Gorging to the Max

I don't think it's entirely unreasonable of me to expect all-inclusive resorts to liberally post warning signs that what lays in store could be hazardous to your health.  I'm thinking maybe some diabolical figure with horns and a rictus grin standing atop a pile of absurdly bloated bodies.  Maybe, just maybe, this message might thwart one's overwhelming impulse to eat 1400 times what you normally consume.  Maybe.  I'm not sure there is a single term or phrase that best describes vacationing in an all-inclusive resort: fabulously indulgent, unspeakable gluttony, guilty pleasure, hedonism run amok, wasteful and wanton consumption, paradise.  It's so hard to decide.  In the end, it's whatever you want, whenever you want it.  Limitless choices, limitless quantities.  Think if it as a cruise without the claustrophobia and the company of 380 pound fellow travelers.

This is our lot this week as we indulge ourselves a few miles south of Playa del Carmen on the Yucatan's east coast, or, as it has now become known, the Mayan Riviera.  Here at the Catalonia Royal Tulum we are celebrating a birthday for long-time friend, Cathy, who is here with husband, Randy, and their grown children, Travis and Shannon. 

We arrived here a few days ago tired from a long flight and a 3:45 a.m. wake up alarm to be met at the airport by a seemingly friendly chap, Carlos, who, in my stupor, I thought was an associate of the transit company that would ferry us to our hotel.  But, no.  It took us a couple of minutes to realize that Carlos was a shill for a time share resort and was laying on his considerable persuasive powers and charm to seduce us into a presentation by his employer.  This, of course, was way too reminiscent of our similar experience in getting our "free" Caribbean cruise about a year ago which was as enjoyable to us as water boarding is to most right minded folks.  Free of Carlos, we are whisked away on our one hour ride south past wonderful memories of past visits to this region.

The hotel is most surely elegant.  Its lobby is open to the elements protected by a huge conical thatched roof that seems to rise several stories above where we stand.  The path to our room is through vegetation lush enough to fairly be called jungle.  A curving white-stoned path leads us through the jungle to our rooms and the beach and is not a bad substitute for the Yellow Brick Road of Oz. 

But, the recurring theme here is food and drink.  Unless you opt for a sensible continental breakfast, you are faced with a buffet that offers more customized omelets, more fresh fruit, more bread and rolls, more sausage, bacon, smoked salmon, and champagne than you see in six lifetimes.  It's crazy.  Same for lunch where the dessert display alone is ten feet long and one is faced with choices ranging from ceviche to salads to tostadas to pulled pork to sushi.  And then, five restaurants to choose from for dinner where once again you engage in the good angel/bad angel debate over how many delicacies (and calories) to inhale.  It's a wonder management just doesn't encourage you to lose the pants and go straight to togas.  And, the liquor.  Oh my, the liquor.  It's all included so you find yourself smacking down multiple cervezas at lunch followed by an afternoon (at least in my case) of mojitos (with Cuban rum!) as you semi-absentmindedly await the sunset.  I'm already thinking I should maybe ask the flight attendant on the way back for one of those seat belt extenders.

And then, there is the animal life, which abounds.  Mammals come in various sizes with various snouts.  One creature looks like a large groundhog, not unlike a capybara, but smaller.  Coati mundis travel en masse and playfully accost passers-by looking for a handout.  They do this in a most polite way standing straight up on their hind legs arms outstretched above their heads as if beseeching you for one more crumb.  Schools of fish swim around you in the shallows with a cockiness reflecting their awareness that humans are woefully too slow to threaten them.  There are toucans whose beaks are, truth be told, significantly larger than mine.  And, then there are the parrots, "Ricky" and "Martin," who seem quite content to pose with me, one cradled in my arms on his back like a baby, the other perched on my shoulder taking a bit too much interest in my hair.  Iguanas scurry here and there showing their own addiction to the local red flowers.  None of them, however, has been taught to whisper.  Their early morning screeching, whistling, cackling and clucking is, I guess, what you might call your daily wake-up call, Mexican style.

