Bereft of interlocution with human beings, I crave activity and drag my sorry ass out of the flat to explore, for the first time, the nocturnal scene on my own.
Funny how it’s ok, even cool and mildly sexy in a broody sort of way for a man to sit alone in a bar nursing his drink swaying on his high seat boring the bartender with his woes. But let a woman sit at a table with a Mojito, smoking revolting Camel Blues taking in the atmosphere of the bar and some pretty jammy Cuban music, and lo and behold awkward sympathetic glances abound. Waiters are extra attentive and groups of girls afford weak attempts at kindred smiles. When all you want is to blend in, and simple observe. I mean how fucked up is that.
A stranger in golf shorts and white leather loafers approaches, and asks if I am bad? Through narrowed eyes that say what the fuck, I ask cordially what he meant to which he replies saying that my ‘mean look’ gave off an attitude of being bad… Oh I see, never realized I had a mean look.
An invitation to join their table (F from Mexico City who was also the one with the white loafers, and P originally from Melbourne now living in San Francisco) and a few more Mojitos later (well they were supposed to be one of the best in town), the conversation kicks up a notch, and I graduate from being ‘bad’ to being ‘beautiful’ then ‘an angel’.
The pub crawl takes us next to Roxy’s. The local ‘rock house’. A friendly, laid back sort of place with watered down rock and roll and then reggae as a second set, where you go to kick back and let it hang loose. Whatever ‘it’ might be. P whispers that watching the older couple in Bermuda shorts, lobster tan complete with white visors reminded him of why he doesn’t dance. I tell him not to be such an ass and that it’s great to see old people still remembering how to have fun, then suggest pool as an alternative.
A few warm up rounds, and wicked long shots against the cushion later (my all time favourite)…and we attract a couples friendly challenge. J from Vallarta, and his date L originally from Denver, now resident in Vallarta join us at the table and soon a rowdy competition is in full swing, where a growing line of 5 peso coins soon forms on the side from local punters eager to take on the winners. I believe that the key to playing good pool, my friend, is to be in just the right state of inebriation. Not too much so that you can’t see the damn balls, but enough so that you relax and don’t cock up your angles and cueing. (Nic – if you’re reading this, you will remember the night we won the comp and our bottle of vodka J). L and I decide that our newfound profession will be pool hustling. Just to make rent, we’re not greedy. Of course I tell her that she needs to get in a few hundred hours practice before we’re getting our Thelma and Louise gear on.
The next day, we head out 45 minutes or so north to a lovely hippie beach called Sayulita. Our bizarre little posse – F in his cowboy straw hat, is driving and pulling on his weed stick, P in his zebra tight-fitted pants and Ramones teeshirt, a lovely little soft brown spaniel named Saul, me and my hangover. And of course the boys insist, the perfect cure for my headache is a six-pack of Modelo beers and some pot. All of which we stash under the seat, as we simultaneously buckle up seat belts, and remove caps, hats and sunglasses when we cross the state border. What a riot!
Here, we are all without a past. Some come to escape…the law, a lover, a spouse. Some run from life, from love, from pain. Some merely want to get lost. Here, you might simply be. The present. Today. And I wonder, where I fit in, what brought me here, to this day, this moment. Why did I come to Mexico…
(I promise, my dearest darling friends and the illiterate bereft of imagination, that visuals will follow soon. As soon as I find the inclination to go walkabout with camera in tow….likely after the Mexican spring break which has still another week to go, and I imagine is the equivalent to Mumbai when Shah Rukh Khan is in town.
But know, that when the Mexican sun sets and I am trying to finish my cheap white rum coz an even cheaper yours truly refuses to throw it away after realizing I had bought the wrong sort, that I think of you all fondly and miss you madly. Yet another occupational hazard of the gypsy soul. And that a piece of you is with me, always.)
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