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Fiesta Americana Hotel

Comments: This is not a normal trip report, but one written to the man who's responsible for getting us to go for the first time last year, James Lileks, a writer, newspaper columnist, and web wizard who lives in Minneapolis. He has a very truthful and very funny report of his own first trip (in 1998) which is well worth reading for information and amusement here:
<http://lileks.com/about/coz/index.html>
At his recommendation we have stayed at the Fiesta Americana in a casita, a detached dwelling back in the jungle. Wouldn't stay anywhere else...So pardon the couple of personal references and feel free to ask any questions. Coz IS a little bit of paradise...

Hello James!
Back again and beginning to feel like we're home...Cindi had to head right back the next morning and start lecturing; for me, of course, it was more just a change of vacation location this year. Got the stuff unpacked and have already stuck my nose in the snorkeling clothes for a blast of the island once...withdrawal is hard, no matter how you look at it.
On the theory that any water, however brackish, is welcome to a thirsty man, I am bold to submit the following report from paradise:
This time we flew Continental, with a short layover in Houston and then straight to Coz on a big plane—last year we had taken a charter flight which ended at Cancun and then a puddle jumper to the island. Although it involved a large V-shaped flight, it was still a much nicer trip. We didn’t hang around to play the van-to-the-hotel game this year, just grabbed our two small bags and hiked out to the corner. Needless to say, a cab was there...
Got to the Fiesta around 6 PM and were taken to our room (in the casita next to the one we had had last year, in the first rank from the hotel) by Sergio. Marconi is still there and seems to have been promoted to Bell Captain.
Tried to follow the tradition de Lileks and go to Ernestos for the first night again, but Ernestos en ville has gathered up its Sandinista rec room traps and moved out to Ernestos sur plage. The cab driver seemed surprised too—after another abortive effort a few nights later, we just went to the one on the road out of town. Two stories, nicely appointed, and a small outdoor area where we ate both times we were there, overlooking the moored Fury catamaran fleet. You can listen to the peals of scuba tanks ringing to announce the start of services as they’re on- and off-loaded next dock down. Food: good as ever. Tequila selection: surprisingly serious.
Anyway, the cab driver recommended La Mission as a fall-back—OK, which one? uno, dos or tres? Well, all the various Missions have similarly pulled up stakes, but in this case, retreated into San Miguel. Good move! The food and style of service are exactly the same (and seem to attract the same sort of crowd), but the setting is really wonderful. Called Casa Mission, it is a large colonial mansion with broad open verandas around three sides; this is where you eat. The house is set back in lovely gardens and is reached by an elegant walkway. You are urged to walk around the property, but nobody seems to. Their loss. And in one of those “say what? (we must be in the third world, you couldn’t get away with this back home)” moments, we were also urged to run out back and see the caged pair of lions. New Zagat category: Mexican/Yucatecan/Sideshow. Well, there they are, looking healthy and well fed (one of the cruise ship turistas asked, “what do you feed them?” and was answered “chicken.” “You mean, BONES AND ALL!?” Sometimes I despair of humanity.
Good news: Carlos ‘n’ Charlies is no longer smack dab in the center of town, spewing drunks and drunks’ spew for the benefit of all passers-by. Glad I saw it: glad it’s gone. Bad news: it has moved to a repulsive, white, brightly lit Mall named Punta Langosta just north of town, near the Muelle Turistico, or whatever it’s called. Also, Señor Frogs, just in case you need two indistinguishable places to lose your consciousness, virtue, and GI tract contents—within 6 feet of each other. And all those mall venues you could find back home, but just make you feel so centered when you find them on a foreign shore. Slogan: (plastered—in English, of course—on a big new billboard you see when you come into town from the south) “Sea and Sun are for Everybody. WE’RE NOT. Punta Langosta.” This is despicable in so many ways it’s not worth pursuing. Ecch.
More bad news: the nice little theatre in town that you immortalized is still there, but closed. They’ve built a “Cinepolis” up near Chedraui with 5 screens. Judging by the titles, at least it caters to the locals—half the movies were American, yes, but the titles were in Spanish.
More bad news: the road that leads to the Fiesta Americana and Presidente was dirt last year (and I presume when you were there), with a razor-straight line of limestone rocks down the center which migrated like turtles into a sinuous drunk’s nightmare during our week on Coz. Now, it’s not only paved, but the circular road has started to put up American-freeway style signage over the road—in English, of course—and billboards have started to appear (see above).
Not to be down on the place—people who never saw it before, when they see it 5 years from now, will just see a tidy, prosperous, vacation paradise. But for those of us (bless you, James) who saw it before, even just last year before—much of the unique charm of the place, the feeling that this is somehow an undiscovered, private backwater where life is slow and easy—seems to be evaporating while we watch. Go back as soon as you can.
The place was not as crowded as last year, noticeably so. As far as it goes, that’s good, but the reason for it, of course, is bad. One of our cab drivers had been a jet fueler for 11 years but was let go in November. Unlike your Dah-ree Queen mah-na-jer, it was all too clear why this poor man was now a taxista. It is horrifying to think that the evil perpetrated by bin Ladn and associates is still burning its way downwards, like radioactive waste, to touch even the simple, charming people of a place like Coz. The Fiesta Americana was much the same, but the general upkeep and particularly the housekeeping were a bit off, too—I imagine because they let many people go to cut costs. Wouldn’t think of staying anywhere else, though...
Don’t worry, even if you are currently unable to show, your adoptive state is still well-represented.
