I did mention an amazing bowl of pozole in Cancun, but I wanted to revisit it because the reason it was amazing went far beyond how delicious it was.
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Earlier in the trip, when I had just arrived, I was wandering the grounds getting my bearings when I was accosted in the lobby by some service reps. Notable for their black polo shirts, they represented a mysterious entity known as the “Privilege Club”. They were inordinately curious about my stay, what I planned on doing, if I was traveling alone, and how come alone if I was so pretty? One in particular, Marco, honed in on the breakfast I was planning on having the next day over at a sister resort. Meet him in the lobby at 10am, he said, and he would make sure I was treated to a great presentation at that resort, then gifted with a beach bag and cultural show ticket. It was free, he insisted, and I said yes.
Once he had written down my information, I walked away. A scant few minutes later, I was climbing over a railing when I noticed him right behind me. What was I doing that exact evening, he wanted to know, and would I go out with him? I was confused, flattered by the attention, and also uncomfortable. I asked him if I could think about it, and put the railing between us.
To debrief with myself, I sat down by the pool and Googled the resort’s name, as well as “Privilege Club” and “proposition”. Was this a standard business tactic? What did Marco want? I was confronted with 246 replies on a message board decrying a timeshare scam. I was pissed, to have been forcibly shepherded into something that – while seeming to enhance my stay, would actually do the opposite.
I found myself at a crossroads. I could, as I had been raised, to just let it go. Stand Marco up, avoid the Privilege Club section of the lobby, and go about my business. Instead, I thought about my previous work environment, the self-serving scheming and coercive manipulatory tactics. Cancun was all about digesting that experience, and I decided to appropriate what I was subjected to and try it out. I went straight back to Marco, pretending I had considered his proposition and had an answer. He bounded over. I cited the 246 scam-decrying messages, and told him that in exchange for him wasting my time, I wanted the beach bag and cultural show ticket I was promised. I told him I would keep quiet about the harassment and he could keep his job.
He backpedaled, hard. I wasn’t yet 33 years old, he said, which disqualified me from the Privilege Club. He had checked with the supervisor after he signed me up, he claimed. He couldn’t give me the beach bag or the cultural show ticket.
I went to dinner, shaking. I was indignant, and crestfallen, and anxious – for having acted in a uncustomary way that nevertheless didn’t guarantee me any results. So, I leaned in. After dinner, I went up the chain of command. I spoke to two different managers, and wrote a letter of complaint. The next day, I spoke to two other managers, including Marco’s direct supervisor. Even though what I was really angry about was the scammy nature of the entire enterprise, ultimately they were not going to take action on their business model. So I emphasized how he had followed me, and propositioned me, and how as a woman traveling alone I just wanted to feel safe.
And I got the results I wanted. Or so I thought. I was given the beach bag and the cultural show ticket I had been promised, and Marco was temporarily suspended from his post.
The whole incident took a lot out of me. It seemed to have sapped away whatever assertiveness I had – and I spent the rest of the stay lapsing back into not advocating for myself. OK, housekeeping cleaned the room when I specifically tagged my room as “Do Not Disturb”, fine. OK, I’m not allowed to go swimming in the infinity pool without paying extra, fine. OK, I can’t exchange my beach towel until the next day, fine. OK, other Privilege Club staff still try to talk to me, fine. OK, I can’t eat at any of the specialty restaurants because reservations are closed, fine. Is this the price I pay for trying to be different than what I was raised to be? OK, fine.
So, on my last night there, I went to eat at the one place that was available to me, thinking I would probably just end the trip on an anticlimactic note. Then, wandering through the buffet, I saw pozole, one of my favorite soups. I get it, sit down, and as the first spoonful of unctuous pork + stew hit my taste buds with unexpected delight – I am grateful. For having not given up on my experience, for having showed up, for allowing life to gift me a moment I wasn’t looking for. That pozole allowed me to bring my trip full circle – because I had started out the trip having an unexpected Spanish conversation with my shuttle driver about many things – including, as you might have already guessed, pozole.
And so, in my next year of life on this Earth, I wish for many more of what this story was about – times in which I try on new ways of being, whatever the result, and moments in which I am gifted the unexpected by life. Gifted, not for having tried to be, or not to be, but for simply existing as a thinking, feeling, living, being.
Wishing you all a pozole moment of your own, and many more. 🍲🍲🍲🍲🍲