A Toilet, a Mexican Restaurant and Swingers

Cancun, Mexico—the hub of collegiate spring breakers partying until the break of dawn. It’s also a place where the average family, equipped with their 2.5 children, goes to indulge in the all-inclusive luxuries of the great resorts located in the hotel zone or just outside of the city center.

It is a place my family has ventured to five times. I don’t know what it is about Cancun that allows it to top my dad’s list of vacation destinations each year; maybe it’s the self-serve, all-you-can-drink beer taps that are conveniently located in various spots throughout the resorts. Whatever it is, it’s always my dad’s one and only choice whenever my mom decides to let him have his way. The first four times we traveled to Cancun were virtually free of any hiccups, but the fifth (and possibly final) family trip was riddled with setbacks that almost rival a Hollywood depiction of a terrible travel experience.

Scene 1: Airport Parking Deck

I don’t know if you’ve ever been to the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, but the spaces in the parking deck have little lights on the ceiling above them that glow red when a space is occupied and green when it is vacant. The morning of our flight to Cancun, everything started out running smoothly. We had finished packing our suitcases the night before, no one’s alarm mysteriously didn’t go off and we got on the road with plenty of time ahead of us. We reached the airport in record time and began our search for an available spot in the parking deck. Row after row of red lights awaited us; everyone else must have had the same idea.

“GREEN LIGHT! GO BACK!” my mom yelled as she spotted the beacon out of the corner of her eye.

My dad threw the car into reverse, stepped onto the gas pedal and slammed straight into the car trailing along behind us, presumably on the hunt for a space, as well.

“Shit.” He slumped forward resting his forehead against the steering wheel.

“Nice one, Dad,” I quipped with a sly smile.

“Shut up, Kayleigh.” He shot me a dirty look in the rearview mirror. “You should have been looking for me.”

“Yep, that was definitely my fault.”

Luckily, our big Nissan Xterra managed to avoid any real damage, but the poor guy behind us had a perfectly square puncture from our toe hitch right in the center of his bumper. My dad feverishly apologized for the accident and began to pull out his cell phone to call the police. “No, you don’t have to do that. Put your phone away.” The other man slowly began to retreat. “Your car’s cool, so is mine. N-no need for police.”

Before my dad even had a chance to reply, the shady fella jumped back into his car, swerved around us and sped off. Stunned, we climbed back into the car and wouldn’t you know it, that space that had caused all of this trouble now had a glowing red light perched above it.

Scene 2: The Gate

Eventually, we found a parking space, checked in and made it through security without any trouble. The minutes ticked by and eventually our boarding time arrived.

There was no announcement to tell us to start lining up; no “We’re sorry, but the flight has been delayed.” Nothing.

It wasn’t that concerning at first, but after another half an hour passed with no update people started getting restless. One by one, passengers started to approach the airline worker with their questions, but the answer was the same every time. Apparently, the desk agents are not allowed to inform passengers of any delays or issues with their flight until a supervisor has given them the all clear.

On this day, the supervisor was M.I.A.

As we sat and watched the time on the departure board slowly creep up, my mom’s fiery Irish temper began to flare.

“Four feckin’ hours we’ve been sitting here and they’re not going to tell us anything?” She looked around hoping to gain allies against the dictator that was Southwest Airlines. “Oh no, that is not on.”

My dad and I gave each other the “here she goes” look as nearby fellow travelers shot her glances and nudged one another as if they knew a situation was about to erupt. Her petite 5’2 frame marched toward the airline workers.

“I’d like to know what’s going on.” She placed both hands on her hips and assumed the ever recognizable “I’m a pissed off customer and you better fix it” position.

“Ma’am, we’re working on it.” The worker’s eyes didn’t budge from the computer screen they were fixated on.

“Working on what?” One hand dropped from her hip. “I want to know, NOW.”

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait for the supervisor.” Her eyes diverted from the screen for a split second then shot right back.

At this point, my mom was joined by a middle-aged woman who had clearly indulged in one too many overpriced vodkas at the airport bar. They both stood at the desk wagging their fingers and demanding answers for at least 20 minutes while the rest of the passengers at the gate watched on in sheer delight.

