Yesterday: 84 degrees, palm fronds rustling in the tropical breeze, a turquoise and lapis sea, an unlimited supply of piña coladas.
Today: 27 degrees and plummeting, horizontally blowing snow mixed with just a soupçon of sleet, “anti-skid material” on the slushy roads, an unlimited opportunity to let the dog in and out.

Mexico is an interesting country. While you’re greeted at the airport by a Harley-Davidson store (what?) and about 50% of the business signs are recognizable (McDonalds, Sam’s Club, Nissan, Dominos), the road from the Cancun airport to the coastal area south of the city is a reminder of its second world status. The median strip is haphazardly planted, or contains only rubble stacked in neat piles. The road itself narrows from four lanes to one and a half on each side – vehicles move politely onto the half lane for others to pass and cars coming the other direction shift as well. In the few days I was there I don’t remember hearing a car horn once.

The resort we stayed at was beautiful although its opulence was really only a veneer. If you looked beyond the surface it was more like one of those tacky Poconos resorts (think: champagne glass shaped bathtubs) than a true luxury hotel. The furniture in the room was scratched and worn, the bed had more in common with a slab of granite than a mattress, there was a gigantic Jacuzzi a corner of the room (this was an “adult revitalizing hotel” after all), the towels were apparently made from essence of sandpaper, and the food was, well, unpalatable. I keep reminding myself that none of the people who provided such pleasant service at the hotel will probably ever be able to stay at such a place, that it was well above a Super 8 in amenities, and that I had a chance to get sunburned in an odd, blotchy pattern in the middle of winter. But, on balance, I’d rather be in Philadelphia.