I loved this week.  Good times with old friends, blowing it out.  What's a few calories among friends?

Running Down Memory Lane

It had been planned for months. A weekend getaway to re-acquaint ourselves with memories still embedded somewhere, but in need of being refreshed. Rehoboth Beach, Delaware was in our cross hairs. One of those special places we all have where memories long submerged come blasting to the surface like a dormant geyser waiting to be experienced one more time, needing no more of a trigger than just being there. We rented a house in the North Shores section of town mere steps from earlier rentals – familiar turf. The group: folks who have shared these wonderful moments with us over the decades, some for long weekends, some for a summer's term when we would bolt the stuffy confines of Washington and head for the ocean and its promise of clear air, surf, sand and serenity. Friends who will be there for a lifetime. For Lily and me, this was the place where we raised Jesse and Alex in the summer months, and it was where the seeds of the strong magnetic pull to beaches were first born in them.

Just driving into town was enough to get the smiles going, but, for me, the deal was sealed by a run through the old neighborhoods and the town. Like my own personal tour bus with my brain serving as tour guide stimulated often by seemingly nothing but the merest visual cues and the music from my iPod blaring in my ears. I took off from our house on Harbor Road and made the turn on to Cedar Road where at number 9 resided the heart and soul of our times here. Sadly, the old, red, one-story frame house is gone now replaced by a mini-mansion box that I suppose is attractive to someone, although certainly not to me. But, the house didn't need to be there to bring it all back. Here is where a young Amy DePippo embarked on a determined course to bake a very young Alex a birthday cake decorated to look like a pool table, and make it all happen in a toaster oven. Here was where, on unrelenting rainy days, we would succumb to the elements and encourage the boys to play in the downpour out in the backyard, sometimes with the yellow slip 'n slide that was in perfect shape for rainy day play. It was here that our old chocolate lab, Hoover, would fight over the orange baton thrown far into the ocean with Randy and Cathy's border collie, Domino. Their truce was for each of them to have a firm grip on either end of the baton as they swam ashore together like a canine synchronized swim team might do.

Right around the corner was 1 Ocean Drive where our Virginia neighbor, Mark, saved a very young Markey Mark from cascading over a railing to the floor below, and where a young Jesse blithely ignored a small army of secret service personnel to walk up and introduce himself to what was then a newly elected Vice President Gore.

On I ran. Where the road passes closest to the beach, just north of town, there is a stretch of beach where they used to hold the sand castle competition, a must see for us and the boys. The creations there were a testament to a kind of creativity and architectural genius that we could only marvel at. In the evenings, this is where you wanted to be to see the moon's reflection trip along the water to the shoreline. Magical. And, then there was the boardwalk running along the beach, through town and on to the residential area to the south. People strolling arm in arm, dog walkers everywhere, babies in strollers, tattooed people of so many sizes, shapes and coutures you'd swear you had come upon the world's truest melting pot. And, there, on the right, was the kite store where on this day the breezes were strong enough to make everything spin, flutter and dazzle.

Further down the boardwalk I came upon a statue commemorating Giovanni Da Verrazzano -- a statue unknown to me from our times here -- and a testament to his exploratory forays into this region in the early 1500s. Who knew? Just as this historical reality was sinking in, up loomed the irrepressible sign for Dolle's, a big juicy red, sticky sweet sign that lords itself over the boardwalk announcing to the world its saltwater taffy and other less famous sugary treats. And, then, holy ground: Grotto Pizza where one can clearly identify the soul-melting aroma of a veggie bianco or the fresh basil from its margherita pizzas.

I pressed on. If I could laugh and run, I would have at the sight of Funland. Here was the world's epicenter as far as Jesse and Alex were concerned. Rides, games, food. A juvenile perfect storm. But, Lily and I weaved a fable back in those days advising the boys that Funland was only open when it rained. It's amazing they still talk to us. On this day, Funland was shuttered but I swear the air was filled with the aroma of popcorn and melted butter.

This run was, for me, a wonderfully sweet experience. I wanted more than anything, just this one time, to have the endurance to run forever.