It's so nice here, why would 'they' want to leave?

Leslie and I returned from our trip to Cancun last week, after a week of enjoying the sun, ocean and copious amounts of drink and food. It was a nice respite from the sub-zero weather that we've been suffering through in the Midwest. (A local TV anchor said that this was the harshest winter, temperature-wise, in 12 years). Anyway, it was 10-below when we left and it was 83 when we landed in Cancun. That's a plus/minus that I can live with. (Unfortunately is was 4 degrees when we returned to the Twin Cities).

I'm sorry to say that we didn't spend much time outside the all-inclusive complex. We considered taking a bus to the Mayan ruins, but the 2.5-hour drive in one direction kind of steered us away from that. We stayed specifically away from any sort of culture while we were there. The closest that we came to the native culture was their beer and tequila. All of the staff members were tremendously polite and responsive to everything. "Hello, front desk? This coffee here sucks. Bring us up a carafe of some good stuff. Oh yeah, bring us some of those croissants and juice while you're at it. OK? Goodbye." 5 minutes later. "Front desk? Yeah, this is room 3939. When you bring up the coffee et al, don't forget some beer and some of those good cigars. And hurry."

No complaints from the staff, just "My pleasure, sir." I was wondering if deep down if they were justing hating our guts. During our last day or so, Leslie and I were sitting poolside and half-listening to this boorish, overweight couple from Boston (judging from their Patriots and Red Sox gear) berate a little cocktail waitress. I can't write a Boston accent, but it's sufficient to say that I was burying my head in the book as the bloated one with a beard (the man, I suspect), yelled out specific drink instructions and added some when she was 20 yards away. Nice touch. I didn't see a tip exchanged when she came back with their drinks. Nice touch, sir.

The golf course -- a Jack Nicklaus signature -- was immaculate and literally killed our foursome. The first nine was on The Dunes, which resembled a lunar landscape. The back nine was called The Jungle and had dense foliage with a 15-yard swath of fairway in between. We ran into a large crocodile on the front nine. According to the beverage cart driver, the croc's name was Carlito Jr. We didn't get a chance to see Carlito Sr., but that was a big reason why I didn't get near the jungle to retrieve any of the nine GB Packer logo balls that I lost in the woods. I ended up playing with a florescent 'Easter Egg' on the final two holes. (I didn't have a camera with me on the course, but I'll post a photo of the critter a little later.)

Like I said before, we experienced absolutely no culture when we were there. The irony was that upon returning to Minnesota, we went to a fundraiser at our church for some young people who are heading to Central Mexico this year for charitable reasons. There was a group of Mexican dancers for entertaining. Leslie aptly noted that we had to go 2,000 miles from Mexico to see any of that country's culture.