Any American who has vacationed in Mexico has either verbally stiff-armed an army of pitchmen or succumbed to the horror of a timeshare presentation.

Tourists in Mexico are repeatedly badgered to attend timeshare presentations. As bait, the pitchmen offer jungle tours, booze cruises, even cash. And every tour, cruise and peso of it is earned the hard way — by surviving a hard sell from hell.

My wife and I survived one years ago and emerged looking as if we’d spent a day of torture in a Mexican prison, which in a sense we had. We vowed that never, under pain of death, would we be suckered into another one.

That, however, was before we met the irresistibly charming and cunningly sneaky Javier on a recent vacation. Javier wasn’t at the beach or other of the usual huckster hangouts so our guard was down. We met him in an American-style, big-box supermarket, a nice little man we initially thought was the store interpreter.

When we asked a clerk about a product that was advertised but not on the shelves, he produced a walkie-talkie and called Javier — who was wearing what we thought was a store uniform. He was friendly, helpful and spoke excellent English. If we couldn’t find a product or a label confused us, there was Javier. Need an ATM? Directions? Help in translating? Javier was delighted to oblige.

As we were leaving the store, my wife happened to spot some zipline brochures on a counter near the exit.

“Wouldn’t it be fun to go on one of these?” she innocently asked.

Lurking just within earshot, Javier was on her like a cockroach on an empenada.

“You want to go on a zipline tour? I can set one up for you. It goes 7,000 meters from one mountaintop to another. Beautiful! You will love it!”

“I don’t like heights, Javier. Do you have anything that stays closer to the ground?”

“Yes, a party cruise. You will love it!”

Javier was not the store translator. He worked for a posh resort, which had an arrangement with the store to let its hawkers work the crowd. This has become common in Mexico; it was just our first exposure to it. A bit sneaky, if you ask me, but apparently legal.

“I don’t know, Javier,” I said, feeling my stomach tighten. “How much does it cost?”

“Normally $225,” he replied, “but for you — today only — a special price of only $40. And I’ll throw in some beautiful T-shirts. What size do you wear?”

“What’s the catch, Javier?”

“No catch at all. All you have to do is attend a 90-minute presentation at a beautiful resort only five minutes from here. It’s not a timeshare — it’s a private residence resort. And the people are very nice. It’s not a hard sell; no pressure at all.”

The difference between a time share and a private-residence resort, of course, is the same as the difference between cow dung and horse poop. We should have seen it coming. I was starting to sweat and could feel my blood pressure rising dangerously. But just when I was about to sprint for the safety of the nearest cantina, my bride, ever the optimist, blurted the fatal words:

“Oh, come on. Let’s go. It’ll be fun.”

Going for the throat, Javier arranged to meet us the following morning in the village where we were staying and drive us to the Jaws of Hell Resort. That isn’t its real name; I made it up. But hell is what I was dreading, an expectation that did not go unfulfilled.

The next morning, Javier was waiting at the village square to take us for a ride, literally and figuratively. After winding over a jungle road, he delivered us to the palatial doors of a resort that appeared to have been designed for Mayan royalty. It was heart-stoppingly beautiful, sinfully opulent. You half expected to see Donald Trump and Kim Kardashian fox-trotting in the lobby.

Our “guides” were Pepe and Lupe. They began the inquisition pleasantly enough, treating us to a sumptuous breakfast of everything from made-to-order omelets to sushi. Then we were whisked away in golf carts to a Fantasy Island setting of palms and coconuts, lakes, tropical birds, crocodiles, interconnected swimming pools and a waterpark-style river bobbing with overstuffed Americans on floaties. It was groomed and manicured to the point of being almost too pretty, as if it wasn’t quite real. If you have a seven-figure bank account and “The Stepford Wives” is your favorite movie, you’d think you’d found paradise.

