Coffeehouse Chronicles: The Answer Is No

The HB is not the best flight companion

Whaddup, Chroniclers? Gotcher cup?

Well, we're down here in Mexico, home of the world's finest patio chimneas, patio furniture, and apparently patio lifestyles.

Cabo Vets, Nikki & Richie

We're living large in Cabo with our daughter and son-in-law. They're owners at a resort down here, and because they apparently enjoy setting unrealistic expectations for our future vacations, they hooked us up with a gorgeous villa for the week.

Experiencing Mexico like we're the Bezos!

And when I say villa, I don't mean "hotel room with a microwave."

No sir.

Every villa has an ocean view, a private pool, a private spa, and enough square footage to make you wonder if you're expected to host a small summit while you're here.

This is the HB & my second trip to Cabo. Last year we absolutely slummed it in a regular hotel room like peasants. We'd drive over to the villas to visit our kids and their friends, pressing our noses against the windows like Victorian orphans.

"Look at all the rich people with their private pools..."

This year, however, we're all on the same row, all staying in villas, living like Rockefellers.

We've got a villa. We've got a Club Car. We've got wristbands that apparently authorize us to order anything with a menu and a price tag.

Honestly, I haven't felt this powerful since I discovered the "skip intro" button on Netflix.

Yes, normally when we travel, we're accompanied by Cmdr. McCroc and Mrs. Scubbles. They're our preferred traveling companions, mainly because they help spread out the embarrassment when one of us does something stupid.

Unfortunately, Cmdr. McCroc passed on this particular Cabo adventure. It's not that he doesn't like Mexico—he loves Cabo. The problem is he gets his annual supply of Cabo when he comes down here with the Wards.

Now when most people take a golf vacation, they spend their day playing golf. Not Cmdr. McCroc. He spends his day participating in an ongoing wildlife expedition known as The Search for the Missing Golf Ball. The routine is always the same. Tony steps up to the tee box, smokes one straight down the fairway, hops in the cart, and heads off toward his next shot. Meanwhile, Cmdr. McCroc's ball has apparently filed for political asylum three fairways over and is hiding somewhere in a protected cactus sanctuary.

By the end of eighteen holes, Tony has played a respectable round of golf. Cmdr. McCroc, however, has logged six miles on foot, inspected every shrub in Baja California, and recovered exactly three of the twelve golf balls he started with. It's a good thing he buys them by the dozen. I'm not sure whether he considers them golf equipment or biodegradable course donations. Somewhere in Cabo there's probably a maintenance crew that refers to him as their largest annual supplier.

Now if you've ever traveled to Mexico, you know what happens.

Sooner or later, somebody is going to invite you to a "brief informational presentation."

And by "brief informational presentation," they mean a six-hour psychological operation designed to separate you from every dollar you've ever earned.

Last year, I was completely vulnerable.

I'd barely sat down before I was saying things like:

"Tell me more."

"That seems reasonable."

"How much?"

I was ready to buy in at the Nova Spania level.

For those unfamiliar, the Nova Spania villa is roughly 3,000 square feet of pure bad decision-making. A Private pool. Private spa. Swim-up bar. Outdoor barbecue. Butler service. A butler.

I don't even know what I'd ask a butler to do.

I'd probably ask him to bring me another butler.

I was ALL IN.

However... the HB intervened.

Now, for any new Chroniclers out there, HB stands for Head Barista or Head Boss. You can change the “B” around.  It’s interchangeable.

Some people have spouses. I have management.

Weeks before we left, the HB began preparing me for battle.

"The answer is no."

Every day.

"The answer is no."

She'd ask me randomly while we were watching TV.

"Do you want a timeshare?"

"No."

Good.

Then she'd ambush me in the kitchen.

"Sir! Limited-time ownership opportunity!"

"NO!"

Excellent work.

Sometimes she'd sneak up behind me in the grocery store.

"Excuse me, would you like a luxury vacation experience?"

"NO!"

Failure to answer correctly resulted in remedial training. It became a full-blown conditioning program. Eventually I was waking up in the middle of the night, sitting bolt upright in bed and yelling:

"NO!"

The dog was concerned.

The HB was proud.

Then travel day arrived.

I was ready.

Locked in.

Disciplined.

Mentally fortified.

We arrived at check-in.

The resort representative smiled and asked me,"Good evening, sir. May I get you a drink?"

I sat up straight.

This was my moment.

"No."

The lady looked confused. The HB leaned over and said,"Not yet."

Not yet? What do you mean, not yet? I've trained for months.

We moved on.

The representative offered us bottled water.

I looked at the HB.

"No?"

"Not yet."

Well, now I was completely confused. Apparently there are circumstances where yes is acceptable, but no is still loading. I spent the rest of the evening terrified to answer any questions.

Can I help you with your luggage?

I'm gonna need to check with management.

Do you want dinner?

I'm not sure ...maybe?

The next day was the sales presentation.

Showtime.

We were introduced to Veronica.

Meanwhile, I was laser-focused. Game face on. I was leaning forward. Ready to deliver the finest "NO" ever spoken by a human being.

Veronica began her presentation.

Five minutes passed.

Ten minutes.

Twenty minutes.

Nobody had asked me anything.

Every nerve in my body is screaming.

The HB whispered,"Not yet." I felt like a racehorse trapped in the starting gate.

Finally, Veronica started discussing ownership levels.

I slid to the edge of my chair.

This is it. This is my Super Bowl. I took a deep breath and preparedto unleash months of training.

Veronica didn't know what she was in for.

And that's when the HB reached over and grabbed my leg.

"Hold on there, Turbo."

Turbo?

I've spent six weeks becoming a highly trained anti-timeshare commando.

Apparently, the HB had some questions.

And not just one or two questions.

No.

Now suddenly she's conducting an audit.

"Does this include this?"

"What about that?"

"Can we upgrade this?"

"What if we add this?"

"Could you throw in one of those doohickeys?"

"How many thingamabobs come with the package?"

At this point Veronica had gone from confident sales professional to hostage negotiator. The tables had turned. Veronica was sweating.

I was sweating.

The calculator was smoking.

Somewhere in the distance I could hear my months of NO training screaming for help.

The next thing I knew, the HB and Veronica are talking numbers, perks, upgrades, benefits, bonuses, incentives, and special owner privileges.

I was just sitting there wondering when exactly we'd abandoned the "answer is no" strategy.

Then it happened.

We became owners.

And not at the beginner level either.

No, no.

Apparently we're now operating at a level where the salespeople congratulate each other after the paperwork is signed.

So next year you'll find us back in Cabo.

We'll be relaxing in our villa.

Looking out over the ocean.

Soaking in the spa.

Living our best life.

And I'll be sitting there with a nice Romeo y Julieta cigar in my hand, wondering if the answer was ever really supposed to be no in the first place.

Because based on the final scorecard, it turns out the HB wasn't training me to say no. She was training Veronica.

Coffee House Chronicles Lesson #247: When the HB says the answer is no, what she really means is you are not allowed to negotiate.

You know what to do now, Chroniclers! Drink 'em if ya got 'em!

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