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Cozumel Trip Report
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Posted by Bobby A on 04/08/02

SATURDAY, MARCH 30: TRIP REPORT Pt. 1 (Cooool de Cozumel)

This has been what my girlfriend, Michele, and I have been counting down day-after-day for since late last year.  The build up has been excruciating.  The wait has been grueling.  But finally, the morning has arrived.  In Detroit this time of year there is only one kind of weather: cold, drizzly and grey.  The months slug by day-after-day, just another endless stream of sub-par climates and blowing snow.  After spending most of Friday night packing and going over all our plans, we awoke early Saturday to a slick, crisp wind and the all too familiar “grey dome” of Michigan.  At the airport, we got our first glimpse of the new Midfield Terminal -- a modern, antiseptic place with little shops like the “Michigander” that sell toss off tourist stuff like T-shirts, Michigan stamps and wooden, pot holder blocks carved in the mitten shape of the state.  All in all, it’s much improved over the old terminal and comes complete with a tram and moving sidewalks to ease the pain of walking all over (a huge problem at the old one).  The flight is crowded.  Families with dazed, sleepy looks lounge and slouch in the vinyl seats outside the gate.  One family across from us is all donned in their matching blue nylon running pants and colorful sweatshirts -- mom, dad, gramma and the two kids.  An older couple to our right reads over a past issue of The Onion newspaper -- the man crackling the early morning silence with his booming cackle.  After waiting for many more minutes, an airline staffer blasts over the microphone: “Uh, ladies and gentlemen. The flight today is very full. We are looking for anyone who may want to take a later flight tomorrow morning.  We will provide hotel accommodations and a $300 flight voucher. Please come to the gate desk if you’re interested.” Everyone kind of blankly stares around at other people as if to say, “You gotta be kidding me.” No one moves a muscle.  The frustrated airline employees get on the overhead several more times, upping the ante to first-class seats and then finally to a $900 voucher.  Still no one bites.  Michele and I agree: wasting even one day in Cozumel would not be worth it.  The airplane finally starts to reluctantly load.  A displaced and red-faced mother and father stand near the desk, tears streaming from their two young daughters’ faces.  The plane sits at the gate for another 10 minutes as Northwest continues to make the announcement about flight bumping.  Finally, a tired couple two rows in front of us volunteers to get off.  The formerly crying family of four board to applause from those of us in coach and we’re on our way.

The flight is relatively smooth, although the food from “Northworst” leaves something to be desired.  A word of warning: do not get the BBQ chicken shreds on soggy bread.  The plane swoops out over Mexico, passing over Cancun and then the ocean before it begins its long, bumpy decent into San Miguel.  

Stepping off the plane and walking down the steps into Cozumel is a beautiful experience.  The first feeling of that sticky, blistering air and hot sun make the wait all worth it.  We walk across the concrete pad that simmers in the heat and step into the multi-colored walls and polished tiles of the customs house.  Sanitized air seeps in from an air conditioner.  Quickly through customs, we grab our bags from the single turnstile where one man outside unloads the mountains of luggage from four different carts.  Next, we step up to the final test: a quirky little stop sign device where they make you push a button -- if it comes up red, your bags and you get checked over; green makes you home free.  We both hit green like it was a slot machine in Ontario and walk down the hallway to the taxi area.
We have booked a package deal with No Worry Vacations, which then apparently sold us off to Fiesta Tours, or maybe they’re the same ... who knows.  We are greeted by Alex, a young guy dressed in horrible white pants where you can see the fabric of the pockets through them and a bright, neon yellow shirt.  He begins to explain to a group of us gathered that there are many activities on the island, yada, yada.  My only thought: where the hell is that cervasas stand?  Couple of beers later, Michele and I find ourselves in the front seat of a van filled with our tourists winding north toward the El Cozumeleno Hotel.  Tone Loc’s “Funky Cold Medina” followed by “Who Let The Dogs Out” plays from the radio -- not quite what we expected for Mexico.  Michele asks the driver in Spanish if he likes American music.  He smiles broadly, “Si. Si.”  She converses with him some more in broken Spanish, surprised at how much she remembers from her old high school classes.