After dazzling us with Lincoln-Memorial sized Mayan statues and suites where everything but the toilet handles was made of marble, Pepe and Lupe escorted us to a conference room filled with other victims, sharpened their calculators and got down to business — meaning us. As resort members, they said, we could enjoy a two-bedroom unit with room for friends and family members for up to six weeks a year for a mere $800-a-week maintenance fee. A one-bedroom or a studio could be had for somewhat less. If we didn’t want to use our weeks, we could sell them and make money. And as anyone knows who owns a timeshare, that’s about as easy as selling used underwear.

It took a while for Lupe to get to the bottom line, a.k.a. the membership fee. Pepe for the most part remained silent. I think he was a trainee, or maybe he just didn’t have the stomach for what was coming. To fatten us up for the kill, Lupe produced a gleaming iPad and showed us pictures of other five-star resorts we could enjoy by doing a simple exchange with victims in, say, Italy, Fiji or Dogwater, N.D.

The membership fee, when she finally got around to it, was only $61,000. In the unlikely event that we didn’t have that much up front, we could pay in monthly installments of roughly a third more than our house payment. Putting it another way, we’d be paying $61,000 for the privilege of paying $800 a week to stay in a marble palace with a view of a golf course we would never use. Airfare, meals, taxes and gratuities not included. If that sounds reasonable to you, I have a great deal for you on foxtrot lessons with Donald Trump.

As politely as possible, we told Lupe and Pepe it wasn’t in our budget. Along with a new Ferrari, a Gulfstream G650 and spa dates with Paris Hilton.

No problem, she said. A more modest plan could be had for $40,000 and change. Still too much? Plans C, D and E were available for less money up front, offered a variety of accommodations and features and came with a barrage of financial options that would have confused an accountant. As the bombardment continued, I realized that what what happening was nothing other than the time-honored Mexican tradition of bartering. It was exactly what happens on the streets and beaches of Mexico, except that instead of necklaces and T-shirts the stakes are colossally higher. By the time we said no for the fifth or sixth time, I was sweating like a nun at Hooters on amateur night. I’d have paid a thousand bucks just to get the hell out of there.

At last, when we said no to even the cheapest plan, Lupe reluctantly introduced us to her manager — who trotted out still more plans. When even he gave up, she icily drove us to the resort’s “travel agency” to collect our free gifts and a cab ride home.

But we were far from home free. After stonewalling some of the best timeshare sales people in the business, we were now in the clutches of the travel agency people.

I won’t bore you with the details except to say that the final pitch — by then our “90-minute presentation” had taken the whole day — seemed almost reasonable.

“It actually sounds like a good deal,” said my wife, who is smarter than I am about such things. “I think we should do it.”

And so … we did. No timeshare or private-residence membership, no ownership of anything. Just a travel club that, if we live long enough and go to enough places, should be worth almost what it cost to join.

The important thing is that it got us out of there, clutching party-cruise tickets and the world’s most expensive cheap T-shirts. By then I was so battered from sales pitches that I felt like an iguana squashed on the highway.

We were glad we’d opted for the no-pressure presentation Javier had promised back at the supermarket. The hard sell would have killed us.

Tim Woodward’s column is posted here on alternating Mondays. Contact him at woodwardcolumn@hotmail.com.

 

Have you ever said something so preposterous you hoped nobody would notice?

Something like Alex LaBeau’s statement this week that Idaho could eliminate $129 million a year in tax revenue and no one would notice?

LaBeau is president of the Idaho Association of Commerce and Industry, which includes many of the state’s biggest businesses and wants to do away with Idaho’s  personal property tax on business.

“You could feather it (the $129 million) out over five years and nobody would notice,” he said.

No one will notice that $129 million is missing?

Right.

No one likes the personal property tax, which requires businesses to inventory and pay taxes annually on equipment and other non-real property. It’s an administrative nightmare. But to say that no one would miss the money it generates is like saying you wouldn’t notice a cut in your salary.

The local governments that count on the tax for up to a quarter of their budgets wouldn’t notice it had disappeared? The people who benefit from programs that could be cut wouldn’t notice? The homeowners whose taxes could increase to make up the difference  wouldn’t notice?

In economic boom times, growing tax revenues would lessen the impact. But as most of us have noticed, times have been a bit hard of late. The last thing homeowners struggling to hang on to their homes and livelihoods need is a tax shift that helps big business at the expense of the little guy.