We had two days of bad weather—I mean, howlingly bad weather: they-closed-the-port bad weather. On the second morning we saw Marconi while waiting for a cab and asked if he had heard any weather reports. He smiled wanly and said “they say: scattered showers. [pause] But this is a tropical depression.” Always wanted to see one of those in the tropics: we frequently get the tail-end of them up here in New England. Now I can say I’ve been there and done that. It didn’t stop us from having a great time, just went into town and did our shopping while watching drunk cruise-ship people bent into the wind lurch from bar to bar looking like it was the end of the world. We also went to the Museum one of those days: I had expected the average, Amurkan town museum; you know, dissociated dust-objects. Not so! A thoughtfully conceived and beautifully arranged exhibition on two floors, the bottom devoted to natural history, terrestrial and marine, and the top floor to anthropology and social history. One of the secret delights of the experience was watching the employees—all of them—glow because someone actually came and read every last sign and looked at every last item. I think they are used to the 20 minute in-and-out, including the gift shop, types. If you haven’t been there, do try to go next time. You’d like it.
Besides Ernestos and La—I mean, CASA—Mission, we also revisited Guidos and Pancho’s Backyard. Both were just as good as last time; I still think Pancho’s is the best eating on the island, as well as the most elegant and charming service. If Casa Mission chooses to improve its kitchen and the style of service, though, they could give it a run for the money: they’ve got a very elegant venue now…and Pancho’s doesn’t have lions (yet). We also tried two new venues: Morgans, which many people had said good things about online, is on the square. Its rep is a dark, charming little spot offering piano jazz and New-Orleans style food. Well. We went there at 8 PM to find ourselves in a square, brightly-lit dining room with all the charm of a Long John Silvers. Only other diners: two 40ish men from the Fiesta Americana discussing the highlight of their trip—the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders were shooting a photospread near La Ceiba—while the manager attempted to sell them timeshares. The food was surprisingly good, the waiter was deft and charming, but the smell of death hung over the joint. Oh—no piano, either: they’re repaving the plaza, so the only sound, once the time-share prospects left, was the rythmic crack of sledge hammer against stone. Like eating dinner on the chain gang.
Much more successful was another restaurant that has good i-press, Manati. This was as described: one of the few old wooden houses in town, seating 12 indoors and with a garden out back seating as many again, perhaps. It’s on los Cinco Soles’ corner, about 3 blocks back. We were the only guests both nights—apparently the owner, Leo Rojos, has had sickness in his family and it has been open only on an on-and-off again basis for a while. His sister, Patty Pardo, was in the kitchen and seems to be running it now. The decor is cheap, materials-wise, but tasteful, eccentric, and entirely charming, all done by Leo. And the food is very, very good. I was enthusing to Cindi about what a triumph it was, proving that one man with talent(s), a dream, and plenty of sweat can create something wonderful out of nothing, even without money...Then Marconi listened patiently and informed us that Leo was the son of a big, big, Mexican soap-opera actress and that, in Marconi’s opinion, he’d do a lot better to pay more attention to his business, rather than play at it. Well, whatever the background, it’s well worth a visit or two. Try the mango chicken. But call first....
We made an effort to try as many different tequilas and sangritas as we could this time. Cabrito and el Jimador I found too lacking in nose and mouth-feel for my taste, which runs to BIG nose and BIG mouthfeel. On the other hand, Don Julio Reposado and el Tesoro Plata were, for me, great: both had lots of the things I like, and an interesting caper-y nose and peppery aftertaste. Yum. Casa Mission had perhaps the best sangrita, although Ernesto’s offered a nicely balanced one, too. The reaction behind the bar at Pancho’s to my request for the waiter’s favorite mezcal was—instructive. I had asked, because I knew los Cinco Soles stocked them. They had none at the bar, but did go and get one—Gusado Rojo—which was very nice, not that I have much to compare it against at this point. But the barkeep was obviously flustered and wanted me to know that this was not a refined drink—clearly a fault line in Mexican drinking culture had been crossed. We bought a few to take home and sample, anyway.
We got to Chankanaab one day and were again impressed with it, both above ground and below water. This year we got off the beach and went through the archeological garden, which was very well carried out, and the botanical garden, which could benefit by a few signs here and there telling you what plants you’re looking at. Also the museum, which was small but very well done. Nobody staffs the Mayan homestead on the weekends, which is a pity, but the stuff was great to look at and play with. We’ll have to go back on a weekday, next time.
In general, the snorkeling was not as good this year, probably because the seas were much rougher than they had been. All the usual suspects were there: sergeant majors, blue tang, trunk fish, the lone barracuda...just in fewer numbers. But we still managed to add a few new species to our list—Cindi even saw an eagle ray. And we had a wonderful time, of course. They have completed a new put-in with ladder down by the pool which is nice.
And that’s pretty much the news. The rest (by far, the largest part) is that happy blur of naps in hammocks, chaise-longue spit-turning, smiling Mayans, and buckets-o-beer that I know you remember quite well enough. It’s the heart of the experience...We had gone with a short list of variations: Tulum; San Gervasio; jungle tour; east coast side trip; but after the two days of bad weather, we decided it was much more important to hang out at the beach and underwater. So we did. There’s always (hopefully) next year.
Which we’ll have to see about. This was the last trip fueled by two salaries; we scrimped our Christmas and told ourselves we’d give each other Coz, and it worked out fine. Hopefully, by living a little closer to the bone, we can manage it next year. And I sincerely hope you’ll make it, too. There were plenty of moms and dads with babes the size of Gnat there—Cindi kept being SURE it was you and Sara—and I didn’t see any human combustion episodes. The hotel also has what appears to be a very nicely-run kids program; both years I have been impressed by what I saw in that regard. So do seriously consider hurrying back to paradise, with the sniffles or not. You’ll be glad you did from the moment you arrive, for the rest of your life. It’s too precious to wait...thanks again for letting us in on the secret.

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