At least it’s not me up there acting like that they were inevitably thinking. Eventually, the nearly incoherent woman stumbled back to her husband and my little leprechaun of a mom came back to my mortified dad and me.

“Told you they’d tell me,” she said with a smug grin on her face, “One of the lavatories is broken and they’re trying to fix it.”

If anyone can convince someone to break the rules with her nagging, it’s my mother.

After my mom and her blabber mouth had walked around the entire gate and informed everyone about why we were still waiting, a Southwest worker finally decided to make an announcement over the intercom.

“Southwest Airlines passengers waiting to embark on the flight to Cancun, Mexico, maintenance are working on fixing a broken lavatory. We hope to have you boarded and in-flight shortly.”

Frustrated patrons let out shouts of “for over four hours” and “we’ll fly without a shitter,” to no response from the announcement-maker. It seemed like we were going to be stranded at the gate forever, but then a line of maintenance men came out of the jetway. Everyone assumed that the problem had been resolved and we were about to get the all clear to board. Bags were gathered, last minute bathroom trips were taken, and then it happened.

“Passengers, I regret to inform you that your flight has been canceled. We are working on finding you another flight for tomorrow. If you form an orderly line we will distribute meal vouchers and hotel accommodations as quickly as possible,” said the voice of gate 16's public enemy number one.

According to the U.S. Department of Transportation, airlines are not required to provide stranded passengers with any kind of reimbursements. Lucky for Southwest Airlines, they made the smart decision to do so anyway. If they hadn’t, this would probably be a very different story.

Scene 3: 3 Palms Hotel

Another hour standing in line with people pushing and cutting their way to the front for their lodging delegations and food vouchers that had to be used within 24 hours led to finally sitting on a rickety shuttle bus that took us to the hotel we had been oh so generously assigned.

Three giant suitcases in tow, we pulled up to the 3 Palms Hotel just a few miles away from the airport. The instant we pulled into the parking lot, I thought my mom was going to start crying.

Not only was this barely a two and a half star hotel, but it was attached to a Mexican restaurant that also doubled as a Gentlemen’s club. Yes, a strip club. Eat a burrito while you watch some women swing on the pole. Maybe it works for some people, but I wasn’t feeling it.

As we sheepishly shuffled into the lobby with another family of stranded passengers, a very voluptuous woman with long braids greeted us.

“Ya’ll look lost.” She looked us up and down with a curious eye. “Is ya’ll lost?”

A woman with the other group of people piped up and told her about our situation.

“Ain’t nobody tell me ya’ll was coming.” I got the sense she wasn’t all that thrilled she actually had to do some work.

We stood huddled in the corner of the lobby trying not to inhale the stench of spices and illegal substance while she got in touch with the airline and sorted out our room situations.

Once we were given—tossed to be more exact—our room keys, we made our way to the elevator eager to hide out in the hotel room until it was time to head back to the airport. The elevator doors opened and in we stepped followed by two very tall, very blinged out men. They shuffled to the very back of the elevator, keeping a tight grip on their remarkably saggy jeans. They were evidently the cause of the pungent odor in the lobby. The elevator came to a halt on the third floor and my parents and I got off. I looked over at my mom to make sure she hadn’t completely lost it.

“You okay, Mom?” I gently placed my hand on her shoulder afraid that she would crumble beneath my touch at any second.

“Were they …” She clutched her purse tighter. “… rappers? They looked like rappers.”

“I doubt it. Why would they be staying here?”

“Maybe they like Mexican food.” I never thought she’d be the one to lighten the mood.

When I say I’ve never seen a hotel room like this other than in the movies, I’m being serious. The TV on the 3-legged table was out of the 80s, the mirror in the bathroom was hanging on to the wall by one hinge in the upper left-hand corner, the shower curtain looked like the bottom had been hacked off by a chainsaw to make it fit and the carpet was damp. I can only imagine what the source of the dampness was.

“Keep your shoes on, don’t get under the covers and do not put your head on those pillows,” my mom ordered as she pulled out a bottle of hand sanitizer that was sure to be empty within a few hours. It was going to be a very grueling night.

