“Oh, at least take a tour!” She’s practically pleading now. “You could even do one today.”
I heave a big sigh and allow my eyes to flicker toward her for a brief minute. “We’d planned to see the ruins. That’s why we’re renting a car.”
“I can arrange a free tour of the ruins for you.” She reaches for another brochure. “This one goes to Coba, and you swim in a cenote and go on a zip line. I can throw that in for you two. Gratis.”
I pause, as if considering it.
“Look, you can go, spend the day.” She beckons me closer. “Don’t tell them I told you but you could even spend the night. Once you get past the gates, you’re in.”
I look at Broodje, as if seeking his permission to do the girl this favor and take her tour. He gamely plays along, giving me a put-upon look that says, well, if you must.
I crack a smile at the girl and she positively beams in return. “Oh, fantastic!” She starts to write us up the paperwork, all the while chatting about the tour we’ll go on. “And when you get back on the Isla, you must go to Mango. The brunches are to die for.” She looks up from her paperwork. “Maybe I can take you.”
“Maybe,” I allow.
“Will you still be here for New Year’s?”
I nod.
“What are you doing?”
I shrug, open my hands, as if to suggest so many, many options.
“There’s this great party on the beach at Puerto Morelos. Las Olas de Molas, this wild reggae band are playing. It’s usually the best thing going in all of the Playa. A lot of us dance all night, and sometimes catch a ferry to the Isla for hangover brunch.”
“Maybe I’ll see you there.”
She grins. “I’ll cross my fingers. Here’s everything you need for your tours,” she says, handing me some paperwork, as well as a card with her personal cell phone number on it. “I’m Kayla. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”
The same sweating, sweater-vested security guards are manning the gate to Maya del Sol, but they don’t recognize us. Or they don’t care. In the backseat of a taxi, with official paperwork in triplicate in hand, I am transformed.
We are deposited in the front lobby, an enormous atrium full of bamboo, flowers, and tropical birds tied to perches. We sit down on a wicker loveseat while a burnished Mexican woman takes our IDs and makes copies of my credit card. Then we are delivered to an older Mexican man with a flip of golden hair held back by a pair of tortoiseshell Ray-Bans.
“Welcome!” he says. “My name is Johnny Maximo, and I’m here to tell you that at Maya del Sol, fantasy becomes reality.”
“That’s just what he’s hoping for,” Broodje says.
Johnny grins. He glances at the piece of paper in hand. “So, William, Robert. Is it Robert or Bob?”
“Robert-Jan, actually,” Broodje says.
“Robert then. Have you ever owned a vacation property?”
“I can’t say that I have.”
“What about you, William?”
“I’m more of a see-the-world kind of guy.”
Johnny laughs. “Me, too. See all the ladies of the world. So I take it you two bachelors have never to been to a vacation club before.”
“Can’t say that I have, Johnny,” Broodje says.
“I am telling you: this is the life. Why rent your vacation when you can own it? Why live half a life when you can live a whole one?”
“Or two lives, even,” Broodje says.