I woke up forty. Moving on. I look at birthdays like I look at bachelor parties. They're fine for other people. In regards to the former, I only celebrate other people's. As far as the latter goes, if sticking my dick in a whore helps a friend prepare for a lifetime of monogamy, then I'm here to help. Speaking of banging whores, I gotta make this quick, I've got two hundred pesos burning a hole in my pocket and a rubber I've gotta wash out. Hey, you only turn forty once in a while.
Playa Del Carmen reminds me of Los Angeles. Every restaurant serves breakfast, but not too many are that remarkable. I decided on The Coffee Press on second and the beach side of fifth. But, first, I stopped off at the bus station to check on times for my airport departure tomorrow. Walking out of the bus station, I recalled a tweet I received about the street meat just a few steps away. I stood behind two women who were raving about the tacos. After a few minutes of these two women neither puking nor shitting their pants, I decided to take the plunge. I got a chochinita pibil taco and a chicken taco. The cochinita pibil was good, but the chicken was unreal. It was in a black sauce, like a mole, but the flavor wasn't as intense. At seventy-five cents a taco I could live with a little salmonella.
Next stop was the Coffee Press. It was a mellow place with wifi and a small menu. I settled on migas, which came with black beans and a warm salsa. I believe I had migas in Austin back in my twenties. They were very good. One piece of irony here in Mexico, is that for a race of people who are derogatorily called "beaners," (not by me, at least, not to their face) presumably because of the large part beans play in their diet, I've only had beans a couple times since I've been here. In Los Angeles, you order water in a Mexican restaurant and it comes with a side of refried beans.
It was my last day at Kool beach club. It was overcast all morning. I started a new book called The White Tiger, which I finished this afternoon. It was amazing. I can't recommend it enough. After soaking up some clouds, it was time for lunch. I planned on eating at a place called Mia Romagna, which was on a street that was under considerable construction. I could taste the cement dust and feared that it would taint the food so I moved on. I stumbled on a place I had read about La Fragata. I don't know what it is about being solo and bad service, but I'm probably the third largest Jew in the country and still don't get noticed in a small restaurant that isn't very busy. After watching my pubes turn gray, I finally ordered a margarita, guacamole and shrimp tacos. I got the marg which was sweet. Then after a considerable amount of time, the owner, who didn't take my order, brought me some guacamole on the house while I waited. Personally, I'd rather she doubled up on the margarita but I was so grateful someone paid attention to me that I teared up. The shrimp tacos arrived and they were some of the best tacos I've had. I don't know exactly what made them so amazing but it was worth being ignored earlier. I was full, but the owner informed me that my guacamole was coming up. Fine. I ordered another margarita. When the check came, the prices were higher than the menu stated. I didn't bother to bring it up. I paid and left.
In anticipation of finishing my third and final book, I checked out a bookstore a few blocks from my hotel. Except for three new titles in English, they had a healthy selection used books. I mean "healthy" in quantity. I didn't recognize most of the authors. I'm guessing tourists have left these books in Playa over the years. My question is: couldn't they have left something good? Fuckers. I left without a purchase. I headed to Fusion which is on the beach at sixth. I had a Sol and finished my book. Outside a band was setting up. I waited until I heard the first chords. Reggae. No, thank you. With rare exception, Bob Marley, I find that all reggae sounds the same, especially when played by (brownish) white people.
My night was pretty uneventful. I ended up having dinner at a place called Los Amigos. It's on thirtieth avenue which is six decent sized blocks from fifth, the busiest street tourist wise. There were two tables of four when I arrived. The food was amazing. It upsets me that there are places on fifth which suck, but are packed while this place is practically empty. I had a burrito with arrachera, flank steak. The burrito was thin with steak, cheese, and rice, and topped with lettuce, tomato, avocado and sour cream. It took me seven days to find great Mexican food, but I did it. My night ended with as much fan fare as it began. I walked home, considered a drink, but decided to pass. No ice cream, no candles, no cake, just forty years behind me. This will be my last post from Playa. I fly home tomorrow. And unless something goes horribly awry LIKE MY PLANE CRASHES, I'll see you all soon. Hey, it wouldn't too bad if my plane went down. At least, I wouldn't have to avoid any more birthdays.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
Playa Del Carmen Day 6
Today I went to Chichen Itza. It was voted one of the new seven wonders of the world in 2007. The castillo is a pyramid with a pyramid built around it and the outside pyramid represents the Mayan calendar. I know some people have calendars with birds and kitties and shit, but this calendar is a fucking massive pyramid. My question is: what took so long to for it to make the list?
I woke up at six in anticipation of my seven fifteen pick up. The van arrived around seven thirty. Now Mexico may lag in education, sanitation, and medicine, but they lead the world in air conditioned vans. These things are rolling boxes of freon. I wouldn't let a child aboard lest it stunt his growth. It took a while to pick everyone up. One of the couples were staying in Playacar. Playacar is a gated community south of Playa Del Carmen. Think of it like Newport Beach, but gated with more white people and more Mexican employees. Playacar is my kind of place.
One thing that I noticed on my Edventure, but could not ignore on this tour is that Yucatan is Spanish for "Land of the Speed Bump." There are more speed bumps in this mother fucker than tortillas. They have them on highways, often. And these aren't the short, wide ones you can take at twenty-five in Santa Monica. These are land mines. In any case, it was so cold that I draped my towel over me and slept. I woke up at our first restroom stop in Tulum. I've learned to hold it as long as possible on third world road trips, unless of course, there's an ocean near by. I picked up a USA Today, the first print news I've seen since I got here. The front page article was about the Oscars. Glad I could catch up on what's going on in the world. The USA Today can suck my balls.
We eventually arrived at Chichen Itza. Our tour guide Eder, who was awesome, told us that we would have fifteen minutes to shop after the two and a half hour tour. I figured there'd be a gift shop or something. I've never been more wrong about anything in my life. First let me state, Chichen Itza is mind blowing. It is large and well preserved. The tour was so long and so full of information that I found myself drifting. I mean there are bas reliefs on every building with dudes with earrings, a flower on their forehead, and a large elephantine nose, and everything means something and it all incorporates Venus somehow. If you're ever in the area, do not miss it. Got that out of the way.
I must say that I haven't snapped one photo since I've arrived. Today I regretted not bringing my camera, if for no other reason than to document the Mayan flea market that exists on the grounds of Chichen Itza. In fifty square miles of Angkor Wat, you'll find some kids selling some t-shirts. At Chichen Itza, there are rows and rows of tables selling the same crap. I wish I had my camera today if only to document this travesty. Alas, I only have a sixteen gig card, which only holds two billion pictures, a fraction of the crap for sale. And the worst part is that one dude in our group asked, "Will we be able to shop?" One, he already said we could. Two, what the fuck do you want to buy here? Look, I go to Venice Beach where they sell crap, but I only go there to see junkies and gang bangers. Walking around a pyramid that took two hundred years to build and is aligned with the sun in such a way that on March 21st, the sun shines in such a way that it looks like a snake is slithering down the North side of the staircase. I mean these people were geniuses and their descendants sit around hawking crap. I guess if I thought about it for a few minutes, they're probably no different than we are.
After Chichen Itza, which while amazing, was long and tiring, we stopped off at Xkeken Cenote. This was actually the only place that I wish I had brought my camera. Luckily, you can click on the link above for pictures. It's an underground swimming hole. Swimming in the water there's a massive stalactite that resembles the head of a giant wooly mammoth. It was beautiful and creepy. There was something about being in there that I half expected a fresh water cenote shark to come up and eat me. Our tour ended in Valladolid, which is a colonial town where we finally had lunch at five. I had a taco, panucho, and a few other non-taco bell menu items that were all good. The ride home seemed to take forever. Although exhausted, yes, sleeping in an ice van tuckered me out, when I got home, I showered and hit the streets.
My friend, Steve Fowler, suggested I check out the Mezcaleria. I have found that many places that existed last year are gone and the Mezcaleria was no exception. I wasn't hungry, but there were two places I had to go before I left. My first stop was HC Carnes de Monterrey. They are known for one thing, arrachera. My people call it flank steak. I got that with no sides and a Superior beer. If there were ever a better name for anything, I haven't heard it. The steak was amazing. I'm not a huge fan of steak but this was marinated perfectly. It's not the best meat but it was so flavorful. Next door was El Fogon, the place I ordered poorly on Monday. Everyone I ask about food in Playa mention these two places. I got two tacos al pastor to go. Al Pastor is prepared on a vertical spit with a pineapple on top. The al pastor guy would wipe the corn tortilla on the al pastor, cut a strip from top to bottom, ending with a cut and flick of pineapple into the tortilla. It was a hoot. If I ever need a moyle in Playa, I'm calling the al pastor guy at El Fogon. The tacos were good. I still don't get the fuss.
