Viva Mexico!

Any excuse to go to Mexico is a good excuse, right? A son's high school graduation (2019). Best friends find cheap tickets during pandemic (2020). A nephew gets married (2022).

Ah, Mexico! Turquoise water. White sand. Endless mojitos. The happiest of people. And no wind chill to worry about. It's quite paradis-ical.

Admittedly, I was a bit anxious about this year's trip. Not that I wasn't excited for Dillon to marry his sweet southern belle, but stuff kept happening. Flights were being cancelled. Our room status was questionable (our fault for our fickle decision-making). Shootings were happening on resorts. And, of course, there's still the whole Covid thing and making sure we could make it back to the U.S. God forbid we get trapped in paradise!

After sending many annoying texts to our kids to ensure they were prepared for the trip (Got your vax cards? Did you all take a rapid test? Don't forget your passports! Leave your fake IDs at home), I finally told myself it was time to quit worrying and have fun. And fun we did have. The wedding was beautiful with top-notch toasts. The spa treatment was heaven. The food was exciting! Yes, exciting! When knives are juggled, that's exciting.

But there were a few bumps on the trip. A little spat because I was taking too long to get ready the night we arrived. (I always take too long, but there's less tolerance after a long day in airports and drinks to be had.) Back to the bumps. Too much tequila for the tiniest girl in our travel party. A bladder infection for the oldest girl in our travel party. And a bout of nausea for the most allergic-ridden girl in our travel party. But we carried on like troopers!

Then Covid testing day arrived. The worry had been lingering in the back of my rum-infused brain, especially whenever I heard our son cough. As it turned out, my worrying was merited.

As we walked through the hotel lobby to the testing site, Cole seemed particularly nervous. Then he confessed. He hadn't really taken a rapid test before leaving AND he had actually felt like shit.

He was afraid we wouldn't let him go to Mexico.

Solid logic.

So, we waited and fretted to get our noses swabbed. Then they took us all back to a little dark room. It all felt very criminal. We lined up, passports in hand, and let the nurse poke our noses. Then we were led back to another little dark room to await results. A guy came in with purpose and walked directly to Cole. My heart fell. This was it. Cole was going to miss his first week of college, quarantined in a Mexican resort. His life was ruined.

As it turned out, the guy just wanted our passports and Cole just happened to be sitting there. And within a few minutes after my heart attack, the negative Covid results were all delivered. Hallelujah, let's go drinks more rum.

I'm not sure if there's a moral to this story. I don't think so, except maybe, just maybe things always work out. Even for the good-hearted liars.

Four Tickets to Paradise

So, this is paradise.

That was my thought twelve years ago when we went to Cancun with friends. In our late thirties at the time, Doug and I promised we wouldn't let our passports expire. Never! We were gonna travel the world! But then, you know... life. We discovered quickly it was much easier to travel domestically with kids. So, now, with the kids nearly grown, we decided to return to that beautiful place where rum flows like water. Good water, not from Mexico.

The adventure really began in the airport. Before going through security, I asked Cole (several times) if he had any liquids in his bag. "No! No! Of course not." Then he got that questioning look on his face. "Wait. Is toothpaste a liquid?" We chuckled and assured him he would be fine. I was actually impressed he remembered toothpaste. Then we went through, shoes off, electronics and bags in the trays, and waited for our stuff. Cole's duffle bag was being held back. We watched as Mr. TSA pulled out a full bottle of shampoo. Then a full bottle of body wash. Cole tried to explain to Mr. TSA, "Oh, those are really old." Yeah. The argument didn't hold so well. TSA guy tossed the bottles, with a sly smirk on his face. Well, at least Cole wasn't paged over the loud speaker to retrieve his boarding pass that was found on the ground. This time.

Alex's screening wasn't exactly smooth either. She began to tell me the story. Not having seen our daughter for nearly two months, I was struck how her sweet, rosy cheeks reminded me of her innocent toddler days. She continued her story. As it turned out, she was asked if she was wearing any metal in (ahem) a delicate, bra-line area. Her mother told her that no good would come of that type of piercing. But it did bring us a good laugh.

They grow up so fast.

waves crashing

Then the adventure continued.

