as good as the service.

 

My return would have been routine if I could have found my boarding gate. I spent a frantic half hour running in and out, up and down, back and forth, following bad directions until I finally located B4 by going outdoors down one long ramp, indoors up another into A concourse and running past all the A gates to the end where, quite improbably, a sign B4 and a familiar clerk assured me that I could board my flight.