When this newsletter publishes on Tuesday, I will officially be on vacation.
I felt like I had a pretty good idea of where my line lies in the sand of culture. I thought I knew who I was as a person and what my values were. And then, one day, I find out I’ve agreed to embark on my first (and possibly last?) cruise and I have absolutely zero clue who I am anymore.
In my thirty-eight years on this planet, I would have never guessed I’d be a cruise person. The idea of being crammed on a boat with thousands of other tourists just didn’t appeal to me. When I travel, I don’t like being easily identified as a tourist and cruise ships seem, at least to my own inexperienced eyes, the vacation equivalent of spending a week in a Wal-Mart. But, more than I am a stickler about my value systems and personal knowledge of self, I’m a follower of friends, so when my pals invited me to join them on a weeklong cruise to Mexico, I agreed.
Break out the open bar and flip-flops because I’m planning to throw self-respect to the wind and embrace my inner tourist. At least for the next week. I bought a half-dozen Hawaiian shirts, invited cargo shorts into my wardrobe and I bought my first-ever bottle of sunscreen.
Mexico, here I come.
I spent a big chunk of my childhood in South Texas and would frequently cross the river to the border cities in Mexico when the family was entertaining friends or family from out of town. We went even deeper across the border on occasion, taking trips to Guanajuato or Monteray. Even though I frequently traveled to El Paso over the last six years, I never took the opportunity to cross the border. This upcoming trip to Puerto Costa Maya and Cozumel will be the first time stepping foot on Mexican soil in over twenty years.
Growing up, I did not even realize I was Mexican-American for nearly half a decade. I remember my grandmother informing me of my heritage and being flabbergasted. My parents spoke Spanish in the house (mostly when they wanted to have a conversation without my sisters or I understanding them) and they would cook traditional Tex-Mex dishes, but my Hispanic culture was just not a big part of my life until I moved to South Texas in 1995. By that point, I was 10 years old and helpless when it came to my accent.
I can understand Spanish to varying degrees but if I try and speak a word of the languate, it’s the linguistic equivalent of a man drowning. I can’t roll my “R’s” and my pronunciation definitely sounds like a mush-mouthed man born in East Texas trying to stumble his way through a foreign tongue. Needless to say, I rarely attempt the feat.
I’ve spent a good chunk of my life embarrassed by just how out of touch I am with my roots, to the point where I’ve tried to grab ahold of the things I do connect with - such as music (Maná for life), film (why, yes, I do enjoy AMORES PERROS - just don’t force me to pronounce the name of the movie), and food (I will eat the shit out of tripas and menudo in order to establish I’m not some Taco Bell guzzling coconut).
I’m really looking forward to this trip to Mexico - partially for the vacation aspect (did I mention there is an open bar), but also partially because this will be the first time as an adult trying to really connect with my roots on Mexican soil. I will be visiting Chichén Itzá, the site of the great Mayan city and pyramids. I’m not sure exactly what I’m expecting when I visit, but I do hope I feel - even for a minute - slightly closer to my heritage.
Just in case, though, I have my Bluetooth headphones and Maná loaded up on Spotify - in case I need that extra greasing of cultural identity.