At El Cozumeleno, we quickly check in amongst the throngs of tourists and then head to our room.  From first impressions, the hotel is probably the nicest we’ve ever stayed at during our vacations together. Having read horror stories on the Internet about the old side of El Coz, I called the day before we left to ensure we would receive a room in the new side, which we did.  The fifth-floor room is fairly large, floral and clean.  The color scheme is pale blue, pale red, yellow and white. We step out onto the balcony and overlook the light, turquoise ocean framed and bordered by a playground of connected pools, thatched huts housing bars, a human-sized chess board and people milling everywhere.  Techno music blares from two large speakers set on a building to the left.

Too excited to even sit for a second, Michele and I quickly change into our bathing suits, grab our snorkel gear and head out to the ocean.  Shel gets a Pina Coloda; I get a cervasa.  We snorkel for a while off the shore, which really isn’t all that great.  Mostly sandy bottom, a few smaller fish here and there.  After enjoying the last bits of sun for the day, we head up to our room and shower before deciding to head out for the night to watch the NCAA Final Four basketball games.

Everyone tells us to hit “The Stadium” if we want to watch sports so we hail a cabbie and get dropped off downtown at a small, corner building that doubles as a bar and gambling den.  Just my kind of place.  Inside, the bar is completely overwhelmed by Americanos, mostly Indiana fans draped in their team’s red and white colors.  IU is hanging with Oklahoma, something no one really expected, and half time has just ended.  I negotiate a table in middle of the chaos, vowing to be a big Indiana fan and explaining how my family is originally from Kokomo.  The place is a wreck.  Empty, dirty plates and glasses and food baskets litter almost every table top.  The floor is wet from spilled beer.  But it’s Mexico, so we’re not complaining.  

I get a couple of beers at the bar from a bartender who looks confused, stressed out and is sweating profusely.  Shel and I order cheeseburgers, except they don’t have cheese so we get just the burger, which turns out to taste a little strange.  Not in the sense of being rancid or anything.  But more like it might not be beef -- maybe bull we think?  The game is everything it was billed as -- a battle of wills.  The Hoosiers win, causing The Stadium to erupt into a flurry of high fives, screaming and even one woman who broke down in tears.  The few Mexicans in the place watch the folly from afar.  Once the first game is over, people pour out of the bar, leaving it mostly empty.  Just before the buzzer, the bartender informs me that he has run out of beer.  Amazing!  We get the last two rum and Cokes available from him and find another table in the back room near the betting den.  Locals hang near the counter intently watching soccer on one television and lacrosse on another.  I smile to myself at the contrast of it all.  The betting boards show that you can place wagers on almost anything -- cricket, greyhound racing, hockey, basketball.  I think for a second about just blindly choosing some greyhound and throwing $20 down, but decide against it.  We sit for a while waiting for the next game, Kansas-Maryland, to come on TV.  After watching a few minutes of the first half, Shel and I -- both tired of sitting in The Stadium -- break out.  We walk a bit in the cool, sticky night and find ourselves at the main plaza area.  A pair of guys dressed as clowns entertain a crowd of children sitting three deep.  We watch for a while, marveling at how all the kids are so well behaved and polite during the show.  A little farther down the street, we come across a vendor serving Churros -- small fried pieces of dough covered with sugar and cinnamon.  We share the bag of hot delicious dessert and then hail a cab back to the El Coz to call it a night.  Day one in cooool de Cozumel and we can already feel its energy.

EASTER SUNDAY: TRIP REPORT Pt. 2

It’s 5 a.m.: Where is your girlfriend?  Mine is awake already.  “I can’t sleep,” she says blinking innocently.  I roll back over, needing at least another hour of slumbering.  She gets up, throws on some clothes and heads off to find coffee.  Down on the grounds of El Coz, workers -- who seem to put in 15-hour days, 7 days a week -- are busy sweeping and cleaning off the titled pool deck.  Five other Americans walk around stunned and sunburned also in search of java.  Shel eventually negotiates a cup from the workers’ pot, as none of the breakfast buffet is even set up yet.  She wanders around a bit more, finding the “workout room” tucked away in a smaller building near the far pool.  Billed as a “workout center,” the place is nothing more than a broken exercise bicycle, a wooden bar to use for stretching, and a rickety weight-lifting machine.  So much for at least trying to stay in shape this week.  By the time she makes it back to the room, I’m awake and showering.  Downstairs, we find a table near some open windows about 10 yards from the water and lay our stuff down.  Barely no one is awake yet and the place is generally empty.  The sounds of Bob Marley and UB40 filter through some old speakers mounted in the large wooden, thatched hut that serves as El Coz’s buffet lounge.  The breakfast selection is fairly good: waffles, French toast, omelettes, fresh fruit, five different kinds of juices -- and of course, my favorite, Choco Krispies.  I typically never eat these sugared cereals at home but for some reason I can’t resist them today.