I ended the night at the Hotel del Punto. I tried a couple places on 12th and 1st, but they were so loud and so big. I stumbled on the hotel just by seeing a sign. It's got a roof top bar with a view of the Carribean and the lights of Cozumel on the horizon. I chose well. Tomorrow is my last full day in Playa. I'm starting to get a little sad about leaving. I don't get sad about much, except for trying to watch youporn.com on one gigabit internet speed. It's like watching two epileptics in a 1912 porn shot on nitrate film stock. Good night and bye thirties.
I woke up at six in anticipation of my seven fifteen pick up. The van arrived around seven thirty. Now Mexico may lag in education, sanitation, and medicine, but they lead the world in air conditioned vans. These things are rolling boxes of freon. I wouldn't let a child aboard lest it stunt his growth. It took a while to pick everyone up. One of the couples were staying in Playacar. Playacar is a gated community south of Playa Del Carmen. Think of it like Newport Beach, but gated with more white people and more Mexican employees. Playacar is my kind of place.
One thing that I noticed on my Edventure, but could not ignore on this tour is that Yucatan is Spanish for "Land of the Speed Bump." There are more speed bumps in this mother fucker than tortillas. They have them on highways, often. And these aren't the short, wide ones you can take at twenty-five in Santa Monica. These are land mines. In any case, it was so cold that I draped my towel over me and slept. I woke up at our first restroom stop in Tulum. I've learned to hold it as long as possible on third world road trips, unless of course, there's an ocean near by. I picked up a USA Today, the first print news I've seen since I got here. The front page article was about the Oscars. Glad I could catch up on what's going on in the world. The USA Today can suck my balls.
We eventually arrived at Chichen Itza. Our tour guide Eder, who was awesome, told us that we would have fifteen minutes to shop after the two and a half hour tour. I figured there'd be a gift shop or something. I've never been more wrong about anything in my life. First let me state, Chichen Itza is mind blowing. It is large and well preserved. The tour was so long and so full of information that I found myself drifting. I mean there are bas reliefs on every building with dudes with earrings, a flower on their forehead, and a large elephantine nose, and everything means something and it all incorporates Venus somehow. If you're ever in the area, do not miss it. Got that out of the way.
I must say that I haven't snapped one photo since I've arrived. Today I regretted not bringing my camera, if for no other reason than to document the Mayan flea market that exists on the grounds of Chichen Itza. In fifty square miles of Angkor Wat, you'll find some kids selling some t-shirts. At Chichen Itza, there are rows and rows of tables selling the same crap. I wish I had my camera today if only to document this travesty. Alas, I only have a sixteen gig card, which only holds two billion pictures, a fraction of the crap for sale. And the worst part is that one dude in our group asked, "Will we be able to shop?" One, he already said we could. Two, what the fuck do you want to buy here? Look, I go to Venice Beach where they sell crap, but I only go there to see junkies and gang bangers. Walking around a pyramid that took two hundred years to build and is aligned with the sun in such a way that on March 21st, the sun shines in such a way that it looks like a snake is slithering down the North side of the staircase. I mean these people were geniuses and their descendants sit around hawking crap. I guess if I thought about it for a few minutes, they're probably no different than we are.
After Chichen Itza, which while amazing, was long and tiring, we stopped off at Xkeken Cenote. This was actually the only place that I wish I had brought my camera. Luckily, you can click on the link above for pictures. It's an underground swimming hole. Swimming in the water there's a massive stalactite that resembles the head of a giant wooly mammoth. It was beautiful and creepy. There was something about being in there that I half expected a fresh water cenote shark to come up and eat me. Our tour ended in Valladolid, which is a colonial town where we finally had lunch at five. I had a taco, panucho, and a few other non-taco bell menu items that were all good. The ride home seemed to take forever. Although exhausted, yes, sleeping in an ice van tuckered me out, when I got home, I showered and hit the streets.
My friend, Steve Fowler, suggested I check out the Mezcaleria. I have found that many places that existed last year are gone and the Mezcaleria was no exception. I wasn't hungry, but there were two places I had to go before I left. My first stop was HC Carnes de Monterrey. They are known for one thing, arrachera. My people call it flank steak. I got that with no sides and a Superior beer. If there were ever a better name for anything, I haven't heard it. The steak was amazing. I'm not a huge fan of steak but this was marinated perfectly. It's not the best meat but it was so flavorful. Next door was El Fogon, the place I ordered poorly on Monday. Everyone I ask about food in Playa mention these two places. I got two tacos al pastor to go. Al Pastor is prepared on a vertical spit with a pineapple on top. The al pastor guy would wipe the corn tortilla on the al pastor, cut a strip from top to bottom, ending with a cut and flick of pineapple into the tortilla. It was a hoot. If I ever need a moyle in Playa, I'm calling the al pastor guy at El Fogon. The tacos were good. I still don't get the fuss.
I ended the night at the Hotel del Punto. I tried a couple places on 12th and 1st, but they were so loud and so big. I stumbled on the hotel just by seeing a sign. It's got a roof top bar with a view of the Carribean and the lights of Cozumel on the horizon. I chose well. Tomorrow is my last full day in Playa. I'm starting to get a little sad about leaving. I don't get sad about much, except for trying to watch youporn.com on one gigabit internet speed. It's like watching two epileptics in a 1912 porn shot on nitrate film stock. Good night and bye thirties.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Playa Del Carmen Day 5
I recently learned in therapy that I have a fear of failure. This no where more apparent then in my choice to stay with the same tried and true restaurants instead of trying new ones. While I'm here in Playa, I'm trying to eat at different places every meal. I rued that decision at breakfast.
Looking up places for breakfast the same two places seem to top most lists: Nativo and Cueva de Changos, two places I've already been. Since La Vagabunda got some good reviews and was the way to my beach club, yes, I already have a beach club, I figured I'd try it. The fact that it was 5th Street put me off, but like the Promenade has some good places, none come to mind, this thoroughfare of hyper-touristic commercialism could have a gem or two. I was wrong. I ordered chilaquiles which were so uninspired that I could've told the cook to go fuck his mother and he would've been too lazy to cough up a phlegm globber in my dish. This was a bowl of chips in sauce topped with mediocre eggs. I only have myself to blame and blame I did.
The next stop was Kool Beach Club. I kicked off my sandals and checked out my bloody feet. God Damn sandal straps. At least, the sandals were on sale. I normally just drink water before noon, but something about the bucket of four Bud Lights for a hundred pesos called to me. After my melanomic experience on Monday, I've decided to hide under my umbrella. I'm enjoying the shit out of The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo and only stopped reading to pee...in the ocean. God love the ocean. It's one big urinal and your hands are washed in clean (except for all the urine) salt water.
It was lunch time. I checked out Piola on 38th, a pizza place that Al and Betty Ann recommended. It was delicious. It was better than most of the pizza I had in New York last September. Chalk another one up for the Italians here in Playa. I showered and did my stop at Cafe Ruta, then it was time for some drinks. Since I started early today, my thirst wasn't as fierce. I stopped off at Zenzi Beach Club across from Wicky's. I sat outside with a beautiful view of the Carribean. Alas, the music was too loud and there was one middle aged spring breaker living the dream. I don't know if it was his drunkeness, the fact that he knew all the words to Jadakiss' "Put Ya Hands Up," or his Ray-Ban sunglasses that he bought five minutes after saw "Risky Business" back in his late thirties, but for the first time in my life, I was ashamed to be white. It was actually a great looking spot but it wasn't for me. I moved on to a cool tiny bar called The Dirty Martini. I read while listening to an older English man, who looked like Sting if he spent some time in a microwave, regale another gringo over some pounding he gave a guy. At this point, I haven't spoken more than a few words to tourists in Playa Del Carmen and I'm kind of grateful for that.