I discovered quickly that the trick to mastering Zumba is to perform the sexy dance moves in water. I was actually quite good. Well, I felt like I was quite good. My confidence was quickly dismantled during a heated game of keep-away in which I pulled my Achilles. I had to drop out. I slunk back to my beach chair and read with the other moms while the other fathers played with their kids in the pool.

Not only did I excel in Zumba, but I clearly mastered the art of sunscreen... unlike the rest of my family. While Doug might be a pro in the game of keep-away, he's challenged in the area of sunscreen. In his defense, the sun in Iowa isn't nearly as powerful as the sun in the Yukatan. Hardly ever the self-conscious type, he was very concerned by the streaky burn on his chest. I assured and assured and assured him that it didn't look bad. Then some old lady came up to him and said, "My God! Don't you know how to apply sunscreen?" Doug laughed politely and said, "Yeah, I missed a few areas." Then, she disgustedly replied, "Well, I guess so."

But old, crabby ladies couldn't possibly ruin the vacation at the luxurious Dreams resort. (Shout out to Four Seasons Travel!) We dressed up every night to enjoy fancy food at fancy restaurants. We ate squids and snails. We listened to great live music. We took a cocktail class where we didn't learn a thing, but thoroughly enjoyed seven beautifully-poured shots with names like "Shit in the Grass." We played beach volleyball in which we middle-aged parents beat our athletic kids as pretty twenty-somethings watched in amusement. We took periodic breaks from the sun after discovering the "Core Zone." We played endless games of ping pong in which Cole clearly dominated much to his father's dismay. We played pool in which Doug clearly dominated much to his own delight. We eventually got kicked out of the gaming area, not realizing the Core Zone was only for ages 13-17. But just wait. We'd show them...

On the night before our departure, the resort held a Family Trivia Night. I insisted. As we poured into the theater, my family quickly observed the number of really young families with really young kids. So, I double-checked with the staff. "Was this event for all ages?" Absolutely. So, I grabbed the clicker and instructed the Kramfam to take seats. The game began and it was quickly evident that our ages had some advantages. Halfway through, they flashed the scores. We were slaying it. A little embarrassed, I leaned over to Doug and asked if he wanted to leave. "Screw it. Let's take it to them." Always the competitor. After 25 questions, the game ended. We had a feeling we had kept our lead up, but we had missed a few toward the end. So, we'd have to wait. However, you see, it wasn't just a simple announcement of the winner. It was a ceremony. The emcee built excitement by announcing third place winners first. A sweet little girl came up to get their family's prize. Then the second place winners were announced. Another sweet little girl came up to get their family's prize, at which point Alex skedaddled to the bathroom which was bullocks because she answered most of the questions! Then... it came. The announcement. Team Kramer had won. No one in my family would go on stage. I had to do it. Like moms do. So I sheepishly walked to the stage to collect a plethora of gifts. Maracas. A pouch. A key chain. A t-shirt. A bracelet. A pretty painting from a handicapped artist. I did end up giving most of the gifts away to kids in the audience. Except the painting. Dammit. We earned that.

Getting home was another story. Without belaboring it, we missed a connecting flight in Houston and had to stay over another night. It was a long 24 hours, but we finally made it back to Omaha. We were following a group of men that we had seen clear back at the beginning of our journey from Mexico.We were all tired. A bit delirious. Suddenly, I hear a loud "PPPPPPHST." Did that man really just break wind on us? Or, to be more accurate, did he just drop an atomic bomb? I didn't trust my hearing by that time. But I did trust my sense of smell. I looked at Doug. He looked at me. We tried like hell not to laugh. The poor guy was probably exhausted as well. Or maybe he just got really comfortable with us by that time.

So, despite the hiccups at the end of our travels, it was a top five vacation. I'll admit I was a little sad to leave. I guess that's the thing about paradise. It doesn't ever get old.

We dressed up every night. There seems to be no evidence. All beach/pool photos.

Oh, the People You Meet in Key West

There's nothing quite like escaping to the South during the throes of winter.

The throes of winter: it begins on December 26th and lasts until that last, sneaky snowstorm in April or May. Visits to daughter in college town and soccer tournaments have prevented us from baring our pasty white legs in a warmer climate for quite some time. This year, however, we decided to revisit Key West and celebrate some special anniversaries with our in-laws.

