I Went to Cancun and Felt Like the Biggest Impostor — in the Best Way Possible
It wasn’t the pristine beaches that were the most memorable for me
I’m not much of a beach person. Beaches are pretty, certainly, but it really just boils down to sun, lounging on white sand, and very blue water. I’d rather my vacations be filled with adventurous escapades and learning opportunities, so I’ve never understood the craze of beach vacations.
But yet here I was, stepping off the plane into Mexico for the first time—all because I chronically monitor Sun Country Airlines’ low fare map and had nothing to do on New Year’s. I’d seen the eighty-dollar flight to Cancun a few days before, and, on a whim, clicked “book now” before I fully processed what I was doing. Why not? It was a popular tourist destination, making it more navigable for me as a solo female traveler, and it was my first chance ever to visit Mexico.
I’d done a tiny bit of research before touching down, so I knew I had to head for the ADO bus ticket counter at the airport. From there I could hop on the bus to central Cancun and the hostel I’d booked the night before.
“Hola,” the woman at the counter greeted me.
“Hi,” I replied, thinking nothing of the greeting. “One ticket for downtown Cancun, please.”
Once outside the terminal in the warm gulf air, I suddenly felt that same thrill I always did when arriving at a brand new place: the world was laid out before me, its endless trove of new experiences ripe for the taking.
I found my way to the bus stop and showed my ticket to the man standing just outside the bus doors. He said something to me in Spanish, and I froze for a moment, trying to decipher what he’d said with my limited knowledge of the language.
He must have seen my hesitation because he repeated in English: “You are on the next bus in twenty minutes. Not this bus,” pointing to the time on my ticket.
“Oh right, thank you!” I smiled, slightly embarrassed.
Once at the central ADO station in downtown Cancun, I stepped off the platform into a little bit of chaos. People were milling about among the buses, food stands packed together and taking up massive real estate on the street, cars zooming by just inches from my feet—this wasn’t the perfectly zoned, regulated city that was characteristic of America. But inside I was reveling in this welcome break from what I see as the sterility of public places back home.
I had about an hour before check-in at the hostel, so I headed into the nearest McDonald’s to see if there were any menu items unique only to the region—a little thing I like to do whenever I travel.
At the counter, the girl gave me a “Hola” and then said a few sentences in Spanish. Once again, I was caught off guard but just ordered in English like normal.
“Can I please have the McNífica?” Then suddenly it dawned on me. Did everyone think I was Mexican? I realized my dark hair and eyes and tannish complexion from my Filipino heritage certainly helped me blend in, at least at first glance. It wasn’t something I’d expected, though, because I felt like everyone passing by on the street could sense my awe and slight uncertainty that came with the novelty of a brand new country.
The next day, my realization was confirmed. I sat down at a restaurant after hitting the beach—Playa Delfines was very lovely, I have to admit—and the waiter came to my table.
“Hola, cómo estás?” he greeted me warmly.
“Muy bien, y tú?” I had gotten a little braver and pulled out the basic Spanish I’d learned (and somehow retained) from high school.
“Bien, gracias.” And then after that, the Spanish he launched into was lost on me.
I grinned sheepishly. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish.”
He looked surprised, then laughed. “You don’t? I wouldn’t have guessed.”
I laughed with him and relaxed a bit, feeling strangely… honored for passing as a local.
Over the next few short days, I was in Cancun, similar interactions to these were repeated time and again.
I had ferried over to the beautiful Isla Mujeres some twenty minutes from Cancun, and a man called out to me as I passed by his souvenir shop. I didn’t know precisely what he said, but it was clear he was inviting me to take a look at his wares. I gave a small smile and shook my head, walking on.
As soon as I had passed, I heard him say, “Hey guys, come check this out!” I turned to see a middle-aged couple behind me, both blonde and slightly red-faced from the heat. Ha! I laughed inwardly, tickled that my appearance allowed me to blend in so well with the locals.
Another shopkeeper just down the street did the same thing, this time as I was looking at some magnets. But after a few phrases, it was clear I was no Spanish speaker.
“No hablas español?” he asked. I knew that one, so I shook my head.
“Un poquito?”
I shrugged. “I guess I know a tiny bit?”
Sometimes the person I was interacting with didn’t know much English at all. I would then use a mixture of hand gestures and extremely broken Spanish (arroz, pollo, el baño?) to get by. But sometimes, too, I managed to not resort to any English at all. I do believe my pronunciation is good, so I don’t think those brief encounters gave anything away.
It was then that I felt like a spy among the unsuspecting, hoping my secret cover wouldn’t be blown. It truly was the most fun little game, and I took great pride whenever I was able to con my next victim into thinking I was a native Mexican.
Oftentimes, instinct and/or sheer luck and context contributed to a successful con. At one point, I stopped by a grocery store near my hostel. In one hand I had a half-empty water bottle I’d gotten from a convenience store.
“Mija,” a woman near the entrance, gestured to me and pointed to my water bottle, saying something in Spanish that I couldn’t understand (for the millionth time that trip). For a split second, I was very confused, but then I saw her pull out a sheet full of orange stickers. Suddenly it clicked in my head that she wanted to mark my water bottle to indicate I had previously purchased it, so I didn’t have to pay for it twice.
I held out my water bottle, and sure enough, she pasted on a sticker. “Gracias,” I said without even thinking.
“De nada.” I walked off, internally squealing: she called me mija! You know that moment when a random middle-aged or elderly woman calls you “darling” or “sweetie” and the world feels alright for a while? That was it — I knew enough Spanish to recognize the colloquial term of endearment.
It was a three-day trip, but to me it seemed I had been in Mexico for years. I initially had been a bit apprehensive, but after observing and mingling with everyone, I felt like I could slip in and out of places effortlessly, like nothing. It was the little things: repeating back a “buenos días” while checking out at the convenience store, or crossing the streets like a local: I quickly learned it was perfectly acceptable to cross right in front of oncoming traffic, as long as you didn’t hold anyone up. You also didn’t have to necessarily cross at designated intersections. If I had waited until the streets were perfectly clear like I did back home, it wouldn’t have been the Cancun way. (Why can’t we do it like this in America? It’s so much more efficient.)
The anonymity I had also gave me a calming sense of security. Case in point, while riding the local bus back and forth to the beach and hotel zone, I noticed everyone’s eyes would linger a bit longer whenever a lighter-skinned, blonde person would board. But they didn’t linger on me—as far as everyone was concerned, I was just another Mexican girl with her headphones in at the back of the bus.
At some point, the lady sitting next to me turned and said something in Spanish. I couldn’t pick out any of the words, but by her tone, she had asked me a question. Somehow, I could sense she was asking if I was getting off at the next stop. I shook my head. A few minutes later, at my actual stop, I smiled and nodded toward the front of the bus, and she stood up to let me pass. Easy as pie.
Ultimately, it isn’t just the warm weather in Cancun that makes me want to return very soon. Mexico is one of the few places I’ve traveled where I felt so in tune with everything happening around me. Sure, I had an advantage through my complexion, but I think there’s an added factor to truly being one with a place. It’s about observing and mirroring body language, trying to gauge expectations even in simple interactions, being understanding of and even embracing the things that are done differently than what I’m used to, even if for a short while. Knowing a few words in the native language helps.
Also, I wasn’t terribly intent on getting to my destination immediately and poring over Google Maps on my phone in a way that would probably out me as a tourist. I was alright with taking my time and making a couple wrong turns. And if something I happened to pass by piqued my fancy, such as a charming taqueria, you can be sure I’d head inside and sound out the menu as best as I could — dos tacos de bistec, por favor.