For dinner I decided to go someplace nice, The Bistro at the Hotel Tortuga. I was seated at a table right by the pool. It's actually a beautiful setting. Alas, any joy ended there. I was given menus and then waited. I feel that all customers should have to do a stint hosting at a restaurant and all servers should dine alone just to know how it feels. When my waiter finally arrived he said, "Ready?" What is this a coffee shop? How about a little foreplay before jamming your order pad in my ass? Now I don't need a fluffer, but a little warmth, maybe a word or two of conversation is nice. I asked for a glass of Malbec and bottle of water and asked what was good. He told me the grilled seafood special for two could be made for one person for five hundred pesos. Now this is three times more than most things on the menu, so I'm ready to crush this guy's trachea with my size 14 running shoe. Yes, ladies, you read that right, SIZE 14. I have a rule. If a server or salesperson leads me to the most expensive thing, they're suspect, if not, I trust them. I was once stroller shopping with my friend Mike. Yes, I have done far more butch activities before or since, but the saleswoman recommend the Maclaren, which happened to be the least expensive pram. I may have misplaced faith in this woman but I would trust her to do my vasectomy. In any case, I ordered the Vera Cruz Seafood Soup and Lobster Spaghetti, both were mediocre. Now it was time for the final injustice, the check. He told me the total was 385. I looked at the tab and the total was 335 plus 50 he wrote in ink. No where did it state that all customers would be gouged fifteen percent gratuity, but there it was. I asked him about it and he told me they did it to everyone. I gave them an honest review on tripadvisor.com. I'm sure they'll close down after that one.
On my walk home, there was some police activity outside my local, Two Dollar Drinks. I saw my bartender talking to the cops and a few roughians being loaded into the rolling hoosegow. Turns out there was a little bit of a scuffle at the Two Dollar. That's what I call it, cause it's my local. I asked Carlos, the bartender, if everything was alright. He responded, "Chinga tu madre, pinche gringo." I'm not fluent but I believe he said that he's hoping that I come back real soon.
Looking up places for breakfast the same two places seem to top most lists: Nativo and Cueva de Changos, two places I've already been. Since La Vagabunda got some good reviews and was the way to my beach club, yes, I already have a beach club, I figured I'd try it. The fact that it was 5th Street put me off, but like the Promenade has some good places, none come to mind, this thoroughfare of hyper-touristic commercialism could have a gem or two. I was wrong. I ordered chilaquiles which were so uninspired that I could've told the cook to go fuck his mother and he would've been too lazy to cough up a phlegm globber in my dish. This was a bowl of chips in sauce topped with mediocre eggs. I only have myself to blame and blame I did.
The next stop was Kool Beach Club. I kicked off my sandals and checked out my bloody feet. God Damn sandal straps. At least, the sandals were on sale. I normally just drink water before noon, but something about the bucket of four Bud Lights for a hundred pesos called to me. After my melanomic experience on Monday, I've decided to hide under my umbrella. I'm enjoying the shit out of The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo and only stopped reading to pee...in the ocean. God love the ocean. It's one big urinal and your hands are washed in clean (except for all the urine) salt water.
It was lunch time. I checked out Piola on 38th, a pizza place that Al and Betty Ann recommended. It was delicious. It was better than most of the pizza I had in New York last September. Chalk another one up for the Italians here in Playa. I showered and did my stop at Cafe Ruta, then it was time for some drinks. Since I started early today, my thirst wasn't as fierce. I stopped off at Zenzi Beach Club across from Wicky's. I sat outside with a beautiful view of the Carribean. Alas, the music was too loud and there was one middle aged spring breaker living the dream. I don't know if it was his drunkeness, the fact that he knew all the words to Jadakiss' "Put Ya Hands Up," or his Ray-Ban sunglasses that he bought five minutes after saw "Risky Business" back in his late thirties, but for the first time in my life, I was ashamed to be white. It was actually a great looking spot but it wasn't for me. I moved on to a cool tiny bar called The Dirty Martini. I read while listening to an older English man, who looked like Sting if he spent some time in a microwave, regale another gringo over some pounding he gave a guy. At this point, I haven't spoken more than a few words to tourists in Playa Del Carmen and I'm kind of grateful for that.
For dinner I decided to go someplace nice, The Bistro at the Hotel Tortuga. I was seated at a table right by the pool. It's actually a beautiful setting. Alas, any joy ended there. I was given menus and then waited. I feel that all customers should have to do a stint hosting at a restaurant and all servers should dine alone just to know how it feels. When my waiter finally arrived he said, "Ready?" What is this a coffee shop? How about a little foreplay before jamming your order pad in my ass? Now I don't need a fluffer, but a little warmth, maybe a word or two of conversation is nice. I asked for a glass of Malbec and bottle of water and asked what was good. He told me the grilled seafood special for two could be made for one person for five hundred pesos. Now this is three times more than most things on the menu, so I'm ready to crush this guy's trachea with my size 14 running shoe. Yes, ladies, you read that right, SIZE 14. I have a rule. If a server or salesperson leads me to the most expensive thing, they're suspect, if not, I trust them. I was once stroller shopping with my friend Mike. Yes, I have done far more butch activities before or since, but the saleswoman recommend the Maclaren, which happened to be the least expensive pram. I may have misplaced faith in this woman but I would trust her to do my vasectomy. In any case, I ordered the Vera Cruz Seafood Soup and Lobster Spaghetti, both were mediocre. Now it was time for the final injustice, the check. He told me the total was 385. I looked at the tab and the total was 335 plus 50 he wrote in ink. No where did it state that all customers would be gouged fifteen percent gratuity, but there it was. I asked him about it and he told me they did it to everyone. I gave them an honest review on tripadvisor.com. I'm sure they'll close down after that one.
On my walk home, there was some police activity outside my local, Two Dollar Drinks. I saw my bartender talking to the cops and a few roughians being loaded into the rolling hoosegow. Turns out there was a little bit of a scuffle at the Two Dollar. That's what I call it, cause it's my local. I asked Carlos, the bartender, if everything was alright. He responded, "Chinga tu madre, pinche gringo." I'm not fluent but I believe he said that he's hoping that I come back real soon.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Playa Del Carmen Day 4
It's almost midnight and I just got home. Impressed? Neither am I. I love Playa Del Carmen. I know when it happened but I don't know why. I feel there's a difference between being a traveler and being a tourist. To some it might be the same as the difference between a trekker and a trekkie, but it's a big deal to me. When I booked this trip, I realized that I only had a week and that's not a ton of time to travel. My original thought was Tulum but figured it was too sleepy. This coming from the guy who wants a cookie for staying out til midnight. One thing I love about Playa is that it can be quite touristy, but you're only a few streets from real Mexico.
Although I never heard from Al and Betty Ann (tear), they left me with some recs. One was a breakfast place across from DAC. Yes, that's all I had to go on. I found DAC, a fruit and vegetable market, on the google, and across the street is Nativo. It's a cool restaurant that serves fresh juice. I got an eight vegetable juice and chilaquiles, both were good. I still had the Hi-C sunburn stain on my right side and was concerned about laying out. I went back to Kools and got a chaise in the shade. I was determined to finish Zorba the Greek, which I did at lunch. For a book that I trudged through the first two-thirds and muddled through the the final third, I was really moved at the end.
It was lunch time and Betty Ann told me the best burger was at a beach club called Wicky's. As a self proclaimed burger anthropologist, I had to try the best. Wicky's is on the beach at Calle 10. While the burger was well seasoned and juicy, I'm as much a fan of condiments and bun as I am meat. It was very good, I'll leave it at that. I went home to shower and grab another book. I started "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo" on recommendation from my sister. Although Zorba was challenging, this goes down far smoother, much like Masterpiece Theater versus Jersey Shore.
I headed back to my favorite cafe, Cafe Ruta. They have wi-fi and I learned a roof top deck. Alas, I found out the wi-fi doesn't reach the roof. It was inside for me. I read til about five and then decided it was time for happy hour. I read where Wicky's have some sort of wine and semen social on Wednesday's from four to seven. Semen being appetizers and what not. I asked Mario, the bartender, what the deal was. He told me they had a special during the Mexico New Zealand game at ten that night. I showed him the menu that read "Eventos" and Wednesday is wine night. Even though its written, Mario was the last to know. He showed me the wine list but I begged off.
I hit the pavement with a smile on my face. For some reason, this was the moment that I fell in love with Playa. I found no greater pleasure than to traverse the streets of Playa looking for the best happy hour. After a healthy walk, I decided to patronize Big Al and Red Neck Steve's Beer Bucket. I know. It sounds like the kind of place where you get a free shot of bourbon for every first cousin you bang. I love the idea of an iced bucket of six beers for a hundred pesos, but for one man, even of my stature, it's overkill. I had a Montejo and a Cuervo 1800 Anejo. I'm digging the shit out of tequila. Of course, I had to stop off at Two Dollar Drinks where I ended up being over charged. I explained the situation my mathematically challenged barkeep. The thing is the extra change was going to my barman who couldn't add. I should've taxed him, but for all I know this dozen pesos could put him in another tax bracket. I wanted to have one more drink so stopped at Calle Seis where I first had a beer on Sunday night. I was talked into my first, and second (two for one), margarita. It was a little sweet for my tastes. Yes, I was drunk.
