By the time you read this, I’ll be heading down to Rosarito Beach for a few days, accompanied by a pair of teenagers who really would rather go to the dentist, not that anyone gave them a choice.
We didn’t have a family vacation this summer, because Cheetah Boy was drinking beer all over Europe on a youth tour for 22 days and his sister was away at mission camp, saving the world.
So, now I’m forcing them to pile into our fabulously spacious 2001 Toyota Corolla and spend three hours driving down to Baja for some big time family fun.
I haven’t broken the news to them that the Rosarito Beach Hotel apparently has terrible wi-fi, meaning that both of my children might actually be required to talk to each other during the entire trip.
That news can wait until we’re south of the border and it’s too late to turn back.
I’m not worried about them talking to me, because we always have lots to talk about on trips like this.
There’s the topic of how much spending money I’ll give them, for example, which generally involves considerable discussion.
Then, there are the conversations during restaurant meals, as the teens tell the waiter to bring them the “market rate” lobster, which turns out to cost $18 per bite.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I tell the waiter, stuttering to get the words out over my hyperventilation, as I wonder how I’ll pay the mortgage this month after we get home.
At this point, the teens generally glare at me as if I’ve just announced we’re dining on haggis and pickled eggs all week long.
“You don’t even like lobster,” I point out to my 19-year-old son. “Why are you ordering it? Plus, you’ve just sucked down three Cokes in the last five minutes, so by the time the food gets here, you won’t even be hungry.”
His sister, Curly Girl, eats like a bird and generally only consumes one-fifth of any meal she orders, while adamantly refusing to split one with anyone else.
She also has weird fetishes, like refusing to eat food that touches other food, unless it’s something she already likes.
For example, she has no problem with pepperoni touching the top of her pizza, or the bun on top of her burger.
Sometimes, they wait until after I’ve finished my first glass of wine or margarita, and then assume I’ve lost enough brain cells to fail to notice when they order the $79 rack of lamb.
So I have lots of opportunity for meaningful conversation with my teens while we’re on vacation, including discussions about why they can’t find a radio station they like in Mexico, and which of them gets to sleep on the real bed, and who gets stuck with the lumpy rollaway.
“It’s my turn, Mom. I had to sleep on the rollaway last time,” is among the deep, soul-searching chats we have in the hotel.
Some of you are thinking, “Forget all that, Marla. Why are you taking your kids to a terrifyingly dangerous place like Mexico?”
Well, I don’t happen to think it is terrifying, and I refuse to stop going there. Yes, there are problems in the country, but there are problems here, too.
Mexico is filled with beautiful, kind people, delicious food, great beer, beautiful scenery and, right now, the exchange rate is 17 pesos to the dollar. I refuse to be scared away. And Rosarito Beach is less than 20 miles south of the border.
All joking aside, I love traveling with my children, and they’ll soon be leaving me for their own grown-up lives. So I’m forcing them to go places with me now, as often as possible.
Cheetah Boy will be excited that, once we cross that border, he’s once again old enough to order a Corona with dinner, though I keep explaining to him that it’s cat urine and he needs to be drinking Pacifico instead.
Curly Girl is at that stage of young love with her latest boyfriend where every moment apart is an unbearable eternity in hell, so she’ll probably be in mourning most of the trip.
I did agree to bring the boyfriend when we go to Big Bear next month, but this time is just for us.
Hopefully, if I give her enough money to buy earrings and let her ride a horse on the beach, it will cheer her up.
And the wi-fi apparently does work in the hotel lobby, so she can decamp down there at night for some lengthy long-distance romance.
Hopefully, Cheetah Boy won’t notice the ATVs for rent on the beach, or he may make it his life’s work to flip one over on top of himself, like my friend did a few years ago.
I just intend to drink many margaritas, eat cheap seafood, have a massage in their beautiful spa, and try to read a book.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