It was 3 am and while my dad was snoring away, probably dreaming that he was lying on a beach basking in the scorching sun, my mom was refusing to go to sleep. Convinced that she was going to catch some sort of fungal disease or that we were going to be robbed, she had opted to watch an all-night marathon of Keeping Up with the Kardashians while sitting fully clothed, shoes and all, on the edge of the bed. My attempt at getting a few hours of sleep was continuously disrupted by the monotonous drone of the grossly overused “literally” blaring from the TV. The tight skinny jeans and hoodie I was wearing because I was “cold” (I was really afraid of catching something, too) probably didn’t help much either.

The shuttle bus that carries passengers back and forth from the hotel to the airport began running at 6:30 am. You better believe we were standing in the lobby promptly at 6:25 ready to get the hell out of there.

Scene 4: The Plane

Another seamless trip through security and we were finally sitting on a plane that had fully functioning lavatories. Since we were last minute additions to the flight, we didn’t have seats together. I was in a row directly in front of my dad, while my mom was living in the lap of luxury in first class—my dad had a free upgrade and thought it was better to have her ten rows ahead of us for a few hours seeing as she hadn’t slept or eaten; it would be easier on everyone that way.

We were finally in the air and on our way to Cancun. The sky looked beautiful as I gazed out of the window from my seat; besides me a couple about my parents’ age was giddily play-fighting like two teenagers immersed in the deep depths of puppy love.

Normally, an act of affection such as this would have bothered me to no end, but I tried to remain calm. It could have been worse; I could have been sitting next to some chatty Kathy who didn’t understand that if I had my headphones in I didn’t want to talk. They kept up their childish game for a little while longer and then began to discuss their plans for Cancun. I couldn’t help but listen in to their conversation. Some may call it being nosy; I call it taking in my surroundings.

“So, when we get there we can go shopping.” The wife began stroking her husband’s hair.

“And dinner at the hotel tonight,” the husband responded. It sounded like a fairly standard first day on vacation plan to me.

“And tomorrow night is the naked pool party.” She clapped her hands in excitement.

Naked pool party? At this point my ears perked up and I, as inconspicuously as possible, leaned closer to catch their every word. I must admit, this probably wasn’t the best decision I have ever made.

“I think Ginger and Bill are already there,” the husband informed.

“Oh, really?” The wife leaned closer to her husband; their foreheads basically touching. “I love them. Definitely my favorite couple—so sexy.”

“I wonder whose room we’ll end up in.” They exchanged flirty chuckles. “Hopefully theirs.”

“I hope so, too.” They shared a passionate kiss as the wife leaned back far enough to rest her back against my arm. “It’s going to be a looooong night.”

I sat paralyzed and wide-eyed trying to internalize what I had just subjected myself to hearing. Their colorful conversation continued as I battled with whether or not I should continue listening. It wasn’t long until I worked out that they were swingers. Yeah, swingers.

Again, it might work for some people, but definitely not for me. For the rest of the flight, I tried to draw as little attention to myself as possible. The wife leaned over and offered me a piece of gum and I’m sure she could sense my uncomfortableness as I awkwardly shook my head in agreement, but replied, “No, thanks.”

Clearly, my brain and body don’t seem to communicate very well when I get nervous. The plane eventually landed at the Cancun International Airport and I set the world record for the fastest deplaning of all time by scooting past the couple—bumping knees and stepping on feet—as quickly as possible.

Copious amounts of food and alcohol were consumed over the next six days and many lazy hours were spent napping on the beach. If anymore problems had arisen, I honestly think we would have been too relaxed and too buzzed to even care at that point. I, as always, was way too sunburnt by the second day to sit out in the sun anymore, and of course by the final day I was back to being pasty and white. It’s a process I’ve grown accustomed to over the years, so I wouldn’t expect the outcome to ever be anything else.

I’m not sure where we’re going for vacation this year, or if we’re even going at all. I hope we do go somewhere, though. One last free vacation before I’m out on my own would be great, and of course spending time with my family would be nice, too. I just really hope it’s not Cancun for the sixth damn time. But one thing’s for sure, we will not be flying with Southwest Airlines ever again.