Since the size fifteen Chacos that I got at REI for twenty-seven dollars were cutting the outside of my feet, I decided to stop off at home and put on some less sharp shoes. I dined tonight at Mestizo, which was amazing. There's a huge population of Italians in Playa and for some reason they make better Italian food than the Mexicans make Mexican food. I had spinach, ricotta, and parmesan ravioli in a cream, butter, sage, and parmesan sauce. It was rich and delicious. Since I felt bad for being the only customer, as well as, drunk and starving, I ordered spaghetti pomodoro and basil, you know, for the table. It was cooked perfectly. I'd hate to add to the glut of Italian restaurants in L.A. but this guy should move.
My plan was to stay out until the Mexico game came on. I stopped off at a fancy hotel called the Hotel Deseo. It's the kind of place that has a groovy outdoor lounge that projects black and white films on the wall. There were three people at the bar. I sat down and waited. The bartender went over and chatted up a hot woman who walked in. I had enough. One of my biggest pet peeves as a customer is being made to wait for no reason. I left. I had a shot of Cuervo Tradicional at a tiny bar on 3rd Avenue that had wifi. I love my IPOD Touch even though it has no media on it.
I made it to Wicky's expecting a big crowd for the game. Aside from the group in the hospitality industry having dinner, I was the only one at the bar. I watched as a bunch of gringos whose dinner was paid for, order drinks at the bar, but neither took out cash nor a credit card, expecting the bartender to keep track of them. And you do know, all white people look alike. In fact, there were three bald men who could've been body doubles for John Locke. At halftime I headed back to Two Dollar Drinks, where I was the only gringo in a crowd of thirty dudes. In fact, a guy selling roses popped his head in to realize that he had as good a chance of selling a rose in there, as I was getting a rim job in a temple full of rabbis. The exciting part came when someone paused the video on the jukebox and the guy who chose the Jose Felliciano jam was ready to brawl. The problem was diffused with a twenty peso note and Mexico went on to begin to trounce New Zealand.
I left before it ended, not wanting to catch a stray bullet from an excited Latino firing off his pistola after a Mexico win. Here I am, writing about day four awake until day five. Do I know how to party or what? Yes, I know, the answer is or what.
Although I never heard from Al and Betty Ann (tear), they left me with some recs. One was a breakfast place across from DAC. Yes, that's all I had to go on. I found DAC, a fruit and vegetable market, on the google, and across the street is Nativo. It's a cool restaurant that serves fresh juice. I got an eight vegetable juice and chilaquiles, both were good. I still had the Hi-C sunburn stain on my right side and was concerned about laying out. I went back to Kools and got a chaise in the shade. I was determined to finish Zorba the Greek, which I did at lunch. For a book that I trudged through the first two-thirds and muddled through the the final third, I was really moved at the end.
It was lunch time and Betty Ann told me the best burger was at a beach club called Wicky's. As a self proclaimed burger anthropologist, I had to try the best. Wicky's is on the beach at Calle 10. While the burger was well seasoned and juicy, I'm as much a fan of condiments and bun as I am meat. It was very good, I'll leave it at that. I went home to shower and grab another book. I started "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo" on recommendation from my sister. Although Zorba was challenging, this goes down far smoother, much like Masterpiece Theater versus Jersey Shore.
I headed back to my favorite cafe, Cafe Ruta. They have wi-fi and I learned a roof top deck. Alas, I found out the wi-fi doesn't reach the roof. It was inside for me. I read til about five and then decided it was time for happy hour. I read where Wicky's have some sort of wine and semen social on Wednesday's from four to seven. Semen being appetizers and what not. I asked Mario, the bartender, what the deal was. He told me they had a special during the Mexico New Zealand game at ten that night. I showed him the menu that read "Eventos" and Wednesday is wine night. Even though its written, Mario was the last to know. He showed me the wine list but I begged off.
I hit the pavement with a smile on my face. For some reason, this was the moment that I fell in love with Playa. I found no greater pleasure than to traverse the streets of Playa looking for the best happy hour. After a healthy walk, I decided to patronize Big Al and Red Neck Steve's Beer Bucket. I know. It sounds like the kind of place where you get a free shot of bourbon for every first cousin you bang. I love the idea of an iced bucket of six beers for a hundred pesos, but for one man, even of my stature, it's overkill. I had a Montejo and a Cuervo 1800 Anejo. I'm digging the shit out of tequila. Of course, I had to stop off at Two Dollar Drinks where I ended up being over charged. I explained the situation my mathematically challenged barkeep. The thing is the extra change was going to my barman who couldn't add. I should've taxed him, but for all I know this dozen pesos could put him in another tax bracket. I wanted to have one more drink so stopped at Calle Seis where I first had a beer on Sunday night. I was talked into my first, and second (two for one), margarita. It was a little sweet for my tastes. Yes, I was drunk.
Since the size fifteen Chacos that I got at REI for twenty-seven dollars were cutting the outside of my feet, I decided to stop off at home and put on some less sharp shoes. I dined tonight at Mestizo, which was amazing. There's a huge population of Italians in Playa and for some reason they make better Italian food than the Mexicans make Mexican food. I had spinach, ricotta, and parmesan ravioli in a cream, butter, sage, and parmesan sauce. It was rich and delicious. Since I felt bad for being the only customer, as well as, drunk and starving, I ordered spaghetti pomodoro and basil, you know, for the table. It was cooked perfectly. I'd hate to add to the glut of Italian restaurants in L.A. but this guy should move.
My plan was to stay out until the Mexico game came on. I stopped off at a fancy hotel called the Hotel Deseo. It's the kind of place that has a groovy outdoor lounge that projects black and white films on the wall. There were three people at the bar. I sat down and waited. The bartender went over and chatted up a hot woman who walked in. I had enough. One of my biggest pet peeves as a customer is being made to wait for no reason. I left. I had a shot of Cuervo Tradicional at a tiny bar on 3rd Avenue that had wifi. I love my IPOD Touch even though it has no media on it.
I made it to Wicky's expecting a big crowd for the game. Aside from the group in the hospitality industry having dinner, I was the only one at the bar. I watched as a bunch of gringos whose dinner was paid for, order drinks at the bar, but neither took out cash nor a credit card, expecting the bartender to keep track of them. And you do know, all white people look alike. In fact, there were three bald men who could've been body doubles for John Locke. At halftime I headed back to Two Dollar Drinks, where I was the only gringo in a crowd of thirty dudes. In fact, a guy selling roses popped his head in to realize that he had as good a chance of selling a rose in there, as I was getting a rim job in a temple full of rabbis. The exciting part came when someone paused the video on the jukebox and the guy who chose the Jose Felliciano jam was ready to brawl. The problem was diffused with a twenty peso note and Mexico went on to begin to trounce New Zealand.
I left before it ended, not wanting to catch a stray bullet from an excited Latino firing off his pistola after a Mexico win. Here I am, writing about day four awake until day five. Do I know how to party or what? Yes, I know, the answer is or what.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Playa Del Carmen Day 3
I woke up at six. I'm not sure if or how much I slept. My alarm was set for an hour later so it wasn't a big deal. In fact, being on vacation my sleep deprivation didn't bother me as much as if I were back home, which is like being on vacation, too. I looked in the mirror and saw a lovely sunburn down my right side. It looked like someone spilled fruit punch on me. I planned two tours during my stay. Today I was taking an Edventure. It's the third site down with the grammatically incorrect header. I chose it because the reviewers on tripadvisor.com gave it a rave review. I'm a big fan of trip advisor, but I learned that these reviewers must have an incredibly low threshold for pleasure.
I was being picked up at quarter to eight and needed some breakfast. There was a street vendor outside my hotel grilling up animal parts. I'd like to believe that I'm adventurous enough to eat chunks of food out of Andrew Zimmer's turd, but it was far to early for entrails. I went to the market across the street and bought a couple of Golden Delicious, which were grown in the U.S. of A. I found that odd for some reason. Is it really cheaper to ship an apple from Washington than it is to grow one in Mexico? It was chilly outside, when the van arrived on time. I got in and was shocked by the maximum level of air conditioning. We picked up another couple at a far nicer hotel. It had the word "Royal" in it. Keith and Tammy were from Connecticut and a lovely couple. We headed down to Tulum but first stopped at the side of the road so we could be placed in another van, where there were two other couples inside. We arrived at the Edventure Headquarters which are inside the Tulum Ruins parking lot.
Ed introduced himself and asked the perfunctory questions on whether we were taking part in all the activities: ruins, zip line, etc. He got to the couple from Iowa who claimed they were only taking part in the Ruins. This was unheard of because the Tulum Ruins do not an Edventure make. Turns out the driver picked up the wrong couple. This morning was getting good. Ed began to get pissed at the driver who couldn't speak English. Mind you, these drivers go into hotel lobbies where a couple dozen people can be waiting for a tour, without a sign declaring where they're from or who they're looking for. In any case, Ed shuttled us off to the ruins.
