Moctezuma’s Revenge

I’m a morning person. When I wake up, my eyes pop open, I look over at my husband and smile good morning. When my son was in high school, I used to sing a good morning song as I opened his curtains letting in the sunshine. (To his credit, he never barred me from his room or yelled through an adolescent fog.) When I was in college, in the communal bathroom one morning, someone once asked me if I always woke up so cheerful. My reply apparently annoyed her even more than my joie de vivre at 6:00 am.

My mother never had to fight with me to get up for school. I was up before her seven days a week.

You get the idea. I’m a morning person and always start my day early and cheerful, regardless of how horrible the day before may have been or the how late into the night I stayed up reading. (I generally am in bed early, but some nights you just can’t put that book down.) New day! New possibilities!

Anyway, given how I normally start my day, the fact that, on the morning in question, opening my eyes was painful was my first inkling that something was up.

There was also the fact that my mattress and pillow felt more like stone than cottony clouds.

And the air smelled like a rather unpleasant mixture of mold, pee, poop and vomit.

And although morning aches have become the norm rather than the exception as I have aged, what I was presently feeling was beyond anything I had ever experienced. In. My. Life. Never a party-er or stay-up-all nighter or heavy drinker…I had nothing to compare with the present moment.

I cracked one eye and then both flew open as I took in the surroundings. I closed my eyes assuming, I was clearly in the middle of a nightmare. I have vivid dreams. This was definitely the most real, but there was no doubt in my mind, it was a dream.

I lay there a little while, waiting to fall back to sleep or really wake up.

Nothing happened.

And then a voice said, “Eh, chica, levántate! El juez te espera!” There was a screech of metal and then a rough hand grabbed my arm, practically wrenching my shoulder out of the socket as it pulled me up.

I went easily. Aside from the baton and gun hanging off her person, I was terrified and hoping “el juez,” the judge, would be able to tell me what was going on.

Aside from the obvious why am I in jail, my first question was, why is the officer speaking to me in Spanish? I mean, yes, I know there is a huge Spanish-speaking population in the US and I am fluent, but is it the first language in jails now? And, second, why was the jail so disgusting. I thought prisoner rights had been a thing once. A quick glance around the cell before she pushed me out made it clear not much was spent on upkeep or housekeeping. It was beyond disgusting. What I saw in my two quick looks was sweaty, dirt-encrusted cinderblock walls, no windows, and a filthy cement floor with a butt-sized hole in the corner from whence, I suspect, emerged the gag-inducing stench that filled the small space.

I was surprised I had not been handcuffed, but I was clearly not a threat, I suppose. Stumbling middle-aged woman covered in vomit (ew), in a bathing suit, was clearly not going far.

I was in a bathing suit. Huh. Why was I in a bathing suit? Huh.

The officer pushed me into an area that seemed to be an office (there were some desks, a few other officers) and then down another hallway to a room that, once we entered, was clearly a small courtroom. She pushed me to stand in front of the man seated at the judge’s table.

“Como se llama usted?”

“Gabrielle Turner, but why are you speaking to me in Spanish?”

“No me preguntes nada, mujer! Soy yo la ley aquí!”

“I’m sorry, sir. I understand that you represent the law,” I couldn’t help myself from correcting his cocky and really, untrue, statement I am the law, “but I just don’t understand, well a lot really, but first, why are we speaking Spanish in the US?”

“Primero, mujer, no dije mal cuando le dije que soy la ley. Este es mi pueblo, y yo soy la ley. Segundo, no estás en los Estados Unidos. Estás en México.”

“What???!!!” I screamed. “What do you mean I’m in Mexico? What is going on? And clearly you understand me so can we switch to English, please? Sir.”

In heavily accented English, he responded, “So that there is no confusion on your part, I will speak to you in your language. You don’t merit such consideration, but I want no doubt in your mind as to why you are here and why you will be our…guest,” he smiled rather unpleasantly, “for quite some time.”

“Sir, I don’t know how I came to be in Mexico or why I am in jail. The last thing I remember is…” I had to think because my brain was a fuzzy morass of nothing helpful.

“Yes? What is the last thing you remember, Ms. Turner?”

“Mrs. I’m not sure, I think maybe dancing?”

“Yes? Where were you dancing?”

“I don’t know? I’m wearing a bathing suit, so by a pool, maybe?”

“Beach. And where was this beach, Mrs. Turner?”

“Mexico, apparently.” I was sweating in my bathing suit. I couldn’t remember anything except...skipping breakfast...because we were running late…for the plane! “Yes! Mexico! Vacation! Isla Holbox! Oh, thank God.” We were on vacation! My son had recommended this island as off the beaten track and worth visiting. At the moment, I begged to differ.

