It is an undeniable truth that there is nothing duller than someone else’s travel mishaps. But when those mishaps are encountered in an effort to escape the worst vacation in the history of vacations, perhaps they deserve to be heard.
When I say the worst vacation in the history of vacations, I mean to say in my history of vacations because I am aware that there are things worse than finding out your husband has been cheating on you. And lying about it. And pinning the transgression on his best friend of thirty-two years. And I’m open to the possibility that these worse things happened to these other people while these other people were on other vacations.
But back to my vacation.
When I trusted the job of packing my suitcase to my husband, who, left to his own devices, would have never unpacked in the first place, I held out no hope for expert folding. That when he took my bag out from where I’d stashed it underneath the bed he’d put the shoes in first. Or that he’d place the nice dress, the one I’d brought along for his birthday, back into the plastic wrap from the dry cleaner’s to minimize wrinkling.
What I did expect, however, is that Peter would remember to take my passport and Clementine’s from the drawer in the table by my bedside.
I didn’t catch his oversight until this morning. And just as I realized it, Peter—in a different state to the south, inside a luxury villa on a private beach—was realizing the very same thing.
So when my hotel room phone rang I knew it was him. On the morning of any international trip the first thing we both do when we wake is double-check that we have our passports. He figured that I wouldn’t pick up the cell because of the exorbitant international fees, and because I hadn’t yet picked up a call from him, and so he was calling from the mustard-yellow rotary phone in the kitchen at Villa Azul Paraiso. I could picture him standing there like Richard Nixon might have—hand in pocket, head heavy with shame.
“I’m an idiot. I could bring them to the airport, but maybe it’s better if you come get me here and we all go together? I think it’s better that way. You and Clem shouldn’t be without your passports. You can wait in the taxi. You won’t see Solly and Ingrid anyway. Their flight left late last night.”
“They left last night? I thought the airport wasn’t opening until today.”
“I guess it opened earlier than expected and a few flights made it out. They got lucky.”
Of course Solly made it out on the first flight. Of course he got lucky. There is nothing at all about this that I find surprising.
“Jenna . . . I’m sorry I forgot to pack your passports. That was stupid of me. I’m so sorry. For everything.”
I’m not sure how long this sort of contrition will last. It’s nice, but it’s not real. It’s the Nuevo to the Puerto. I can see how I’d grow tired of it.
Later, as we’re packing up our things, Clementine says to me, “I had a really good time, Mom. Thank you.”
I wonder if this is how she will remember this vacation. As a good time. If the night of the kidnapping and our retreat to this sprawling hotel in this northern state, if her embarrassment at the way things unfolded with Malcolm, her fights with her father about entitlement, with me about intrusions into her private life: if it will fade away and that all she’ll remember are the sunlit images, the photos on her phone of the beach, the pool, the house, the views.
We bring our bags down to the open lobby. This fake paradise also eschews walls. We make our way across the vast, white marble floors. There are trees inside and birds in these trees that sing. Our flip-flops slap and echo and the wheels of our suitcases make noise, too, but we are silent. We move out toward the pickup zone side by side, not speaking a word.
We drive south. Through the gaps in the buildings and the trees I see the Bay of Banderas, the water dotted with the brightly colored sails of boats taking snorkelers out on expeditions, and up in the air the multihued parachutes of adventure seekers—everyone on the hunt for a different perspective.
Back near the heart of Puerto Vallarta we slow down. It is Easter Sunday. The streets are full. Our driver isn’t shy about using his horn. We wind our way through the traffic that grows thicker the nearer we draw to the main square and the Church of Our Lady of Guadalupe.
We are on a street now that runs parallel to the water; beside us, a promenade. The Malecon. Throngs of people are heading to Mass to celebrate Jesus’s resurrection. Families in fancy clothes. Young friends, arm in arm. Old ladies carrying black umbrellas to shield themselves from the sun. And there are equal numbers of people who have no intention of going to church—barely clad beachgoers with towels around their necks and day drinkers holding neon, frozen cocktails. The week that follows Easter Sunday is an even busier time in Puerto Vallarta than the week that precedes it. At least that’s what Roberto told me.
Rising above the crowd I see the top rungs of a ladder cast in bronze. And two figures, one in front of the other, climbing up toward a windless, cloud-scattered sky. It is the sculpture Maria Josephina told me about.
En Busca de la Razón.
Searching for Reason.
Before I can get a closer look, before I can understand if they are climbing toward or away from something, before I can see what the artist carved into the bronze slabs of their faces, how he captured their expressions, whether they climbed with fear, joy, anticipation, desperation—it is already in our rearview mirror. I turn around in my seat. I look at their backs. They each hold the ladder with only one hand. With the other they grasp at air.
We leave the town and the traffic and drive up the empty road Peter and Solly and I walked home late Wednesday night in a dazed panic, desperate to locate our children, to chase from our imaginations the unthinkable scenarios.
We make the turn onto the patchy paved street that gives way to dirt and then surrenders to jungle. We pull up in front of the entrance to Villa Azul Paraiso with its large wooden doors and park behind a minivan. Our taxi driver keeps the engine running.
I see Roberto. He’s helping unload bags. A few children run in and out of the open doors. Two men take suitcases from Roberto and then wheel them inside as the women confer. Perhaps they’re debating who gets the room with the volcanic tub. Maybe they’ll decide to switch halfway through—that would be the fair thing to do.
Peter steps outside with his suitcase. He shakes hands with Roberto. It takes me a minute to notice the change. He is clean shaven; his vacation beard is gone.
“Daddy!” Clementine calls out the window.
He waves at us shyly. He looks like a stranger to me.
The men who have just arrived step back outside; each puts an arm around one of the women. They look at the exterior of Villa Azul Paraiso, nodding with satisfaction, congratulating themselves on their expert vacation planning.
Peter makes his way toward the taxi. The radio is tuned to a news station. I don’t know what they’re saying, but they sound calm. Gone is the hysteria, the breathlessness.
Enrique steps outside in his white zip-up coat and his slicked-back hair. He holds a tray of margaritas. He offers them to the guests. They each take one and smile.
Everyone looks happy.