We passed through various storefronts selling the same crap and got on a trolley pulled by a tractor. It felt like a third world amusement park. My original plan was to hire a guide, but when I got there I didn't feel like dropping fifty bucks. A good move. Keith, Tammy and I mooched off another tour whose guide nearly put me to sleep. I ventured off on my own. I learned today that they're called ruins because they are ruined. I'm sure there's a fascinating story behind these Mayan tenements, I just didn't hear it. The Tulum Ruins are right on the crystal blue water which was spectaculor, but not knowing a thing about them, I was ready to move on. We headed back to HQ where we were fitted with fins, masks and snorkels. Now one of the things I read about on trip advisor was the great guides. We were tossed into a van with a driver, not a guide, with nary an idea of where we were going or what we were doing.
We eventually parked. I tried to converse with our driver about what we were doing. Alas, my Spanish was only good enough to tell him to go fuck his mother. Turns out we were at the zip line. We met our guide, Moses, who was really cool. Zip lining on the other hand was kinda lame. We did a short one, then a long one, then canoed back. We then walked to a pool which had a cliff dive. It was refreshing but the Edventure was looking more like an EdJerkOff. Our next stop was the Dos Ojos Cenote, an underground river. It was awesome. Snorkeling in an underwater cave with stalactites and stalagmites was beautiful. Swimming between rooms looked claustrophobic from above the water, but below it was massive. If you're ever in the Riviera Maya, check out a cenote. It's well worth it.
Our next stop was Akumal to check out sea turtles. We saw two and a sting ray. The turtles are pretty groovy. They're actually quite graceful for a reptile melded with a rock. The sting ray was really creepy. He was eye fucking me so I swam off. I was tiring of the Edventure and thank god it was time for lunch. We ate at some place on the beach which was playing classic rock on XM. It was the same seven songs puncuated by American commercials. For a minute I forgot I was outside the country. I had tempura battered fish tacos, which were good, but the best part was the habanero salsa. I was told it was hot and dug right it. The first bite was numbing, the second merely scorched my mouth. I couldn't stop eating it though. It was beautiful out and I didn't care if my Edventure ended then, but there was one more stop.
Our last stop was Yal-Kul lagoon. It was our final snorkeling site. It was average. Unfortunately, I've snorkeled in Hawaii, where you can plunge in the ocean behind a Rally's and see the most amazing fish ever. I was done. I felt kind of duped. Hey, at least it got me out of Playa and it made me appreciate Playa when I returned. After showering, my first stop was Two Dollar Drinks. Jango commented that I would find a place and do it to death. Hey, I'm a male Garber, it's part of my DNA. Well, I found that place. It's great for a couple of drinks. They've got beers, booze and a handful of mixers. I don't know if they even have ice. But they do have a jukebox and four TVs. I watched Anaconda with Spanish subtitles. I dropped nine bucks on two beers and two tequilas. It was time for dinner.
I sought out Herencia de Buenos Aires, an Argentine pizza place. It wasn't easy to find and I was the only customer. I had two empanadas, one beef, one with cheese and Spanish ham, both great. I ordered a pizza mozzarella, which lacked sauce. It did have good crust and an inordinate amount of cheese, but I could make bread and cheese in my hotel room. I explained to the chef about the lack of sauce in English and Spanish. I would go back but fear that my next pizza will have loogie sauce in it. So here I am, lying in bed exhausted but not tired. I think I may have to go out.
I was being picked up at quarter to eight and needed some breakfast. There was a street vendor outside my hotel grilling up animal parts. I'd like to believe that I'm adventurous enough to eat chunks of food out of Andrew Zimmer's turd, but it was far to early for entrails. I went to the market across the street and bought a couple of Golden Delicious, which were grown in the U.S. of A. I found that odd for some reason. Is it really cheaper to ship an apple from Washington than it is to grow one in Mexico? It was chilly outside, when the van arrived on time. I got in and was shocked by the maximum level of air conditioning. We picked up another couple at a far nicer hotel. It had the word "Royal" in it. Keith and Tammy were from Connecticut and a lovely couple. We headed down to Tulum but first stopped at the side of the road so we could be placed in another van, where there were two other couples inside. We arrived at the Edventure Headquarters which are inside the Tulum Ruins parking lot.
Ed introduced himself and asked the perfunctory questions on whether we were taking part in all the activities: ruins, zip line, etc. He got to the couple from Iowa who claimed they were only taking part in the Ruins. This was unheard of because the Tulum Ruins do not an Edventure make. Turns out the driver picked up the wrong couple. This morning was getting good. Ed began to get pissed at the driver who couldn't speak English. Mind you, these drivers go into hotel lobbies where a couple dozen people can be waiting for a tour, without a sign declaring where they're from or who they're looking for. In any case, Ed shuttled us off to the ruins.
We passed through various storefronts selling the same crap and got on a trolley pulled by a tractor. It felt like a third world amusement park. My original plan was to hire a guide, but when I got there I didn't feel like dropping fifty bucks. A good move. Keith, Tammy and I mooched off another tour whose guide nearly put me to sleep. I ventured off on my own. I learned today that they're called ruins because they are ruined. I'm sure there's a fascinating story behind these Mayan tenements, I just didn't hear it. The Tulum Ruins are right on the crystal blue water which was spectaculor, but not knowing a thing about them, I was ready to move on. We headed back to HQ where we were fitted with fins, masks and snorkels. Now one of the things I read about on trip advisor was the great guides. We were tossed into a van with a driver, not a guide, with nary an idea of where we were going or what we were doing.
We eventually parked. I tried to converse with our driver about what we were doing. Alas, my Spanish was only good enough to tell him to go fuck his mother. Turns out we were at the zip line. We met our guide, Moses, who was really cool. Zip lining on the other hand was kinda lame. We did a short one, then a long one, then canoed back. We then walked to a pool which had a cliff dive. It was refreshing but the Edventure was looking more like an EdJerkOff. Our next stop was the Dos Ojos Cenote, an underground river. It was awesome. Snorkeling in an underwater cave with stalactites and stalagmites was beautiful. Swimming between rooms looked claustrophobic from above the water, but below it was massive. If you're ever in the Riviera Maya, check out a cenote. It's well worth it.
Our next stop was Akumal to check out sea turtles. We saw two and a sting ray. The turtles are pretty groovy. They're actually quite graceful for a reptile melded with a rock. The sting ray was really creepy. He was eye fucking me so I swam off. I was tiring of the Edventure and thank god it was time for lunch. We ate at some place on the beach which was playing classic rock on XM. It was the same seven songs puncuated by American commercials. For a minute I forgot I was outside the country. I had tempura battered fish tacos, which were good, but the best part was the habanero salsa. I was told it was hot and dug right it. The first bite was numbing, the second merely scorched my mouth. I couldn't stop eating it though. It was beautiful out and I didn't care if my Edventure ended then, but there was one more stop.
Our last stop was Yal-Kul lagoon. It was our final snorkeling site. It was average. Unfortunately, I've snorkeled in Hawaii, where you can plunge in the ocean behind a Rally's and see the most amazing fish ever. I was done. I felt kind of duped. Hey, at least it got me out of Playa and it made me appreciate Playa when I returned. After showering, my first stop was Two Dollar Drinks. Jango commented that I would find a place and do it to death. Hey, I'm a male Garber, it's part of my DNA. Well, I found that place. It's great for a couple of drinks. They've got beers, booze and a handful of mixers. I don't know if they even have ice. But they do have a jukebox and four TVs. I watched Anaconda with Spanish subtitles. I dropped nine bucks on two beers and two tequilas. It was time for dinner.
I sought out Herencia de Buenos Aires, an Argentine pizza place. It wasn't easy to find and I was the only customer. I had two empanadas, one beef, one with cheese and Spanish ham, both great. I ordered a pizza mozzarella, which lacked sauce. It did have good crust and an inordinate amount of cheese, but I could make bread and cheese in my hotel room. I explained to the chef about the lack of sauce in English and Spanish. I would go back but fear that my next pizza will have loogie sauce in it. So here I am, lying in bed exhausted but not tired. I think I may have to go out.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Playa Del Carmen Day 2
I woke up at nine this morning. I can't remember the last time I slept ten hours. Actually, it was the last time I pulled an all nighter after my flight to New York. I really had no plans for this settle in day. I finished what bottled water I had, and, although; I was gonna hit the beach, I started the day with a shower. It took a while to crank the hot water up to warm, but it got there. My plan was to head north to La Cueva de los Changos.
