At European beach resorts, say Brits, it's the Germans you have to watch out for. They commandeer the best sun-loungers, guarding them with vigilance. "They get up at dawn," a friend said darkly after a holiday several years ago, "Drape them with towels, and won't let them go."
On our recent family reunion/ vacation to celebrate my father's NINETIETH (90th!) birthday at a Mexican beach resort I discovered that it's not just the Germans who are beach chair warriors. There were sixteen of us on the trip so finding adjacent chaise longues for everyone was something akin to annexing a small territory. We aimed for batches of four or six. The flurry of text messages each morning conveyed the tension:
"Just did chairs but they were few and far between. I managed five but couldn't find any help to add or move more into the config"
"We got six chairs. In the middle off to the right a little"
Life in the chairs is pleasant for their occupants and not just because of the sun and sea. Men (always men) in uniform tread the narrow boardwalk behind us and offer drinks, help open or close or shift the huge umbrellas to increase or decrease the quantity of shade, and assist in the positioning or provisioning of chairs. They offer other services, too. "Glasses cleaning?" asks José. I knew he was José by his name-tag. Names are important. You want to tip the right person.
He brandishes a cloth and a spray bottle toward my sunglasses and I understand, though I decline. Next to me a middle-aged, Middle Eastern man says "Yes, please," and his glasses are duly polished. "No cucumbers any more?" he asks.
"No more cucumbers. Just glasses," José agrees. "New management."
Later Daniel comes along and offers us miniature popsicles in plastic wrappers. Lime, pineapple, cantaloupe. He helps find a spare chair when one of my children joins me.
Our chairs, the cabanas, the fire pits, the volleyball court, and the beach bar all occupy one side of a low woven white rope strung along a line of square wooden stakes in the sand. On the other side stand itinerant sellers: of jewelry, sunglasses, shawls, bags. They gradually approach and sometimes breach the silken perimeter. Then Daniel's and José's supervisor remonstrates with them in Spanish and they nod, step back, move their wares, retreat. Slowly, though. I like that.
In our hotel room, Ana forms whimsical towel sculptures that perch on a corner of the tight bedspread. Each room gets one. Daily, we snap photos of them and circulate: "Look at this!"
I enjoyed the luxury. I admit it. We were celebrating and luxury was what we were after. We and our tourist dollars felt very welcome.
That ever-present first-world colonial guilt, though. I've been lucky to have enjoyed beaches and beach chairs in many places. Laps of luxury are always softly formed of other people's labour; there is no getting around it, but in some parts of the world the exchange feels fairer than in others. José, Daniel, Humberto, Ana, Maria-- they supported us with their labour; we supported them with our money. We work; they work. It sounds fair; I hope it is fair; it doesn't feel fair. Even if the hotel employees are well-paid and justly treated, I'm pretty sure the name-tag-less hawkers have it rough.
They do however get to stay in sunny Mexico, spotting whales, all year long.
Prospero año nuevo from icy Toronto.
Our chairs, the cabanas, the fire pits, the volleyball court, and the beach bar all occupy one side of a low woven white rope strung along a line of square wooden stakes in the sand. On the other side stand itinerant sellers: of jewelry, sunglasses, shawls, bags. They gradually approach and sometimes breach the silken perimeter. Then Daniel's and José's supervisor remonstrates with them in Spanish and they nod, step back, move their wares, retreat. Slowly, though. I like that.
In our hotel room, Ana forms whimsical towel sculptures that perch on a corner of the tight bedspread. Each room gets one. Daily, we snap photos of them and circulate: "Look at this!"
I enjoyed the luxury. I admit it. We were celebrating and luxury was what we were after. We and our tourist dollars felt very welcome.
That ever-present first-world colonial guilt, though. I've been lucky to have enjoyed beaches and beach chairs in many places. Laps of luxury are always softly formed of other people's labour; there is no getting around it, but in some parts of the world the exchange feels fairer than in others. José, Daniel, Humberto, Ana, Maria-- they supported us with their labour; we supported them with our money. We work; they work. It sounds fair; I hope it is fair; it doesn't feel fair. Even if the hotel employees are well-paid and justly treated, I'm pretty sure the name-tag-less hawkers have it rough.
They do however get to stay in sunny Mexico, spotting whales, all year long.
Prospero año nuevo from icy Toronto.
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| Halls of Justice, Toronto. |