Once breakfast is finished, we get picked up by an employee from Smart Car who I had talked to  that morning.  I exchanged e-mails with the Smart Car guys before heading to Cozumel and already had a reservation.  The guy is on time and actually gives us a lift in the car we will be renting: a white, old-style VW convertible Bug.  The top is a two-piece vinyl thing with snaps to hold it down.  The windows are tinted, and in a tint strip across the windshield on the right hand side is a neatly etched Playboy bunny.  Hilarious ... but in some strange way appropriate.  The grey seats inside the car have a slight smell of salt and must.  The seat brackets are a bit rusted and at times come completely off their hinges.  But on the good side, the wipers work and so do the headlights.  We get dropped off in a pedestrian only area near the main plaza.  A simple white stand outside a store serves as Smart Car headquarters.  Checking out the car is quick and easy.  We rent it for the whole week and because I printed the discount sheet off the Internet, the rate is $27.50 a day -- more than half the rate other people pay for a days worth of transportation.  After going over driving rules in Cozumel (is there really any?), we’re off on our way breezing and jerking violently as the clutch sticks, heading south down Rafael Melgar toward Dzul-Ha for a little snorkeling and sun.  

We somehow pass the turnoff from the new main highway for the road heading along the shoreline.  Around Playa San Francisco, we backtrack and eventually find the place I had read so much about: Dzul-Ha.  No one is there yet.  The beach club is a series of small bars, thatched huts, plastic tables and chairs and some old lockers set on a long stretching piece of shoreline that is rocky in parts, sandy in others.  A few motley-colored hammocks swing slightly in the breeze. The best part about Dzul-Ha is that its free.  We take our places on the south portion which is a wooden deck built near a bar and a pool littered with some leaves.  A couple of wooden sling chairs positioned right along a railing overlooking the lapping ocean is our spot.  

The early morning sun is hot and unrelenting, and within five minutes we’re in the water snorkeling.  Dzul-Ha has got to be some of the best off-shore snorkeling in all of Cozumel.  Large coral heads teeming with fish.  Small grouper.  Sea urchins.  Lots of friendly zebra striped fish (which I don’t know the name of), a flute and even a barracuda.  The ocean is like this energizing elixir.  Any sluggishness or fatigue from traveling is gone in a second.  

Back on the deck and comfortable in our chairs, we order chips and salsa, which is delicious.  I get a Corona; Shel grabs a Tequila Sunrise (hey, it may only be 10 a.m. but it’s vacation).  We spend a couple hours just lounging in the sun.  What a way to spend Easter day.  A little later around noon, we decide to leave this little paradise and explore the other side of the island a bit.  The drive south toward Punta Sur rinses away any lingering residue of stress from work and life.  The small road winds through scrub trees and dense vegetation for about 15 minutes. We pass the occasional truck piled with families hanging from its shell in every direction.  Lizards scamper off the roadway from the sound of vehicles.  A construction truck lumbers along.  The breeze tosses our hair around wildly.

Emerging from the guts of the island and seeing the other side of it for the first time can almost give you chills.  Long, stretching beaches with large, white-capped waves rolling in six and seven deep.  Sections of exposed, black coral cliffs glistening in the sunlight.  This is where it’s at.  This is what we’ve been envisioning for so long.  We drive for a while passing the Rasta Bar and El Mirador, not wanting to stop, just longing to see it all.  Finally, after a few twists and turns in the roadway, we come upon Playa Bonita and decide its time for a rest and maybe some lunch.

“The beautiful beach” seems like an older woman who has lost some of her smooth skin and graceful looks.  A storm about a month ago has washed away a large section of the beach at Playa Bonita.  The water now flows up nearly to the steps, rushing around small umbrella huts and then retreating.  Still, the view is nothing short of spectacular.  We settle in at a table with a cervasa and a Tequila Sunrise and watch the people playing in the waves.  We order some chips and salsa (quickly becoming a staple of our diet) and then can’t resist the urge to jump into the ocean.  After a swim and some really good chicken fajitas (the guacamole is outstanding here ... but where isn’t it on this island?), we reluctantly head back to El Coz.  The sun has taken its toll and we’re both beat.