I read good things about the Monkey Cave, especially for breakfast. I crossed Constitutiyentes for the first time and realized that the northern part of Playa is the more developed and newer part of the city. In fact, I was at Fred Segal looking for a hat last week. (P.S. I'm not a Fred Segal hat kind of guy.) I told the woman helping me that I was going to Playa. She remarked that Playa was, "great until the Italians came in and ruined it." Now I'm no Italophile, but aside from the Italian translation of "The Art of War," I've got the Italians' back on pretty much everything. I got to the Monkey Cave and was seated. Hungry and not been given a menu, I got up and grabbed one. It was in Spanish, which usually isn't an issue, but if I'm ordering fresh squeezed juice, I don't want to order cactus, rutabega, beet, accidentally. The American couple next to me ordered and I grabbed their menu. I considered the chilaquiles until I saw someone get them. They looked like breakfast nachos. MMMMMMMMMMBreakfast Nachos! Unable to decide, and wanting to go in the healty direction, I chose huevos rancheros and carrot, grapefruit, and pineapple juice. The latter was a good choice, the former poor. The problem began when the table next to me received their food, but not their drinks. The manager berated the server over this. It was quite awkward. The problem was my food came up and was put to the side. I guess the server recalled his ass raping and chose not to make the same mistake twice. Now my food can sit at my table until the end of time, but don't let it sit at the pass. (Yes, I've seen Hell's Kitchen.) I eventually got my food and it was mediocre. Oh, well. Next stop, the beach.
Although I've lived spitting distance from the sand for nearly 16 years, I rarely go to the beach. But I'm on vacation. I headed down 28th to the sand where there are two beach clubs. I chose Kool's because I could rent a lounge and not be expected to get anything else. Although I spend an inordinate amount of time in the sun (Hello, this niggah rolls in a gayata!), I have a fierce farmer's tan. I removed my shirt and guests from other beach clubs were drawn to the light I was reflecting. I sprayed some 50 on my shit and got to reading the latest New Yorker, great article on one of my heroes, Paul Krugman. I took a few dips in the water which was far colder than I expected. I always thought the Atlantic/Carribean had them temperature of urine. Wrong. After a couple of hours of increasing my risk for cancer, it was time for lunch.
I checked out a place called El Fogon, which I read good things about. I sat in the back near the shitter. It's one thing travelling alone, it's another dining near an outhouse. I let them server decide for me, mixed brochettes (kabobs.) I dove into my book, "Zorba the Greek," which I'm reading for a book club. Yes, driving a gayata is one thing, but book club...I can feel the semen drip from my chin. In any case, I chose the book because someone raved about it. That and we have our book club in an environment conducive to the book. I chose the Big Fat Greek Dinner at Papa Christos which I hope is better than Zorba. In any case, a family of ten sat down after I ordered and got their food before me. Dining solo is one thing, being shat on while sitting near the shitter is another. I got my kabobs, which had shrimp and steak. Now I'm no chemical physicist, but doesn't shrimp cook faster than steak? Yes, I chose poorly again.
I spent the afternoon at Cafe Ruta, which I'm guessing tries to invoke Route 66. They have coffee, tea, booze and wifi. What else does modern man need? I did some reading and checked some e-mail on my IPod Touch, which, with wifi, is the greatest invention ever. It was past four, time for happy hour. I rarely, if ever, experience happy hour in the first world. Why do I obsessively seek it out when I'm in the third ? I guess I'm just a value shopper. After about a vigorous walk, I settled on another Cafe Ruta, which had wifi and two beers for 28 pesos. The wifi didn't work but the buck and a quarter Dos Equis were alright. With a slight buzz, I went searching for more.
I don't know why my decision to spend two dollars on a beer became so intense. I could've walked into most places, bought a beer, and poured it on the floor and it would've been a good deal, but I was looking for the perfect spot. I saw the Tattoo Bar. I have no tattoos but the idea of mixing booze and ink seemed cool. I headed upstairs and was assaulted by the blaring sound of musica. Add the "a" to music and I'm out. I kept walking. I decided on a place that skeeved me the first thirty times I passed it. It was called "2 Dollar Drinks." I chose it because they had great tequila for 38 pesos or by their exchange rate three dollars and thirteen cents. It's something about travelling thousands of miles that I refuse to pay L.A. retail for booze unless I'm getting a great view or blown. I got a shot of Jose Cuervo Tradicional (excellent), bottle of Sol (great, superior to Dos XX), and a shot of Cazadores (weak) for 94 pesos. I tipped nearly fifty percent and bartender carried me home.
I was buzzed and was either gonna check out the pizza twelve feet from my bed or actually go out. Timbo gave me his old Frommer's guide, which recommended, amongst others, La Tarraya, a place on Calle 2 and the beach, which is four blocks from my room. The wind was blowing, but inside it was perfect. Located right on the sand, I order guacamole, mixed ceviche, fish tixnxic(sp?), and a bottle of wine. The first two were delicious. The fish, cooked in foil, arrived in a color red that doesn't exist in nature. It was achiote that gave it the color and was decent. While eating the ceviche and guacamole, I was approached by an American who asked how the ceviche was. He was with a party of six that arrived seconds before I did. He told me he owned a place in Playa and had been coming for 13 years and this was the second time at Tarraya. He invited me to join his party. Now Europeans, Al Queda, and Camel Fuckers in general can complain ad nauseum about Americans, but here I am, by myself, and the second person I've spoken to, who didn't serve me, is an American, who was not only a lovely guy, but asked me to sit with his party. After I ate, and paid my 220 peso tab, 100 for food, 120 for wine, about 20 bucks, I sat down with Al, his wife Betty Ann, and two other couples.
We conversed about travel and they invited me to join them for dinner tomorrow night. Both Al and Betty Ann are retired teachers who have two sons and two grandchildren. A couple of Long Island Jews who recognized a lonely, wandering one. Having a job where I have to be social, I don't mind being alone. But being a stranger in a strange land, like all solo travelers, in the words of Tennessee Williams, "I've always depended on the kindness of strangers."
I read good things about the Monkey Cave, especially for breakfast. I crossed Constitutiyentes for the first time and realized that the northern part of Playa is the more developed and newer part of the city. In fact, I was at Fred Segal looking for a hat last week. (P.S. I'm not a Fred Segal hat kind of guy.) I told the woman helping me that I was going to Playa. She remarked that Playa was, "great until the Italians came in and ruined it." Now I'm no Italophile, but aside from the Italian translation of "The Art of War," I've got the Italians' back on pretty much everything. I got to the Monkey Cave and was seated. Hungry and not been given a menu, I got up and grabbed one. It was in Spanish, which usually isn't an issue, but if I'm ordering fresh squeezed juice, I don't want to order cactus, rutabega, beet, accidentally. The American couple next to me ordered and I grabbed their menu. I considered the chilaquiles until I saw someone get them. They looked like breakfast nachos. MMMMMMMMMMBreakfast Nachos! Unable to decide, and wanting to go in the healty direction, I chose huevos rancheros and carrot, grapefruit, and pineapple juice. The latter was a good choice, the former poor. The problem began when the table next to me received their food, but not their drinks. The manager berated the server over this. It was quite awkward. The problem was my food came up and was put to the side. I guess the server recalled his ass raping and chose not to make the same mistake twice. Now my food can sit at my table until the end of time, but don't let it sit at the pass. (Yes, I've seen Hell's Kitchen.) I eventually got my food and it was mediocre. Oh, well. Next stop, the beach.
Although I've lived spitting distance from the sand for nearly 16 years, I rarely go to the beach. But I'm on vacation. I headed down 28th to the sand where there are two beach clubs. I chose Kool's because I could rent a lounge and not be expected to get anything else. Although I spend an inordinate amount of time in the sun (Hello, this niggah rolls in a gayata!), I have a fierce farmer's tan. I removed my shirt and guests from other beach clubs were drawn to the light I was reflecting. I sprayed some 50 on my shit and got to reading the latest New Yorker, great article on one of my heroes, Paul Krugman. I took a few dips in the water which was far colder than I expected. I always thought the Atlantic/Carribean had them temperature of urine. Wrong. After a couple of hours of increasing my risk for cancer, it was time for lunch.
I checked out a place called El Fogon, which I read good things about. I sat in the back near the shitter. It's one thing travelling alone, it's another dining near an outhouse. I let them server decide for me, mixed brochettes (kabobs.) I dove into my book, "Zorba the Greek," which I'm reading for a book club. Yes, driving a gayata is one thing, but book club...I can feel the semen drip from my chin. In any case, I chose the book because someone raved about it. That and we have our book club in an environment conducive to the book. I chose the Big Fat Greek Dinner at Papa Christos which I hope is better than Zorba. In any case, a family of ten sat down after I ordered and got their food before me. Dining solo is one thing, being shat on while sitting near the shitter is another. I got my kabobs, which had shrimp and steak. Now I'm no chemical physicist, but doesn't shrimp cook faster than steak? Yes, I chose poorly again.
