Always exciting, the day after I arrive somewhere, to discover what I’ve forgotten.

1) My hat. Top of head melting. Face getting blotchy. I tried on hats today in a craft store, and they were all for people with 2-year-old-size heads. I guess that would mean 2-year-olds.

2) Forgot my iPod and my clever little voice recorder, which made my last research trip so much better. A breakthrough at the time…now squandered.

3) Oh, I forgot to learn Spanish. I mean, I forgot to relearn my Spanish, or even just study…or even bring my dictionary. My Spanish mastery of, say, three years ago, has already crumbled. On this trip, I suspect even my mother may surpass me in fluency, and that’s not saying much.

4) Forgot to tighten the lid on my mouthwash. I guess if something’s going to leak in your toiletry bag, mouthwash is the best one to do it. All my clothes smell minty fresh, and the evaporating alcohol made them cool to the touch when I unpacked that first night.

Anyway, now that the major mistakes are taken care of, it’s just on to the work. I tried once again to like Progreso, but it’s one of those places that makes me think, Gah, people will do anything to live near the sea. It is just not a town with any kind of soul that I can discern.

Then we went to Campeche. Now that city’s got soul, and it’s getting more all the time. First time I visited, in 2003, the historic center was very cutesy-museum-piece, with no useful businesses at all. I got grumpy and cursed the fake “trams,” which are just open-sided buses.

Now Campeche has tons of stuff going on–you can buy a fridge, eat a Whopper or get some espresso in the center. You can hang out on the plaza on a Saturday night and play the loteria with the old ladies, or sing karaoke to a crowd. Or, best of all, you can wander over to the musical fountain!

Believe me, if I were in, say, Vegas, and someone said “musical fountain,” I would roll my eyes and walk the other way. Somehow, in Campeche, where the pleasures are simpler, the three fountains choreographed to Mexican anthems and classical excerpts hit the spot. Especially because everyone else seemed so happy with them. Kids were jumping around. An older man with a cane was boogying, while his wife looked on and giggled. Three nuns sat on a park bench, and one took pictures of the fountains with her cellphone. Those fountains rocked.

Yesterday we got into New Territory. I’ve been coming to the Yucatan since 2003, and this is the first time I’ve set foot outside of the peninsula proper. When B and I crossed the border into Tabasco, on our way to Villahermosa, I couldn’t help but think of all the usual stereotypes of Mexico. Maybe this is where I would be robbed by bandits, get violently ill and be shaken down by a policeman.

So far, no. People drive a little more aggressively here, but that’s it. The food is totally different, and tasty–there’s some crazy kind of chile here, only as big as a caper, that’s in all the salsa. There’s some crazy river fish with nasty teeth, a pejelagartos, that everyone eats. It tastes like mud, like all river fish, but I like the way it made our waiter swoon and say “It’s awwwwesome!” last night. And instead of a basket of tortilla chips, we got a plate of deep-fried plantain crisps with lunch today. Brilliant.

I was also a little leery of coming to Tabasco because of the terrible flooding that happened last November. It wasn’t until we’d been walking around for a while today that we noticed the high-water marks on a lot of buildings. Everyone has “Yo [heart] Tab + Que Nunca” (I heart Tabasco more than ever) bumper stickers on their cars. And the malecon is lined not with shiny rectangular stones, as we thought last night in the glare of the headlights, but with stacks of sandbags taller than my head. I’ve got to say, overall, this place still looks a million times better than New Orleans. Hooray for Mexico’s response in a crisis.

Tomorrow, more driving: some cocoa haciendas, some Maya ruins, and hopefully Palenque by nightfall. All new! All thrilling!

PS: I got an unwanted “upgrade” to a PT Cruiser when I picked up my rental car in Merida. Attempts to swap it for a more modest conveyance have failed. Tonight I cranked up “Ice Ice Baby” on the radio, at least, so I feel like I’m making good use of it. And people often stop to let us go by, even when they have the right-of-way. I am a little leery of driving it into Chiapas, though. Chiapas…PT Cruiser…Chiapas…PT Cruiser. Those words were never meant to go together.

PPS: Running clown count: 4. All in one day, in Campeche!

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…