Outside our room at the pool, middle-aged men and women slurp free drinks, kids run around wildly doing cannonballs into the so-called hot tub and, as we’ll soon find out, the constant, driving sound of pounding techno music blares out from huge speakers.  Even with the sliding door closed, you can’t escape the sound of El Coz.  Michele somehow finds a way to sleep; I unfortunately cannot.  Instead, I sit up and write.  Outside now, the “activities staff” is screaming over the microphone as they have separated kids and adults into two teams in the pool.  They go through a series of ridiculous games like tag, the boogie board relay and the stupid task of clasping hands and forming numbers in the pool when they are called out.  All the while, a man I will dub “The Master of Disaster” is bellowing into the microphone: “And the winner is, Team No. Ooooooooone!,” he says in his thick Spanish accent.  “Kids. Kids. There is a pinata in the lobby.  Kids. Once again, there is a pinata in the lobby!  Kids. Go to the lobby for the pinata!” Um, guess there’s a pinata in the lobby.  Finally, around 5 p.m., the music and mayhem outside stop and I’m able to finally take a short nap as the sun sets.  

Dinner at the El Coz tonight is an Oriental buffet filled with wonderful items like squid in orange sauce and spare ribs that we’ll see reproduced as other things later in the week.  The food leaves a lot to be desired but we try to find something to fill our stomachs before jumping in our little Bug and heading downtown for the weekly fiesta in the plaza.  Because it’s Easter, the fiesta I had read so much about isn’t happening.  Disappointed, we walk around the area casually just enjoying the presence of so many friendly people.  The two clowns from the night before are entertaining a much larger crowd near a gazebo and the scattered artists and vendors have set up their stands along the rim of the plaza.  A discotheque along Melgar throbs with the sounds of Mergenge. We stop by the church downtown where throngs of people are gathered.  The church is so full that locals and tourists stand in the street and just listen to the mass.  On the other side of the church, a couple women are selling food.  An older man with a patch over one of his eyes and what appears to be partial blindness in the other sits on the sidewalk turning his head to better hear the minister.  We stand there for a few minutes, listening to the Spanish message of Easter Sunday blossom from out the large wooden open doors of the church.  The lit stained glass and white exterior of the building are set starkly against the black night sky.  Down the road a bit, we sit down for a few nightcaps at a place overlooking the plaza.  

Our first full day on the island and I can’t think of any better way we could have spent it ...

MONDAY, APRIL 1, 2002

We awake early ... again.  Guess I’m not destined to get any sleep on this trip -- not with this island (and my excited girlfriend) prodding me to wake up.  The smell of the ocean drifts in through the door, sending the curtains dancing casually in the wind.  The faint sound of sluggish waves splashing against the sand outside is like an alarm clock in the distance.  After breakfast, we head downtown to find a bank, deciding that it might be useful in some ways to have at least a few hundred pesos on us.  We had already discovered that at many places, they will give you the bill in pesos and then round up for American dollars, most of the time using the non-existent 10 pesos per $1 rate.  We find a bank just off the plaza near the Smart Car place, which isn’t open yet.  The rate today is 8.83, which isn’t bad but isn’t great either.  We exchange $150 and then head off on our way to explore some new sites on the island.

After conferring over the map we ordered from cancunmaps.com (well worth the $6, trust me), we settle on Playa San Francisco.  A beach seems like an appropriate setting for this day that is already starting off hot and muggy.  A short drive south along Melgar and we arrive at San Francisco.  No one else is there.  As we park, a smiling, gracious man greets us and promises to watch it for us.  Uh, alright sure ... whatever.  We walk up into the beach club which is the usual collection of tables and chairs, hammocks and huts.  Like all of them, the place is open-air and set up a bit on a concrete block.  Along the beach, there are large wooden lounge chairs with removable blue pads on them near small tables.  We select a couple and settle in for a day of being beach bums.  A few minutes afterwards, a sweaty, stubby man who seems to struggle to walk in the sand approaches us.  He informs us in hurried, broken English that the chairs are $10 a piece to rent for the day.  I try to barter with him for a minute but realize he’s not budging on the price.  Our only other option: the free plastic tables and chairs -- the kind you see on balconies in college towns across the nation -- set off a ways.  We quickly decide that $10 a piece is not worth it and move our stuff.  Michele lays down in the warm sand and blows off the troubles; I decide to check out the water, grabbing my snorkel gear.  The beach itself is very nice for the west side of the island.  Light, golden sand blowing and shifting down the shoreline.  But clearly the people at San Francisco this day did not rake it well.  Scattered bits of trash -- plastic bottles, tin foil wrappers, chicken bones, discarded cigarette butts -- poke out of dried seaweed clumped along the entrance to the water.  Stepping over it, I enter the water and begin snorkeling.  Not really a spot for this -- the water is cloudy from the sandy and algae, and there is no reef really.  Maybe it’s about time to leave.   A little disappointed, we hop in the car and begin looking for a spot to snorkel.  Having read online how Playa Corona was a fantastic spot for it, we decide to head up the road a ways.