I spent the afternoon at Cafe Ruta, which I'm guessing tries to invoke Route 66. They have coffee, tea, booze and wifi. What else does modern man need? I did some reading and checked some e-mail on my IPod Touch, which, with wifi, is the greatest invention ever. It was past four, time for happy hour. I rarely, if ever, experience happy hour in the first world. Why do I obsessively seek it out when I'm in the third ? I guess I'm just a value shopper. After about a vigorous walk, I settled on another Cafe Ruta, which had wifi and two beers for 28 pesos. The wifi didn't work but the buck and a quarter Dos Equis were alright. With a slight buzz, I went searching for more.
I don't know why my decision to spend two dollars on a beer became so intense. I could've walked into most places, bought a beer, and poured it on the floor and it would've been a good deal, but I was looking for the perfect spot. I saw the Tattoo Bar. I have no tattoos but the idea of mixing booze and ink seemed cool. I headed upstairs and was assaulted by the blaring sound of musica. Add the "a" to music and I'm out. I kept walking. I decided on a place that skeeved me the first thirty times I passed it. It was called "2 Dollar Drinks." I chose it because they had great tequila for 38 pesos or by their exchange rate three dollars and thirteen cents. It's something about travelling thousands of miles that I refuse to pay L.A. retail for booze unless I'm getting a great view or blown. I got a shot of Jose Cuervo Tradicional (excellent), bottle of Sol (great, superior to Dos XX), and a shot of Cazadores (weak) for 94 pesos. I tipped nearly fifty percent and bartender carried me home.
I was buzzed and was either gonna check out the pizza twelve feet from my bed or actually go out. Timbo gave me his old Frommer's guide, which recommended, amongst others, La Tarraya, a place on Calle 2 and the beach, which is four blocks from my room. The wind was blowing, but inside it was perfect. Located right on the sand, I order guacamole, mixed ceviche, fish tixnxic(sp?), and a bottle of wine. The first two were delicious. The fish, cooked in foil, arrived in a color red that doesn't exist in nature. It was achiote that gave it the color and was decent. While eating the ceviche and guacamole, I was approached by an American who asked how the ceviche was. He was with a party of six that arrived seconds before I did. He told me he owned a place in Playa and had been coming for 13 years and this was the second time at Tarraya. He invited me to join his party. Now Europeans, Al Queda, and Camel Fuckers in general can complain ad nauseum about Americans, but here I am, by myself, and the second person I've spoken to, who didn't serve me, is an American, who was not only a lovely guy, but asked me to sit with his party. After I ate, and paid my 220 peso tab, 100 for food, 120 for wine, about 20 bucks, I sat down with Al, his wife Betty Ann, and two other couples.
We conversed about travel and they invited me to join them for dinner tomorrow night. Both Al and Betty Ann are retired teachers who have two sons and two grandchildren. A couple of Long Island Jews who recognized a lonely, wandering one. Having a job where I have to be social, I don't mind being alone. But being a stranger in a strange land, like all solo travelers, in the words of Tennessee Williams, "I've always depended on the kindness of strangers."
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Playa Del Carmen Day 1
In honor of my 39 years and 359 days on earth I flew to Cancun and hopped a bus to Playa del Carmen. Yes, on Saturday, March 6th, I'll be turning 40. So instead of being the usual prick about my birthday, I decided to just leave town. Working up to this day wasn't easy. I worked every night from the previous Friday to last night. It had it's ups and downs. More ups than downs. I woke up a week ago Saturday fighting a cold and Friday with a cold sore. Since no one cares about the ups, I'll tell you about the downs.
Friday night while busy was chock full of entitled fucks. The worst was the one dude who ordered a round from Tim including shots, picked them up, and turned his back to the bar to do them. You see this guy, who claims to be a bartender, doesn't understand that if we don't know you, the way it works is: order, pay, drink. If we know you or if you have a tab, you can go straight to the last stage. But when it's busy, we can't keep tabs of who ordered what, and, yes, it was busy. This guy got all defensive, refusing to pay until he was ready. I told him, "Look. We can't wait until you toast, make speeches and have a circle jerk. You aren't the only person here, so pay so we can move on." His friend handed over his card and made an excuse for his douche bag friend.
The other low point took place on Saturday. While it started off slow, I was surrounded by friends. Poodle, Adrian, and Thomas came by, followed by Julie and Mary, who showered me with gifts. I won't go into detail about the gifts but let's just say, I'm writing this blog by the light of a fancy candle, videoing with my new flip, typing on my ipod touch, listening to tunes on a boom box, watching a movie on blu-ray, and getting ready for a cruise to the Mayan Riviera. Ironically, I'm typing this from said location. In any case, my friends, Kristen, Vanessa, and Colette came in. They are three drop dead gorgeous women in their early forties with kids. Two are separated and one is a widow. They are in no way fragile, they can handle themselves, but they don't get out all the time. So when they choose to come see me at O' Brien's I get super protective when some drunk, I'll call Dick Breath decides he's the solution to all their problems and the answer to all their prayers. Dick Breath, unaware of how annoying he was to my friends, plyed them with his brand of wit. (Alcoholics are clueless to emotional clues.) He sat next to Vanessa, who claimed that I was her boyfriend, but he still proceeded to bore her. Here's where I get conflicted. Personally, I feel that I should throw out anyone who doesn't conform to certain standards. For instance, don't bother other customers who are there to enjoy their own company. I know there are some bars where you can't fraternize with anyone outside of your party. While strict, I kind of get that rule. Long story short, I asked Dick Breath to leave. He's been in three times and twice he's been a douche. No more.
The rest of the night was busy and great. With 80 hours of the previous nine nights spent at O' Brien's, I was ready for a break. Alas, I left work at three ayem and had an eight ayem flight. I got to the airport around five-fifteen, because I'd rather be super early, then sleep through my flight. I boarded, pulled my hoodie over my eyes, and slept for a whole three hours. I awoke feeling like shit, but refreshed knowing that for the next eight days, I could be the douche bag on the other side of the bar. I got through immigration and customs, i.e. long, annoying lines, and bought my bus ticket to Playa. Three feet from where I bought my ticket were an army of official looking touts whose only job is to get you to part with your money. They look like government agents with khakis, button down shirts, and ear pieces, but they are there to gouge you. One thing that comes with having a tight sphincter is serious research about travel, because the only thing between me and getting ripped off is information.
I exited the terminal and passed a palapa bar. Since my dinner consisted of guacamole and girl scout cookies, I could wait to imbibe. I met a woman in a Saints Jersey. She wasn't from New Orleans, but there was one seat left on the band wagon and she jumped on. She bought a can of Corona from said bar for six bucks. Personally, I didn't fly three thousand miles to the third world to pay the same price I could pay where I live for a beer. We boarded the bus and I followed her to the back until the smell of the chemical shitter smacked me across the face. I about faced to the front where I stayed. Luckily, a corpulant chola in a tent sized Mayan dashiki sat behind me drenched in (whore juice) perfume which blunted the smell of said shitter.
I can't deny it. I was excited when we pulled into Playa. I love to travel and I especially love when the sole of my shoe hits terra firma of a foreign land. I hustled to my hotel. The guy at reception asked my name. I responded, "Garber. G-a-r-b-e-r." Turns out he wanted my first name. Much like my customers who believe we alphabetize by first name or by what the bank card looks like, the Hotel Playa del Carmen operates on a first name basis. Good think another David didn't wander in. I got to my room which looked far bigger in the picture. I'm guessing I could model Magnum condoms with this photographer. In any case, I dropped my shit and headed out.
Downtown Playa del Carmen is laid out like the French Quarter. North and South are bounded by Juarez and Constituyentes, and Fifth Avenue is like Bourbon Street. I went looking for food and my first stop was South of Juarez which is like crossing Canal. I'm sure it's safe but I tend to do it by cab. I couldn't find the place I read raves about, Carnes de Monterrey, and didn't feel like asking, so I headed back to the other side of Juarez. I headed down Fifth Avenue when I came upon a screaming pack of Canadians. Now here is a people who have no reason to scream about anything. While a lovely race of peaceful caucasions, I find nothing in their history worth being prideful about. Lo and behold, I forgot they just played the U.S. in hockey. Yes, hockey, that game played on ice whose playoffs are on Versus. Yes, if you have cable or satellite, you have Versus. I felt awkward around a crowd of drunk ecstatic Canadians, but much like rooting for the Saints to win the Super Bowl, why not let Canada be proud of something. It's not like it was a real sport. I continued my walk. The weather was perfect, warm with a cool breeze. Since it was fifteen hours since I ate mashed avocados, it was time for dinner, which by my clock was a late lunch.
