We left for sunshine—came home with fear
We thought Mexico would be easy. Just five days. All-inclusive. A direct flight from Dallas to Cancún.
We’d been before, back in 2006. It was peaceful then. The hardest part was choosing between two buffet lines.
But this time, it felt different. Heavily armed guards stood outside our resort, not just at the gate—on the beach.
There was an unease in the air. Locals walked fast. A waiter whispered, “Don’t take taxis from the street. Please.”
On our second night, there was shouting outside our hotel room at 3 a.m. My wife clutched my arm so tight it hurt.
Next morning, we found out a body had been discovered not far from our resort—gang-related, they said.
I don’t care how “safe” they claim the resort zones are. When you’re 70, you don’t sleep through gunshots.
We spent the rest of the trip inside. Not exploring, not relaxing. Just counting the days until our flight home.
At the airport, I saw a couple younger than us—maybe in their 40s—laughing, showing off snorkeling photos.
Good for them. But for us? That chapter’s closed.
We once dreamed of spending winters abroad. Now we’re looking into heated cabins in northern Michigan.
It’s not about paranoia. It’s about instinct.
When you’ve lived long enough, you know what danger feels like in your bones.
And no “all-inclusive” cocktail can wash that feeling away.