I will try not to bore you with details like how good it felt to unthaw our bones in the 80 degree weather. Or how a fresh pina colada is like drinking a nectar from the gods. Or how watching the sun set over the Florida Straits while dining on fresh fish cleanses the soul of all worry. Ok, so I'll bore you a little.

I've always known that I have a problem with giving my full and undivided attention to people and things. (Doug will hastily agree.) It's not because I'm bored of the company, usually. It's because my mind is clicking on a thousand different issues. I believe the universe decided to play a little game  with me in Key West – to help me with this affliction of paying attention.

The first incident took place in a French Cafe where Doug, Judy, Mike and I were having breakfast. I ordered an omelette and asked what type of toast I could have. (I prefer to have my wait staff list off the options rather than just ask for the bread I want.) The waiter, in his French accent said, "vite, veet, bagel, or grrrrrriah." I really didn't want white, wheat, or a bagel. But I had no idea what a grrrrriah was. I politely asked him to repeat. With his French sigh, he said, "vite, veet, bagel, or grrrrriah." Since grrrrriah didn't sound anything close to sourdough (which is what I wanted), I went with wheat. After he left, I asked anyone if they knew what a grrrriah was. Mike informed me he was saying "croissant." Mike obviously learned to speak condescending French on one of their many vacations.

As the sun dropped into the sea.

The second incident occurred on a pier where we decided to drink, eat, and, watch the sunset over the water. We all had a hankering for seafood, so asked our pretty little waitress about the "Catch of the Day." In her sweet, hispanic accent she replied, "It's called the fish." I looked at Mike, who was so good at translating. He said, "It's fish." Yeah. That's what I thought she said. Judy said, "What fish though?" We asked again. Again, she said, "It's called the fish." After a Dumb and Dumber flashback of the "soup de jour" sounding delicious scene, it hit us. She was saying, "It's cod, the fish." The sweet waitress apologized for her accent as we apologized for our inability to hear very well after several drinks. And the fish of the day ended up being quite delicious.

The third incident happened on the night before our departure. We had stumbled across a hole in the wall off Duvall Street. It was carrying an enticing aroma of fire-oven pizza. We approached a young Italian hostess who said something to me which I interpreted to be "follow me." I was, after all, becoming quite good at translation. So, I waved my arm to our group and we followed her in. She turned back, surprised to see me right behind her. "Not yet," she said with a benevolent smile – as if she knew she was dealing with someone who would need extra help. She led us back to the entry to wait. I saw her begin to take names for tables, so I asked if she needed my name. She smiled again and said, "No. I will remember you." Eventually we were seated. And after a close call of ordering something that sounded like bruschetta, but wasn't, we all had spectacular pizza. As we waddled out, with my head in a cloud of mozzarella cheese and sangria, I found myself once again running into our original hostess. She gave me that "you again" look before politely excusing herself and getting on to her busy tasks.

The smallest bar in the world, they say.

Pay attention, Stef.

We noticed throughout vacation that Mike and Judy have a way of running into very interesting people. Broadcasters. Football players. Actors. Old men who know all the best places to eat in Key West. Maybe we would meet some of these people too, if we would just pay attention.

I'll end with one final story. During our tour of the Hemmingway house, my sister-in-law noticed one of the six-toed cats which are believed to be good luck. She quickly petted it, as did I. Then Judy prudently suggested we buy a lottery ticket. So we did. We both agreed that a few more trips to Key West wouldn't hurt anyone.

I asked Hemmingway for some writerly luck.

What I love best about vacation is the sudden opening of time – time to observe and time to reflect. You'd think with all of this weather, we'd have plenty of time for that here in the North. But we prefer to keep ourselves busy – probably to keep warm and to earn a paycheck in case we don't win the lottery.

Just a few hours ago, Judy texted me texted me the winning lottery numbers with the message, "6-toed cat did not help me win." But I wonder. Maybe the cat knew that money doesn't bring you luck. Paying attention sure does though. She also mentioned they met a writer for National Geographic and saw Forrest Whitaker in Miami. Meeting interesting people. Having enriching experiences. That's the best kind of luck.