We arrive at Playa Corona, another beach club-bar-diving combo along the west side, by about 10 a.m.  A round, happy man named Luis shows us around the beach club, rattling off the rules and regulations -- the sandbags sunken in the water form a walkway to the snorkeling area; please do not walk on the coral; please do not touch the coral when snorkeling, etc.   We grab a table near the water after his monologue.  A small wall rings the shore as Playa Corona sits on the edge of a reef.  Like basically the entire southwestern side of the island, the reef is a national park.  A few other families are scattered about on tables and the place has a comfortable feel to it.  We meet a father from New York who is on vacation with his two teenage children, both of whom look bored and hot in baggy clothes that really aren’t made for the beach.  They came off one of the cruise ships -- three of which are in port today.  Another larger family a few feet away chatters on loudly as their small children climb over the wall and begin walking all over the exposed reef there.  Right on queue, Luis walks over and delicately asks them to get off.  The water is sparkling like some pirated diamond shipment long ago sank and its bounty is suddenly washing ashore.  We smile and order a couple of beers thinking that this could be our spot for the day.  Then it happens: the invasion, the infiltration, the infestation.  Within five minutes, three large taxi vans pull up and a crowd of probably 40 pasty people step out, blinking into the sun.  Luis and the other Playa Corona staff herd them in like cattle.   Two other taxis pull up and more people jump out.  This is the cruise ship crowd come to claim their day on Cozumel.   Minutes later, two other vans pull up and more people pour out.  They all slouch down onto chairs.  Others, at the instructions of the staff, begin strapping on these neon yellow life preservers that connect through the crotch.  All in all in the next 1/2 hour, at least 150 “boat people” show up.  The place is teeming with crowds of middle aged men and women and their kids.  It’s a pit of neon yellow crotch straps and bored tourists.  Luis, walking by our table, whispers: “Get in now, while you can.”  We grab our snorkel gear and almost run to the water, stepping quickly across the sandbags.  I must say, the snorkeling here is great.  Large coral head reef about 15 feet down, lots of fish and a variety of things to see.  We snorkel around for about eight minutes, forgetting the crowds and problems.  Soon, about 25 boaters are in the water squealing and splashing about.  Many of the fish flee their sounds and we decided its time to head in.  Before long, the water looks like the closing scene from Titanic with little neon yellow crotch vests bobbing in the sea.  Clearly, our time at Playa Corona is over.  We ask for the bill and Luis informs us that in addition to the beers, we also owe $5 a piece for an “entrance fee” to use the national park.  Immediately I balk at that, explaining to him that we were literally pushed out of the water by all these people.  After some bartering, Luis relents and simply charges us $5 for two.  By this time, and with two strikes under our belts, Michele and I both agree that the secluded east side of the island is calling our names.

We decide to stop at the Paradise Bar on Punta Sur -- a red, yellow and green hut across from the Bob Marley Rasta Bar.  The familiar Jamaican icon wails from a few old speakers.  Hammocks hang rolled up and unused nearby.  There is maybe six people in the joint total.  Ah, finally ... peace.  We order chips and salsa.  For the next two and half hours, we sit idly at Paradise and soak up its cool confines.  At a nearby table, we meet a couple from Minneapolis who came over for the day from Playa del Carmen.  They tell us how the town there is smaller, but cheaper.  Their hotel is mostly younger couples and is absent of the resort atmosphere. A couple nude beaches draw a lot of attention, they say.  I order an Iguana, which is the large, specialty drink of Paradise.  It’s neon green in color and heavy in alcohol, but refreshing.  Eventually, we migrate from the bar and sit for a while on the sand, hopping into the water to cool off.  It’s times like these, alone on the beach with Michele that I realize how good we have it.  

