On a hot, sunny Thursday afternoon about 10 miles outside of Tulum, Zander and I found ourselves sprinting across the major highway that connects the city to Playa del Carmen and Cancun. We vaulted over the median, towels dragging on the steaming asphalt, water dripping off our hair and swimsuits. We dodged traffic - a car honked and veered left as we careened towards the opposite shoulder of the four lane road. A mere second after we'd stepped on the grassy roadside, a van, stuffed like a can of sardines, barreled towards us and came to an arresting, loose stop, flashers furiously blinking.
"GET IN," Zander yelled, already launching forward into the front, where, miraculously, there were two open seats.
I lifted myself into the high van, wedging Zan tighter between the driver, the manual transmission, and myself, and slammed the door as the driver floored the accelerator.
Seat belts unbuckled, we flew back to Tulum with the jungle on one side and the beach on the other. The wind and sun dried us off, and we laughed at the absurdity and memory in the making - riding shotgun in a colectivo, a Mexican-style bus.
It was completely unexpected and unplanned, and it's my favorite moment of our trip.
"GET IN," Zander yelled, already launching forward into the front, where, miraculously, there were two open seats.
I lifted myself into the high van, wedging Zan tighter between the driver, the manual transmission, and myself, and slammed the door as the driver floored the accelerator.
Seat belts unbuckled, we flew back to Tulum with the jungle on one side and the beach on the other. The wind and sun dried us off, and we laughed at the absurdity and memory in the making - riding shotgun in a colectivo, a Mexican-style bus.
It was completely unexpected and unplanned, and it's my favorite moment of our trip.
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