You have to wonder how LaBeau thought he could get away with such an outlandish statement.

On the other hand, it’s summer. People are taking vacations, enjoying the outdoors. The Olympics are about to start; the presidential race is dominating the headlines. People aren’t paying as much attention to state-government news as they normally do.

Maybe he thought we wouldn’t notice.

Hi. Remember me?

I’m that guy who used to write columns for The Statesman. I wrote hundreds of them, on subjects from vacation and home-remodeling disasters to colorful Idaho characters to the fiascos of Idaho politicians.

It’s been a year since I retired and found that life without deadlines was sweet. Friends said I’d acquired the “post Statesman glow,” a term inspired by former co-workers who left the pressures of daily journalism and had years fall away as if by magic. My step had a new spring. People said I looked younger.

So why am I back? Good question. But first let me answer the question people have been asking  since I logged off for the last time, hung up my reporters’ notebooks and entered a brave new world without deadlines.

The question: “how’s retirement?” And its corollary, “What are you doing with yourself now that you’re a loafer?”

The answer to the first question is just fine, thanks. Retirement is the ultimate liberation. Every day is Saturday. In fact, you resent Saturdays because working people are crowding the places you’ve gotten used to having to yourself.

Sleeping in is nice. Dreaming about people working while you’re sleeping in is nice. Loafing is nice. I’m highly in favor of loafing — up to a point.

There are days that are just plain made for loafing, and we owe it to ourselves to enjoy every good-for-nothing second of them. The truth, however, is that there haven’t been many of those days. The calendar for my first month of “liberation” had precisely two days without commitments: retirement parties, anniversaries, speeches, appointments, meetings, visiting relatives … It was almost enough to make me long for the peace and quiet of work.

Work, for that matter, wasn’t entirely over. The Statesman was publishing “Destination Idaho,” the latest collection of my columns, and for a book of previously published material it required a surprising amount of work. Going through 40 years of material to find the best not used in previous books was the equivalent of mining “War and Peace” for titillating nuggets. That, along with headline writing, proofreading and other chores, consumed a big part of last summer and fall.

Two other projects are in the works. The USS Boise people have asked me to take a ride on their submarine and write the copy for a video about it. And I’m working with some friends, Tom Hadzor and Jennfer Isenhart,  on a video about this magical place we call Idaho. A labor of love. Tentatively titled “Idaho: the Movie,” it should be out by Christmas. (Thanks to Tom and Jennifer, incidentally, for the column photo used above.)

Two things you absolutely have to do when you retire. It’s standard procedure, it’s expected, practically mandatory. You have to volunteer, and you have to travel.

I volunteer a couple of times a month at a shelter. There’s nothing remotely glamorous about it. You sweep and mop. You make gallons of coffee and wash a staggering amount  of dishes. You hand out food, bandages, aspirin, cold medications, plastic bags, toiletries … It’s one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done. Working there has put faces on the homeless, the majority of whom are courteous and grateful for even the smallest kindness. Some are hard working people victimized by the economy, as any of us could have been.

Readers of my early columns on travel disasters will be happy to know that my bride and I are doing our best to meet the travel obligations of retirement. We took an 1,800-mile drive through the Southwest, spent most of February in a village in Mexico and took a long-delayed train trip through America’s heartland. More on those adventures in future columns.

That brings us back to the first question: Why am I back?

The answer probably isn’t what you think. It wasn’t that I was desperate for the money or missed the actual writing process. After making my living as a writer for 40 years, it was good to give those mental muscles a rest. And not having deadlines or the endless need  for new subjects — feeding-the-beast in newsroom-speak — felt better than good.

Loafing, however, is best taken in moderation. Too much of it can be lethal. And somewhat to my surprise, I missed some things once taken for granted. One was having a voice – the ability to comment on events when they’re actually happening. The last Idaho legislative session, for example. A humor columnist’s dream.

