Overpriced
Now that I've been here in Cabo San Lucas for
four days, I feel I can start to draw some
conclusions and form some opinions. First among
them is what has been my biggest surprise: the
cost. I'm certainly no Baja expert, but I've
traveled in Mexico often enough (and have lived in
Honduras, a somewhat comparable analog, for an
entire year) to know where the prices should lie. I
expected to eat like a king for under $10 per meal
and to drink like a fish for a dollar a beer. But
we might as well have been in Las Vegas or Palm
Springs for the last four days.
Two nights ago, four of us had dinner in one of
Cabo's old standards, El Faro Viejo, a.k.a. the
"Trailer Park" restaurant. Granted, the food melted
on my palate, but the cost of our pitcher of
margaritas stuck in my craw. I've traveled a lot,
but until now, I have never paid $48 for a pitcher
of margaritas. One hundred and fifty bucks later,
we finally made our escape. Sure, we ate well, but
our wallets were as empty as our bellies were
full.
We've been able to find some good deals with a
little looking, but from all appearances, this
resort town seems to have become Americanized to
the point of exorbitance. In fact, tropical beach
town that this is, Cabo seems to be trying to
position itself as a Hawaiian or Caribbean resort,
when—in my opinion—it really lacks the
natural beauty and high-end service to match such
destinations.
Some may consider me snobby for such an opinion,
but Cabo really finds itself in a strange
no-man's-land between quaint Baja beach town and
exclusive luxury resort. Some of my compadres who
have been here before testify to the town's massive
development in recent years. Perhaps I have just
encountered the resort town in the midst of its
growing pains, when it neither offers the quaint
Old Mexico experience nor justifies the top-shelf
prices.
This is not to say I'm having a miserable time.
Quite the contrary! Right now, I'm lying on a
lounge chair on the beach, while the turquoise
waters of the Sea of Cortez lap the beach ten feet
away. To my side, several bottles of Dos Equis sit
in an ice bucket. Songs from the 1980s blare from
the speakers of the club behind me. I'm living one
of those Corona beer commercials.
©2003 Michael
Strickland ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED
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