Birth of a Travel Writer
My first international flight was with my mom. I was 11, she was 51, and we were traveling with her cousin, my Uncle Eddie, from New York to Acapulco, Mexico. My older sis was a stewardess with Braniff Airways, in those heady days when Emilio Pucci designed layered, multi-colored uniforms that were gradually removed during flight. (Touted as the “Air Strip,” my sis served meals in stylish lavender bloomers.)
Mom and I shared a vision of Acapulco: Oceanside swimming pools, swaying palm trees, and glamour beyond what we'd ever experienced. We rode in the taxi, enthralled, passing ultra-fashionable hotels before turning away from the glitzy tourist district and driving up into the hills to the Hotel Isabel.
The modest three-story hotel was owned by the family of my sister’s boyfriend, Jaime. When they learned we were coming to visit, they insisted we be their guests. Glam? Not.
In our room, each cement block wall was painted a different color. There were no windows, just slits to let in the breeze. The bathroom floor was covered in ants, and when I saw them I screamed. “Those are black and white tiles,” said Mom. “Put your glasses on!” was my reply. In Eddie’s room, a bare light bulb dangled above the bed. He had no toilet seat, and no hangers. “Jaime’s getting the hangers,” said Jamie’s mom.
Meals were served family style at a table in the lobby, served by the 90-year old chef with a cigar butt dangling from her mouth. We lasted two nights—marked by gunshots and an earthquake (mom slept through the latter)--before making apologies and decamping to a hotel on the beach. Mom got a migraine. Eddie never got his hangers. It was an unforgettable trip. For decades, the family joke has been, “Don’t worry, Jamie’s coming with the hangers!”
I've been a travel lover ever since.
Mom and I shared a vision of Acapulco: Oceanside swimming pools, swaying palm trees, and glamour beyond what we'd ever experienced. We rode in the taxi, enthralled, passing ultra-fashionable hotels before turning away from the glitzy tourist district and driving up into the hills to the Hotel Isabel.
The modest three-story hotel was owned by the family of my sister’s boyfriend, Jaime. When they learned we were coming to visit, they insisted we be their guests. Glam? Not.
In our room, each cement block wall was painted a different color. There were no windows, just slits to let in the breeze. The bathroom floor was covered in ants, and when I saw them I screamed. “Those are black and white tiles,” said Mom. “Put your glasses on!” was my reply. In Eddie’s room, a bare light bulb dangled above the bed. He had no toilet seat, and no hangers. “Jaime’s getting the hangers,” said Jamie’s mom.
Meals were served family style at a table in the lobby, served by the 90-year old chef with a cigar butt dangling from her mouth. We lasted two nights—marked by gunshots and an earthquake (mom slept through the latter)--before making apologies and decamping to a hotel on the beach. Mom got a migraine. Eddie never got his hangers. It was an unforgettable trip. For decades, the family joke has been, “Don’t worry, Jamie’s coming with the hangers!”
I've been a travel lover ever since.