What I walked into wasn’t a vacation. It was a Mexican standoff—everyone armed, nobody competent, and no exit without damage.
Airports are good at creating this condition. They strip you down through gate changes and delays until resistance fades and you’re reduced to compliance. I don’t arrive in Mexico so much as I’m processed into it—tenderized, cleared, and released like meat stamped Meets Minimum Standards.
By the time I land I’m dehydrated, hungry, limping, already disoriented. Time has been bent, stretched, and mugged in an alley. Whatever internal rhythm I had is gone, probably sitting in a lost-and-found office with no staff.
The van ride confirms that agency is no longer part of the package. I start to get into the front seat and realize the driver has brought his wife. No explanation. No acknowledgment. She stares straight ahead like this is a family errand and I’m surplus freight. I climb into the back with my bags. Cargo understands its role better than I do.
The drive is supposed to take thirty minutes. After ten, the city goes dark—not romantically, but administratively. Streetlights appear rationed. Every block gets exactly one. Under each light stands a man smoking, posed the same way as the last, like someone copy-pasted him down the street and forgot to randomize the posture.
It doesn’t feel dangerous. It feels staged. Like a city assembled just enough to function but never finished.
The driver stops, nods once—the international gesture for your problem now—and disappears.
The B&B disappoints even in the dark. No porch light. Lockboxes barely visible. Concrete. Silence that doesn’t calm you—it watches you. Inside, a woman hands me a key. She’s kind. Kindness is sometimes used as a substitute for responsibility.
The room is bad. Worse when you stop lying to yourself. Mold. Cobwebs. Stains that refuse to explain their origin. I worked on the railroad. I’ve slept in places that had grudges against sanitation. This still clears my internal bar for unacceptable. She sees the look on my face and makes me a sandwich. I eat it without questions. Hunger outranks curiosity and dignity. When I see the mold, I know the month is over before it starts. You don’t fix rot by rearranging it. I call my wife, Kate, and we plan an extraction. I sleep on top of the covers while cars seem to drive directly through the room. In the morning I leave like I’m breaking out of jail.
Kate arrives and the temperature of the story changes immediately. Not because Mexico improves, but because I’m no longer being digested alone. There is relief—but it’s operational, not emotional. We fall into motion together. Bags move. Routes get chosen. Decisions happen mid-stride without debate. The kind of coordination that only comes from long closeness and shared adventure. She sees the strain before I can describe it. Things are now solvable. Not pleasant. Not easy. Just solvable. She doesn’t promise it will be okay. She proves it by moving.
We rent a car online for thirty dollars a day, which is how the scam begins. At the counter they explain insurance. Another hundred a day. Non-negotiable. Consequences implied, never explained. It isn’t insurance—it’s a ransom note written in polite language. We pay.
With the ransom paid and the keys in hand, we do the next practical thing and go to Walmart. Walmart becomes an expedition. Two and a half hours wandering aisles that look familiar but aren’t. Labels we can’t read. Food that looks correct but feels suspicious. We buy what we can decode and retreat with our uncertain loot.
We try the beach. It’s chaos. Vendors circle us like sharks who’ve learned to smile. Chairs. Umbrellas. Massages. Need stacked on need. This isn’t leisure—it’s economic extraction performed at volume. We leave.
For a few days, Mexico behaves. Quieter towns. Retirees killing time. Flamingos standing in shallow water like extras who wandered in from a better movie. Then the cop shows up.
A detour. Temporary lights. A sign that says No Left Turn. The GPS disagrees. I hesitate. The cop loses his mind. Arms flailing. Commands that cannot be followed because traffic is stacked behind me like a monument to poor planning.
This man does not represent order. He represents authority without intelligence, which is far more dangerous.
When he motions for me to pull over, I don’t. I gun it. We disappear into a grocery store parking lot and wait until the adrenaline burns off.
The next morning Kate drives. On purpose. We add forty-five minutes to avoid a stretch of road crawling with cops. We don’t go near it. We drop my luggage at the casita. I drive Kate to the airport and return the car. The rental place behaves. No shakedown. No surprises. I take an Uber and let the worry go. Kate texts once she’s through immigration. All is good.
The casita looks fine at first. Cleaner. Quieter. The landlords are cheerful. From Florida. Proud Disney adults. Florida Man has entered the narrative. The stove doesn’t work. Not broken—never connected. There’s talk of Home Depot. A hose clamp. Walking. Then I get sick.
The sickness arrives without ceremony. Fever. Weakness. Five days in bed. The kind of sick that strips you down to biology. They bring Gatorade and soup because Kate asks. Scrambled eggs once because I ask. If neither of us had asked, I don’t think food was part of the plan. From there, food stops being food and becomes something you work around. I eat just enough to sleep through the pain. Cornflakes fill the void and quiet the noise.
A doctor arrives on day two. Found through Facebook. She brings a bag, a clipboard, and competence. She charges less than a bad lunch and treats me like a human. She calls the pharmacy herself. Everything arrives within the hour.
This is what competence looks like.
When I can finally walk, I notice the walls. Real ones. Ten-foot slabs. Steel gates. Broken glass. Every street has walls on both sides. One wall on each side of the sidewalk. Always. This isn’t a city you move through. It’s a city designed to contain failure. Near tourist zones, the decay gets cosmetic upgrades. Fresh paint. Prettier gates. The policy remains the same.
I recover slowly. Unevenly. I make one last attempt at wonder—a boat ride to see flamingos. Prime season, they say. Ninety minutes away. We see maybe twenty birds. Mexico exits the way it entered—not with a bang, but with another disappointment asking for credit.
I told people I was coming for a month. I like doing what I say I’ll do. It builds character. Or stubbornness. I came to escape winter. To avoid Christmas. To reset something internal. I learned exactly how much comfort I require to feel human. This place didn’t meet the minimum. I leave without gratitude. Without plans to return. At this point in my life, I’m no longer interested in endurance. I prefer enjoyment.