Despite all the quiet scenery, we still have the snorkeling itch.  That brief encounter at Playa Corona just did not fulfill us.  Where else to go but our new obsession, Dzul-Ha?  We zip across the south point of the island and pull our groaning VW Bug into a spot at the Ha.  As always, the place is mostly vacant.  We greet the staff who is quickly becoming familiar and grab our “assigned seats” along the railing.  Hot and fatigued ... and maybe a bit drunk, we hop into the ocean immediately and spend the next half hour peering down at our own personal aquarium.  About 55 yards out, the only other two snorkelers out there wave us over.  About 20 feet down, a 5 1/2-foot spotted stingray is feeding along the bottom.  My heart was racing to see it that close. We follow it like curious children chasing after a giant fluttering butterfly for the next five minutes before it turns and in this slow, loping way heads south.  It’s head is the size of a large dog’s and its wings float in this graceful ballet motion.  It is a highlight of the trip, easily.

Sunned out and a little burned by now, we head back to El Coz.  Despite the same pounding music, I fall quickly asleep ... this time, however, Michele can’t.  Hotel staff are busy removing beach chairs from a large portion of the pool deck and replacing them with long folding tables situated around a stage five floors below our balcony.  Tonight is the American BBQ, a board in the lobby informs us.  The buffet table is set in a small, elaborate crescent around the pool.  After waking and showering, Michele and I head down as other guests begin filtering out.  Unlike other times, we cannot order drinks at the bar, only through a waiter.  Problem is, there aren’t enough waiters.  The food is the same.  Salad.  Dry rice. Some kind of fish. BBQ chicken. And hey, there’s those ribs.  We find a table near a couple from Dallas.  A waiter finally gives us a couple of lukewarm cervesas.  On the stage, a trio of two boys and a girl, probably 12 to 13 years old, play a wooden xylophone, banging out such time-honored tunes like, “The Chicken Dance” and “Tequila.”  A chubby, cherub-ish little guy on the end dances and plays.  The other two look uncomfortable.  The first couple of tunes seem unique; those after seem tired.  I urge Michele to eat faster.  After the kids, a Tex-Mex band takes stage and does a decent job of keeping things lively and colorful.  Just as we’re getting ready to leave, the “Master of Disaster” gets up, bellowing into the microphone, “Alright ladies and gentlemen, now it’s time to learn a little rrrrock and rrroll dancing!”  That’s our signal to break.

Minutes later, our Bug is scooting down Melgar into downtown where we park a block away from Cafe Salsa.  The bar is relatively new and immaculate.  It’s a colorful, clean place with great style.  Tonight is Tango dancing.  The bar has an instructor who teaches for about an hour and then a band comes on.  Michele and I took Latin dancing lessons last year, and Tango always was one of our high points so we’re feeling a little comfortable.  The instructor, a thin, graceful man, swoops around the mostly empty dance floor with a woman.  We start to realize that the style of Tango we learned was a little formal; this is much more authentic ... but we’re game.  We meet the others who are there: Richard, a friendly, slight man who owns the place; Angela, a Seattle transplant now living in Cozumel (who also is a member of this list .. what’s up achu!); Louisa, a shapely local who tells us repeatedly how much Michele and I look good together; and Edwardo, her boyfriend who never seems to stop smiling.  This is our kind of atmosphere.  For about an hour, we learn the authentic Tango -- something we now desperately want to continue here in America.  It’s a sultry, smoldering dance that just feels good to do.  The instructor doesn’t speak English, so Louisa translates for us.  He urges us to be looser and more relaxed as we dance around the green titled floor.  As always with dancing, I am the ape who can’t keep it all together; Shel is the beauty with grace ... but it’s a blast.  The band that comes on afterwards is more Salsa.  We pay the instructor $10 for the lessons (well worth it) and chat for a while with Angela.  Her story is an inspiration, a testament to the spirit of the soul.  She graduated from Cornell University with a degree in civil engineering.  After many years of doing the work, she felt burned out and bored, so she quit it all and headed to Cozumel where she manages a hotel.  She’s been here for a little over a year.  “How long do you think you’ll stay?” Michele asks.  “You know, everyone asks me that and I just don’t know,” Angela says.  Angela has an apartment downtown where she stays that costs about $150 a month.  But she tells us that she doesn’t earn much more than that.  Her change in lifestyle is clearly not about that anyways.  It’s about not watching life pass you by.  Later, sitting on the terrace in the back of the bar, Shel and I talk about if we’d ever do such a thing. Just give it all up and trade it in for something new. You just never know.  Cozumel, I realize, has a way of changing your perspectives ...

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