Mr Carmichael and I are recently returned from a trip to Mexico – the Pacific side. Los Cabos. Well, not exactly Los Cabos. Our 5, or was that 6 star spa resort was half was between Cabo St Lucas and Los Cabos on a very fast road. Actually, all the roads we travelled in Mexico were very fast roads due mainly to the fact that all our drivers drove very fast. And, when I say fast, I mean muy fast. Muy fast indeed. Gracias a Dios that Mr Carmichael was not at the wheel of any motor vehicle in Mexico. We had been informed that driving was not part of the plan and I, for one or two because I do speak for Mr Carmichael at almost all times, was/were very happy to go along with any plan that included no Carmichael driving.
Another part of the plan, we were told, was that we were to have a very good time, on the company, because this was an achievers’ club, a presidents’ club, a club for people who had done all their numbers (and more) in the year previous. Mr Carmichael is good at doing his numbers. This is something I love about Mr Carmichael.
Mr C and I have a history, joint and several, of achievers’ clubs. We have been lucky over mumble years to have done our numbers, been counted as company success stories and jetted to continents various. There has been much back slapping, cheek kissing, prize winning, alcohol drinking, laughter and bonding on beaches, in Far Eastern capitals, olive groves, the Coliseum and …….. with Micky Mouse. Good times.
Or not so good. But, arguably, amusing in hindsight. Although #metoo could have had one hell of a field day with some of my experiences. It was the 80’s and I did come out unscathed. Sorta. Harvey, where were you when I needed your help?
Examples, comprehensive but not complete, follow below.
In and out of years and foreign hotels, yours truly has been chased around a suite in Sydney (salesman heading home from Manila but not yet arrived at his wife); been forced to share my super superking bed with a salesman whose roommate was sharing his bed with someone he’d spent a bit of money on and got more, under the sheets, than he bargained for (that was in Bangkok and the clue, as they say, is in the name) and been pushed up against at fire exit stairwell wall (classy) by an over-amorous and obviously polyamorous salesman from Down Under who, when rebuffed, sashayed back to Melbourne and told everyone in the office that I’d come onto him but his marriage vows were sacrosanct. I wonder how that marriage is going.
Mrs C, before she was blissfully married, had to alternatively, beg and drag a previous live -in- lover, multiple times, off An Wang, founder and CEO of Wang Industries, on a dinner/dance boat circling Alcatraz because he ( the l-i-l) wanted to sell her boss’s, boss’s, boss’s, boss’s boss shares. My colleagues cheered and guffawed at my expense as the self centred, self-serving l-i-l went in for a fifth try with Mr Wang up at the prow of the vessel. Perhaps my dislike of cruising stems from that night. I must speak, with alacrity, to my psychiatrist.
I am certain that my husband has similar stories (not too similar I hope) but they are his to tell. Suffice it to say we are, us two, veteran achievers’ trip travellers and up for anything.
Never, however, has ‘anything’ included being sent to the murder capital of the world!
It’s true. Mr Carmichael has done his due diligence and discovered why so many people were telling us to travel jewellery naked, hire no cars and stay as much as possible within the confines of our be-butlered sanctuary. This would go a long way to ensuring that the ‘have a very good time’ plan panned out.
I had booked myself a day trip to Todos Santos. On the hotel. It’s one of their perks. But a friend who was, wasn’t, was, wasn’t coming, came. I flagged the trip and chose, instead a gaggle of sun loungers, to the right of this picture of paradise, where B……., G…….., I and husbands various stayed slumped for four days.
Sometimes you just have to go with the flow. And surely it was safer?
The flow included my sunhat and bag getting the 5, or was that 6, star treatment. I’m certain Heidi Klein would approve.
I flowed to the hair salon to be coiffed. It was included in the 5, or was that 6 star, package. I managed to kept my hair dry and elegant for the remainder of the event. Keeping my hair dry and elegant is something I have perfected over the mumble years and am a pretty good hand at it today. Bandana in the beauty salon where yours truly had a comprehensive rub down and oil up courtesy of the resort (how good is this?) and by not going in the ocean. Not going in the ocean was mandated by the 5 or was that 6 star spa and resort and impressed upon us also by Mr C’s employer who wanted to ensure we all stayed happy, having a muy good time and, as a minimum, alive. Entering the Sea of Cortez by our hotel would, we were told, kill us. Watching the churning, dragging, high waved water from our breakfast table ensured compliance by all. Safety first our new motto. And my hair stayed perfecto #winwin.
Feeling drugged by leisurely happiness B……., G…….and I needed little more than the free flowing free food and extremely free flowing free alcohol that our daytime butlers provided for us. Oh and the sunshine and warmth Mexico turned on. We relaxed into a hedonistic and safely sybaritic existence. Enhanced by tequila.
We dined on the beach. It was low tide.
The boys played golf (brave souls) and, as a group, we did venture out (jewellery naked) on the last night to Flora’s Farm for supper. Negotiating the taxi down from an ambitious $900.00 to, a reasonable in the context of every else being free, $160 for the six of us, another win.
In hindsight, I think we could have bejewelled ourselves. Judging by the cost of the wine and the cowboy hats in the onsite shop, we were not in (that kind of) bandit territory. And the place was wonderful. I must say.
But returning to murder. “Where is it?” you ask. The danger, discomfort and near death experience. I’ve brought you to this point under flagrantly false pretence. Are you cross with me?
Next year’s achievers’ trip is to be held in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. I’m channelling William Faulkner already.