Here, Eat This! The Adventures of Kiki Maraschino

Whenever we asked people where we should go for menudo, they all said, “Pancho’s!” With an exclaimation point. And without a trace of doubt. Pancho’s looked like a giant Denny’s. There was a long line, but it moved swiftly.

Pancho’s. Pancho’s is located south of Suites Las Flores, overlooking the beach, at the end of the Las Cabanas shopping mall. Pancho’s opened with only a couple of tables. The lights would dim every time they hit the blender to make a margarita. But that was long ago. Pancho’s has grown, and grown, and grown again. It’s another local success story.

In the front of the house were samples of all of the breakfast specials. I just about cried when they came and took the menudo away.

There was more Tiki Room decor

You can stave off the hunger while you wait by buying pan dulce from a cart.

The crepes were unusual, stuffed with french toast, which wasin turn stuffed with queso fresca. The cheese was very sour, although Bob liked the strange interplay of flavors. And again with the stewed fruit.

They were sympathetic when they saw my distress over just missing the last of the menudo by that much. I asked if they just had a little broth I could try. Bless their hearts.

It was the best menudo I have ever head. The menudo here in Los Angeles consists of a heavy, smoky, beefy broth heavy on the chiles. This was a light chicken broth strongly tasting of fresh hominy and the lightest touch of tripas. It was delicious. Next time we’ll have to get there earlier.

When I went in search of the powder room I discovered the giant hall we were seated in was matched by another giant hall. And an upstairs covering the entire expanse of the building. No wonder that liine moved so quickly. And no wonder they ran out of menudo.

There was a panaderia attached to the restaurant

With some trippy cakes

I had spent the morning watching our last sunrise on the beach. I don’t know why there were easy chairs on the restroom roof

The skies reminded me of impressionist paintings

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We ate leftover sandwiches Saturday from the market for breakfast. The “Cuban” was weird — some kind of hotdog-like sausage with very sweet pork. It was slathered with a mayo-cheese nacho texture sauce. The Zurich was better, made with ham, turkey and gruyere cheese on a baguette.

We took a local ferry over to the Isla de Piedras – Stone Island – instead of taking a cheesy “Watneys Red Barrel” tour. Like when tourists talk about getting away from the tourist traps and seeing the real country – well this was getting right down to the real nitty gritty.

The ferry was tiny little boat that was floating very low in the water. We happened to get on a boat with a funeral party. Is that a bad omen?

Once on the isla, we checked out the map and started walking.

And walking, and walking. There were a lot of abandoned buildings, stray chickens and pitbulls. I had no idea if it was going to be half a mile or 10 miles to the tourist beach.

I noticed a boat on a dock with an unlucky name I had to photograph.

While on the dock, a party boat pulled up. We asked how far to the malecon (maricon, heehhee). The next thing you know, we’re swept up on the umm, “party tractor” with a bunch of college kids from Mexico City who were continuously chanting “Hey hey hey!” It was better than being stranded out in the middle of nowhere with stray rabid pitbulls.

We hit Restaurant Cardon, which had a long stretch of deserted beach. I felt like I was in a Corona commercial. They had a boat for rent, but unfortunately the sea was too churned up and the visibility to low for snorkeling.

The boat could also tow an inflatable “banana” thing that held four riders. No one wanted to suffer the indignity, not even the chanting teens. I decided the amount of tequila it would take to make it seem like a good idea was directly proportional to the amount of tequila it would take for me to fall off and be lost forever at sea.

Stray dogs wandered past, children swung a baby in a hammock, and a chicken ran around the restaurant pissing off the cooks who could never quite shoo it away for good.

The water was shallow quite a ways out, and it was fun just hanging out alone in the ocean letting the waves gently lift me off my toes and set me back down. Something pinched my little toe. Maybe I just got my toe stuck in a little tiny shell. But I really had to shake a leg to free myself.

We settled in for a lazy lunch back at the palapa. The fish tacos were unusual in that the fish was battered, fried, and then smashed into the tortilla like you would make a quesadilla, then the fillings – the usual liberal sprinkling of queso fresco, lettuce, and salsa were sprinkled on top.

Peel and eat shrimp

The traditional dish of Isla de Piedras is Fish Zarandeado. You split the fish in half and grill it.

I sniffed around to find the fish grill around back, but other than filleting, there was no action.

I asked the fish man what the fish was called. He said, “Macho.”

I asked, “Como ti?” to see if he was kidding.

