Step On My Leg! Or, How I Went to Cabo and Discovered the True Meaning of Customer Service!
by Dan Taylor

Part 2: Is There Anything You Won't Sign for $3.50?
Dejected but determined, we soldier on and decide that we will find a notary public closer to home, get the AOC, have something to eat, and pick up something to take our minds off our woes. And yes, before you go assuming that THG is a typical male, I suggest that my girlfriend get on the plane since she has what we assume are the proper papers. She refuses.

Finding a notary public at noon on a Saturday in a suburb of Baltimore is much easier than we thought. However, the person on the phone at the local Mailboxes, Etc. does not know what an AOC is. I've been assuming all along that this is some official document, filled out in triplicate and placed in my permanent file next to my grade school Detention Notices and most recent blood test.

I am wrong. We are told to type up our own affidavit, bring it in before "Frank the Notary" leaves for the day, pay our $3.50 and get on with it. I find this news disheartening. I have made us miss our plane. I have gotten into a fight with a short ticket-jockey known only as Mary M. I am hungry. I will not have an official, laminated ID card that can be used to traipse in and out of the country on a whim.

What I end up with is an 8-1/2" x 11" piece of paper. With the words "Affidavit of Citizenship" at the top and the following ridiculous-sounding, idiotic-looking declaration: "This document certifies that I, Daniel Taylor, am a citizen of the United States of America." Stamped by a notary, dated June 2, 2001 and signed by "Frank the Notary."

I feel like a second-grader who needs to have their permission slip for the class trip pinned to their snorkel jacket. The entire process also makes me seethe with further hatred for Mary M, as this is the most moronic "document" that has ever been in my possession. Strong words coming from a former member of the James Bond 007 Fan Club and the Six Million Dollar Man Bionic Action Club.

The next morning we arrive at Baltimore-Washington International once again ready for a few days of rest and relaxation. With my AOC proudly in hand (I have shown it to three people since arriving at the airport, including the woman at Starbucks) we march to the counter, ready to board our plane.

Where yet another counterperson tells us that my girlfriend can't get on the plane because her birth certificate isn't the official, original one. Unlike Mary M, I do not know this woman's name because the hatred and rage building inside has given me a case of hysterical blindness.

Fast forward several hours and one heated discussion with the ticket counter manager later and we're landing in sunny, hot Baja, where we're asked to take off our shoes and produce our ID.

Suddenly, that grade school feeling washes over me as everybody else pulls out something official-looking – passport, birth certificate, something printed on parchment paper – while I unfold my giant piece of paper that might as well say, "Hi! I'm a retard. Please keep me away from tin foil and furniture with sharp corners. My mommy has my helmet and make sure I get on the short bus because the kids on the big bus will make fun of me."

My feelings of sheer panic, abandonment in Mexico and low self-esteem are groundless, and we hop on a bus that takes us from the overgrown shed that is the airport terminal to our beautiful, beachfront resort in Cabo. The half-hour ride from the airport to the hotel is bizarre, winding through dusty, dirt-paved roads, houses made from discarded road signs, and unmistakable poverty.

Until you hit the resorts where we gringos have gone to live in the lap of luxury and be so pampered that we can swim to the bar rather than deal with all that pesky getting out of the pool stuff. For the first few minutes, it's almost impossible not to feel a little guilty.

Then you get to your room, walk onto the balcony, look at the blue, beautiful ocean and think, "Screw poverty. This is the life."

This'd be nice if the music wasn't so loud...
Our timing is perfect and we arrive at the resort shortly before everybody from the wedding is due to meet at the marina for a booze cruise that will take us out and around the very tip of Baja, past the homes of celebs like Michael Jordan and Madonna, and back to the marina.

The trip starts off pleasantly enough. We share details of our problems getting out of Baltimore, Chris catches up with old friends, and I get to meet people that I've heard so much about. The boat is manned by a friendly crew that is quick to replenish drinks from the open bar, share details about the scenic coastline, and entertain us with music from a small band area near the front of the boat.

About half-way through the cruise everything starts to move in a TWILIGHT ZONE-esque direction. Meeting and greeting people becomes almost impossible as the music gets cranked to a near-deafening level. A couple at the back of the boat begins performing a dance that one can only imagine is a prelude to a night of ferocious, drunken sex that one or both will be embarassed about in the morning... in front of several older members of the bride and groom's family. Thinking that all the folks on board are attending the wedding, we're amazed at the way they're going at it in front of grandma. Maybe not their grandma, but somebody's grandma!

Another boat cruises by us and the "girls gone wild" partying atop their bridge decide to show us their thongs as well as their boobs.

It's around this point somebody comes up the steps from the bottom deck and asks, "Did somebody cut themselves? 'Cause there's a lot of blood down there."

Upon our return to the marina we discover a few things about our cruise. One, not everybody on board was from the wedding. For instance, the dirty-dancing couple was just that, which made me glad that I did not decide to follow their lead.

Two, the sudden increase in volume and the pool of blood were connected. The music was cranked to eleven in order to mask the rucus being caused by the two men who had been locked in the bathroom for fighting. Successfully, too, because none of us heard them pounding on the door, pleading to be let out so they could guzzle more tumblers of tequila.

Three, the blood belonged to the imprisoned men, who were also best buddies. And four, the federales waiting at dockside are there for our punch-drunk compadres, not to examine my flimsy-looking permission slip to enter Mexico.

Full of booze and ear-splitting music, we make our way through the warm night air to Mi Casa, one of Cabo's finest restaurants. Despite it being the slow, post-spring break season, the open air restaurant is packed and we don't help matters by bringing in 30 people. We decide to split up and sit in shifts, which works out nicely and lets me meet some of the great people Chris has worked with through the years. I also discover that I'm not the only one there without a TV news background, and the other non-newsy is also a food-loving member of the marketing and advertising game.

The food is one of two life-altering meals I'll have during our stay. I start with avocados filled with a cold salad made from bay scallops, chopped tomatoes, onions and herbs. It's amazingly refreshing.

For dinner I have a filet of carne asada, rare beef that has been grilled to perfection and served alongside beans, rice and guacamole. Having never heard of or tasted carne asada before, I find myself laughing when I return to the states and hear it in every Taco Bell commercial for the next 18 months.

to part 3...