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.”