I missed the feeling of accomplishment that comes from writing a good column. Not that all of mine were good; God knows I had my share of lemons. As the late, great San Francisco columnist Charles McCabe put it, writing a newspaper column is “like hitting for a baseball team. If you get the good wood on the ball one time in three, you’re doing well.” And when you do get the good wood on the ball, nothing feels as good in quite the same way.

Something I missed a lot was  the immediate connection with readers. Though many told me they enjoyed the Best of Tim re-reruns, they were quick to add that they missed getting new columns.

So, just when you thought you were rid of me, I’m partially back. Partially in that I’m still retired, not a Statesman employee and will write columns at a stately retirement pace of one every other week.

At that rate, I’m going be playing catch-up for a while. There are things I can’t not write about that have happened in the last year. People I loved have died, I had my first experience with surgery and you’ll be pleased to know that retirement has done nothing to lessen my propensity for travel mishaps.

So, starting today, I’m back in the Life section every other Sunday. If you miss a column there, you can find it on my blog, http://www.woodwardblog.com. Columns will be posted there every other Monday. Extra blog posts will be added when truly important or unexpected events warrant immediate attention. The Cubs going to the World Series, for example, or Chuck Winder joining Planned Parenthood.

Wherever you read me, thanks. It’s great to be back.

Next: Trapped in Timeshare Hell in Mexico. Appearing June 24 in The Statesman, posted here June 25.

Tim Woodward’s column appears in The Statesman’s Life section every other Sunday and on his blog, http://www.woodwardblog.com, the following Mondays. 

Idaho lost a brilliant mind and a colorful iconoclast with the passing Wednesday of Perry Swisher — journalist, public servant, firebrand.

The reports of Swisher’s passing covered the facts of his long and varied career as a state legislator, gubernatorial candidate, public utilities commissioner and journalist. But unless I missed, them they didn’t  include several of my favorite Swisher episodes, which say a a lot about him as man.

One was his appearance at a Little Feat concert at the Boise Hawks ballpark. The music was loud enough at Swisher’s home not far from there that it kept him awake. His “solution”: to show up at the concert in his pajamas and bathrobe, wielding an ax. It made news for weeks.

As  PUC commissioner, he almost singlehandedly increased the telephone company’s request to raise its pay-phone charge from a dime to, as I recall, 15 cents. Swisher said it would be inconvenient for customers to fish around for  dimes and nickels and suggested raising the charge to a quarter. The ensuing increase was wildly unpopular. The Statesman captured the prevailing mood by publishing a cartoon of Swisher in a phone booth with a caption reading, “Why not make it 50 cents and call all your friends?” He called the paper in high spirits, said he thought the cartoon was hilarous and asked for the original drawing. He wanted to frame it.

But my favorite Swisher anecdote was his reaction to a letter to the editor of  a very good weekly newspaper he published in Pocatello. He thought so little of the letter that he called its author.

“I just wanted to let you know that I’m canceling your subscription,” he said. “I don’t want anybody as stupid as you reading my newspaper.”

I can’t tell you how many journalists have wished they could do that.

They don’t make journalists — or characters — like Perry Swisher anymore.

 

 

WELCOME:  You’ve found the blog for Tim Woodward’s retirement-is-overrated  columns. They appear in The Idaho Statesman’s Life section every other Sunday and  are posted here the following Mondays.

EXTRAS:  Additional, “extra” posts are made here when timely, meaning when something happens that Tim can’t resist writing about right away. Subscribers will receive e-mails notifying them of extra postings.

SUBSCRIBE FOR FREE:  To subscribe to http://www.woodwardblog.com, click on the tab to the right and follow the directions. It’s easy, takes seconds and it’s free. If you miss a column in The Statesman, you can catch it here. Columns are archived on the blog  so you can find old favorites or those you missed regardless of when  they first appeared — in addition to getting the extras.

CONTACT:  To contact Tim, e-mail him at woodwardcolumn@hotmail.com. E-mails from readers will be answered promptly, and e-mail suggestions for column subjects are always appreciated. Please do not send requests to speak to a group, emcee an event or read a manuscript.

Thanks, and welcome.