I ate at Carboncitas. I read great reviews on Chowhound. Now if I got word from denizens of Edmonton that this was great Mexican food, I would understand. I mean it was good, but obviously these chowhounders aren't from a city that has more than half a dozen latinos. I got Herradua Reposado neat, guacamole, and al pastor with cactus, onions and cheese. It was very good, but this is fucking Mexico. Blow my mind with Mexican food. After dinner I walked. I crossed town where the local Mega, which I guess is a Target or Wal-Mart. Across the street was Carnes de Monterrey. My luck was turning. I was exhausted and headed back to the hotel. It was eight and too early to turn in. It was time to drink.
I walked around the corner to La Kalaka. It reminded me of a place on the Esplinade in Nawlins. It had groovy hanging lamps and was open with the most amazing cool breeze. I had a glass of wine and got my second wind. I decided to walk up and down, east and west, the calles between 5th and 10th, grabbing a beverage and moving on. I hit a bar on Calle 6 whose name had something to do with its location but I'm blanking. I had a Victoria, a Mexican beer. It was a cool bar which led to another bar on the patio. There were only three of us, but the bartender assured me it would get busy. I drank my beer and moved on. My next stop was Scandic Bistro where I had a Chilean Cab. It was really nice and a generous pour. It's weird paying 85 anything for a glass of wine, but it works out to 6.50 U.S. so it's all good. God bless the third world.
I walked further, but my bladder was bursting and I was tired. There would be no more stops. I came back to the hotel and typed. I apologize for such a long post, but I'm operating on very little sleep and some booze. I will strive to be more brief next time.
Friday night while busy was chock full of entitled fucks. The worst was the one dude who ordered a round from Tim including shots, picked them up, and turned his back to the bar to do them. You see this guy, who claims to be a bartender, doesn't understand that if we don't know you, the way it works is: order, pay, drink. If we know you or if you have a tab, you can go straight to the last stage. But when it's busy, we can't keep tabs of who ordered what, and, yes, it was busy. This guy got all defensive, refusing to pay until he was ready. I told him, "Look. We can't wait until you toast, make speeches and have a circle jerk. You aren't the only person here, so pay so we can move on." His friend handed over his card and made an excuse for his douche bag friend.
The other low point took place on Saturday. While it started off slow, I was surrounded by friends. Poodle, Adrian, and Thomas came by, followed by Julie and Mary, who showered me with gifts. I won't go into detail about the gifts but let's just say, I'm writing this blog by the light of a fancy candle, videoing with my new flip, typing on my ipod touch, listening to tunes on a boom box, watching a movie on blu-ray, and getting ready for a cruise to the Mayan Riviera. Ironically, I'm typing this from said location. In any case, my friends, Kristen, Vanessa, and Colette came in. They are three drop dead gorgeous women in their early forties with kids. Two are separated and one is a widow. They are in no way fragile, they can handle themselves, but they don't get out all the time. So when they choose to come see me at O' Brien's I get super protective when some drunk, I'll call Dick Breath decides he's the solution to all their problems and the answer to all their prayers. Dick Breath, unaware of how annoying he was to my friends, plyed them with his brand of wit. (Alcoholics are clueless to emotional clues.) He sat next to Vanessa, who claimed that I was her boyfriend, but he still proceeded to bore her. Here's where I get conflicted. Personally, I feel that I should throw out anyone who doesn't conform to certain standards. For instance, don't bother other customers who are there to enjoy their own company. I know there are some bars where you can't fraternize with anyone outside of your party. While strict, I kind of get that rule. Long story short, I asked Dick Breath to leave. He's been in three times and twice he's been a douche. No more.
The rest of the night was busy and great. With 80 hours of the previous nine nights spent at O' Brien's, I was ready for a break. Alas, I left work at three ayem and had an eight ayem flight. I got to the airport around five-fifteen, because I'd rather be super early, then sleep through my flight. I boarded, pulled my hoodie over my eyes, and slept for a whole three hours. I awoke feeling like shit, but refreshed knowing that for the next eight days, I could be the douche bag on the other side of the bar. I got through immigration and customs, i.e. long, annoying lines, and bought my bus ticket to Playa. Three feet from where I bought my ticket were an army of official looking touts whose only job is to get you to part with your money. They look like government agents with khakis, button down shirts, and ear pieces, but they are there to gouge you. One thing that comes with having a tight sphincter is serious research about travel, because the only thing between me and getting ripped off is information.
I exited the terminal and passed a palapa bar. Since my dinner consisted of guacamole and girl scout cookies, I could wait to imbibe. I met a woman in a Saints Jersey. She wasn't from New Orleans, but there was one seat left on the band wagon and she jumped on. She bought a can of Corona from said bar for six bucks. Personally, I didn't fly three thousand miles to the third world to pay the same price I could pay where I live for a beer. We boarded the bus and I followed her to the back until the smell of the chemical shitter smacked me across the face. I about faced to the front where I stayed. Luckily, a corpulant chola in a tent sized Mayan dashiki sat behind me drenched in (whore juice) perfume which blunted the smell of said shitter.
I can't deny it. I was excited when we pulled into Playa. I love to travel and I especially love when the sole of my shoe hits terra firma of a foreign land. I hustled to my hotel. The guy at reception asked my name. I responded, "Garber. G-a-r-b-e-r." Turns out he wanted my first name. Much like my customers who believe we alphabetize by first name or by what the bank card looks like, the Hotel Playa del Carmen operates on a first name basis. Good think another David didn't wander in. I got to my room which looked far bigger in the picture. I'm guessing I could model Magnum condoms with this photographer. In any case, I dropped my shit and headed out.
Downtown Playa del Carmen is laid out like the French Quarter. North and South are bounded by Juarez and Constituyentes, and Fifth Avenue is like Bourbon Street. I went looking for food and my first stop was South of Juarez which is like crossing Canal. I'm sure it's safe but I tend to do it by cab. I couldn't find the place I read raves about, Carnes de Monterrey, and didn't feel like asking, so I headed back to the other side of Juarez. I headed down Fifth Avenue when I came upon a screaming pack of Canadians. Now here is a people who have no reason to scream about anything. While a lovely race of peaceful caucasions, I find nothing in their history worth being prideful about. Lo and behold, I forgot they just played the U.S. in hockey. Yes, hockey, that game played on ice whose playoffs are on Versus. Yes, if you have cable or satellite, you have Versus. I felt awkward around a crowd of drunk ecstatic Canadians, but much like rooting for the Saints to win the Super Bowl, why not let Canada be proud of something. It's not like it was a real sport. I continued my walk. The weather was perfect, warm with a cool breeze. Since it was fifteen hours since I ate mashed avocados, it was time for dinner, which by my clock was a late lunch.
I ate at Carboncitas. I read great reviews on Chowhound. Now if I got word from denizens of Edmonton that this was great Mexican food, I would understand. I mean it was good, but obviously these chowhounders aren't from a city that has more than half a dozen latinos. I got Herradua Reposado neat, guacamole, and al pastor with cactus, onions and cheese. It was very good, but this is fucking Mexico. Blow my mind with Mexican food. After dinner I walked. I crossed town where the local Mega, which I guess is a Target or Wal-Mart. Across the street was Carnes de Monterrey. My luck was turning. I was exhausted and headed back to the hotel. It was eight and too early to turn in. It was time to drink.
I walked around the corner to La Kalaka. It reminded me of a place on the Esplinade in Nawlins. It had groovy hanging lamps and was open with the most amazing cool breeze. I had a glass of wine and got my second wind. I decided to walk up and down, east and west, the calles between 5th and 10th, grabbing a beverage and moving on. I hit a bar on Calle 6 whose name had something to do with its location but I'm blanking. I had a Victoria, a Mexican beer. It was a cool bar which led to another bar on the patio. There were only three of us, but the bartender assured me it would get busy. I drank my beer and moved on. My next stop was Scandic Bistro where I had a Chilean Cab. It was really nice and a generous pour. It's weird paying 85 anything for a glass of wine, but it works out to 6.50 U.S. so it's all good. God bless the third world.
I walked further, but my bladder was bursting and I was tired. There would be no more stops. I came back to the hotel and typed. I apologize for such a long post, but I'm operating on very little sleep and some booze. I will strive to be more brief next time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