“Very good, Mrs. Turner. Now, do you know why you are in my courtroom?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. Where is my husband?”

“Qué te dije mujer? Yo te hago las preguntas!”

“I’m sorry, sir. I just don’t understand what I could possibly have done wrong. And I don’t know why I’m here alone without my husband. The last thing I remember is getting off a plane and taking a ferry…” I paused, “and getting in a golf cart…” I thought some more. “Oh, we had a lovely room with a view overlooking the beach. The water was so beautiful…”

“Yes, yes. And then?”

“We ate by the water...walked on the beach, watched the sunset...oooh! We went to see the bioluminescence at the lagoon, Punta Cocos…So beautiful…Um… My husband made friends with some locals? He makes friends wherever we go.” I closed my eyes, trying to remember through the haze that was my brain. “They were having a party and they invited us to have some drinks and dance with them. We stayed a while but then I got really tired and started walking back to our hotel…” Things got foggy here, but I distinctly remembered walking alone. Why would I leave without my husband? I only remembered having one drink. Granted, it was an eight ounce glass of what could have been almost entirely tequila…

“Aha! And what where you wearing, Mrs. Turner?”

I looked down. “This?”

“Yes! That!” he spat. “We are a very small, traditional community, Mrs. Turner. We have managed to keep away most of the riffraff,” he looked me up and down disdainfully, “that visits places like Cancún and Puerto Vallarta. We have laws that even international visitors, like you, must follow.”

“Of course, sir. I can’t imagine what I could have done.”

“Ignorance is no excuse!” he yelled.

“I’m sorry, sir. Yes, sir.” I looked up. “Please, sir, what did I do?”

He rolled his eyes and said, “You dared to walk the streets of our town after dark in that!” He pointed at me.

“My bathing suit? So?”

“Isla Holbox Legal Code Number 126, states: No person shall walk the streets of town in swimwear after 8:00 pm. Swimwear can only be worn on the beach, and then, only until 10pm. After that time, all swimwear must be completely covered. End quote. We eschew lewd behavior on our island.”

“Lewd…but I was just going to my hotel.”

“Alone. In a bikini.”

“I was with my husband.”

“Not when you were taken into custody by the local police.”

Suddenly there was a commotion outside the door of the courtroom.

“Where is my wife? I need help here. Someone, please help me find my wife.”

“That’s my husband’s voice!” I screamed.

“Silencio!” he said to me. To the police officer, he said, “Llévame este gringo.” She left to get my husband.

Within seconds, my husband came bursting through the door with the officer.

“Evan!” I screamed.

“Gabrielle! What the hell is going on? What happened? One second you were dancing with Julio, the next you were gone. I didn’t realize it at first and when we started searching, we couldn’t find you anywhere. Julio drove me back to the hotel and when we didn’t find you along the way or there, I didn’t know what to think. The island isn’t all that big. Given the level of alcohol in those drinks, I thought maybe you walked into the water drunk…” He hugged me. “A little while ago, Julio found out from a friend that they had seen the police arresting a gringa. He brought me here right away. Why did you leave without me?”

“I don’t know, I got tired and started walking.”

“Mr. Turner?” the judge said.

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. Why was my wife arrested?”

“Your wife, broke the law.”

He looked at me and then at the judge. “My wife?”

I laughed at his incredulity. It warmed me that he knew me well enough to know the likelihood was very small that I did anything to deserve being thrown in jail.

“We have a code of ethics written into our local laws, Mr. Turner.”

“And?”

“Your wife blatantly disregarded them.”

“My wife?” he asked in disbelief, yet again.

“Your wife,” the judge said snidely.

“What in God’s name did she do?”

“There will be no blaspheming in my courtroom! First the bathing suit and now this!”

“The bathing suit?”

“Your wife wore a bathing suit in the streets of town after 8pm.”

“So?”

“So!!! It is against the law. She will spend the next five days as a guest in our jail.”

“What??? Can’t we just pay a fine or something?”

“Oh, you will pay a fine. And she will spend five days in our jail.”

“But we were only planning to be here for three more nights before moving on to Playa del Carmen.”

“You can leave. Your wife will be here for four more nights, however. Bring her some clean, respectable clothes.”

“But, but…”

“Officer take the prisoner to her cell. Case closed.”

And that is how I ended up spending the first five days of my only Mexican vacation in a Mexican jail...with the runs.

I am pretty sure I did not wake up smiling once.