On Friday night I stayed at a just-opened B&B, and the other guest was a woman who had just arrived in Mexico. She was traveling alone, and it was her first time out of the US since the mid-80s, and she was laughing at herself a little for being so nervous about this trip. So a lot of dinner conversation was devoted to how, when she got up the next morning and got on the road, she would find the trip quite easy and so not intimidating.

In my experience, every stereotype I’ve heard about Mexico has failed to be true in the Yucatan. Crazy drivers? Nah–it only seems that way if you don’t know the rules. There’s actually an elaborate etiquette in which drivers are expected to pull over to the side a bit to let people pass if they want to. Slimy men? No–gallantry reigns. If you don’t like being told you’re beautiful, well, maybe the Yucatan is not for you, but I’ve never had to deal with anything more. Crooked cops? I drove the wrong way down one-way streets in Izamal for 20 minutes, and when the cops finally caught up with me to alert me to my error, they were almost embarrassed. People stealing your stuff? I accidentally left my hotel room door not just unlocked, but ajar, all day one day in Chetumal, and nothing was out of place. Traumatic intestinal woes? Not once. Well, a bit of an urgent situation while I was walking around Chichen Itza, but seeing how the same thing happened to me at the Pyramids in Giza, I think it’s an allergic reaction to ruins.

So I bet this woman is now thinking to herself, Sheesh–what a letdown. There aren’t even chickens on the buses!

Speaking of buses, there was one opportunity on my last day for Mexico to turn into a big freakin’ drag. When I’d arrived in Puerto Morelos on the bus two days earlier, I’d bought my airport-bus ticket, for a whopping four dollars, and an assigned seat–better than I could’ve imagined!

Day of departure, I rolled up early for the bus, and waited a bit. About fifteen minutes late, it finally rolled toward us–the nice security guy at the bus kiosk pointed it out to me, even.

Then the bus kept rolling past. I waved my arms desperately. The bus driver shrugged and gestured to show the bus was packed to the gills. I indignantly waved my ticket and stamped my foot. “Tengo boleto!” I shouted to no one.

The nice security guy came and escorted me back to the ticket booth, and listened patiently while sputtered in bad Spanish. The woman in the booth got on the phone and talked and talked and talked and talked. Meanwhile, I calculated all the annoying possibilities. Sure, I had the money for a taxi, but who would spend $30 when they could spend $4? But I knew my Spanish was not good enough to cajole anyone into anything–I could feel my brain already doing that “I quit” thing it does on the last day of any trip.

Then the woman got off the phone and said to me in Spanish, “You have two options–you can wait for the next bus, which comes in 45 minutes, or we can pay for your taxi.”

I was so amazed that I couldn’t believe I’d heard the last part right. I asked her to repeat it, and quickly agreed to the taxi option before she changed her mind.

Within minutes I was on my way to the airport in speedy a/c comfort, and I arrived in plenty of time. On the way, the driver was happy to answer my last-minute questions about taxi fares, even producing his rate sheet from his glove compartment. (Oh yeah–another busted stereotype: I’ve never been ripped off by a cab driver in the Yucatan. In fact, as I looked at the rate sheet, I saw that I’d actually been _under_charged two days before.) It was the single nicest travel-plans-gone-wrong experience I’ve had, except maybe for the time Peter and I got stuck in Paris overnight.

Happy to be back, but missing the gallant ways of the Yucatan already…