He laughed and said, “Si. Como yo” with an ironic surprise that made me think he had not been thinking of that before. Later the waiter told me the fish was “mulleck”. So my final answer would have to be mullet, Alex.

One source said it is brushed with soy sauce but I couldn’t taste it. All I could taste was flaky, meaty, smoked goodness. That was the best fish I’ve eaten in a long time, especially when eaten with your fingers while your feet rest in the sand.

You can also order it fried. Here they are frying the fish

I decided drinking coconut milk from one of the coconuts piled up might be a good idea. My waiter said they weren’t at their best, but the milk was OK. He suggested a “coco loco” to liven it up. OK, what the hell. This was definitely a going with the flow day.

I watched the bartender pour in tequila, lime, beer, salt, and a little grenadine. Then he decorated it like it was a Mardi Gras float. Then they served it with a “sidecar” that was an entire pitcher to refill the coconut! I said, “I didn’t order this.”

They pointed to the coconut drink and said, “That’s the coco…” then pointed to the pitcher of tequila and danger and laughed, “and that’s the LOCO!!!” OK, I can deal with a humiliating tourist drink and not lose my dignity. But I was not in the mood to get trashed and start yelling, “hey hey hey!” so I only drank about 2/3 of a coconut. That is the official measuring system of Gilligan’s Island.

Not really sure of what to do next, we made a deal with the tour guide and soon were back on the party tractor. Hey! Hey! Hey!

Then onto the party boat. Hey! Hey! Hey!

We assumed we’d catch our own taxi, but ended up on the party taxi too. Hey! Hey! Hey! The driver didn’t want to hang a u-turn before heading to the hotel, so he surprised them by telling them to get out on the wrong side of the busy boulevard. I was a little concerned about their safety. But it seems that a group of teenage girls jumping up and down shouting, “Hey! Hey! Hey!” stops traffic faster than any crossing guard.

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Thursday we had a mellow day, starting with room service. Again with the magical mystery cups.

Everyone insisted that we see the cliff diver. It didn’t sound that amazing, but I’m not a lie-by-the-pool kind of traveler, so we headed over. It wasn’t a cliff. It was a ruin, wayyyy too close to the beach. The same family dives here. If you dive when the waves are out, you will probably die. There were rocks submerged just below the water. You have to time it just right so the waves are in and the water is deep enough. It made it much scarier than your average cliff diver.

Plus there is an intense proximity. Like someone walking the high wire in the Big Top isn’t impressive, but if someone walked across your clothesline you’d be pretty damn impressed. I think we gave him 20 bucks if I remember correctly, then another five or ten as a tip for letting me tape him.

I’m glad he didn’t die on my 20 bucks because that would make me responsible. I’d rather be part of a crowd tipping him. Like Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery or firing squad, no one person has to carry the burden of culpability.

We ate dinner at Playa Bruja’s Mr Lionoso. I didn’t realize they had 2 for 1 margaritas. Their ceviche not as good as at El Memin and the lobster was overcooked.

But the giant cheese-stuffed bacon-wrapped shrimp were out of this world.

The atmosphere was charmingly tropical in a Tiki Room sort of way. A panflute player serenaded us with what sounded like early Beegees, and I would swear one song was The Sultans of Swing.

The interesting outdoor tropical décor was enhanced by the location right on the beach. At one point a toddler wearing water wings and little else came tunning up from the beach. My first instinct was, “One escaped! Throw it back into the water, quick!

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Wednesday I finally started acting like I was on vacation and had brunch by the pool.

In addition to the usual breakfast treats there were really good marlin empenadas. They were cooked with lots of pasilla in a lardilicious flaky pastry crust that was similar to Cuban pastels.

We had lunch at El Bambu, which is known for their cabreria skirt steak special. The queso fundido arrived topped with an intense and smoky chorizo.

I made the mistake of ordering my steak medium rare. There really should have only been one option – charry. The medium rare was chewy and bland.

But the well done was nice and charred and flavorful.

They were playing that cool old Mexican music that sounds like it should have been played in the circus in the 20s. But we were divided by the language barrier and there was no name for the music other than “the old music”. I should have just stolen the casette tape.

We went to the local Aquarium and watched a man molest a nurse shark and sea turtle.

This bone looks like a giant mask

There was a little museum like the Cabrillo Museum used to be….like a museum of everything that has ever washed up on the beach.

I asked the people at the aquarium if they knew where they liberate the sea turtles. She told me to wait but after a bit another woman came out with a familiar cooler and a familily trailing behind. So I just started following them We walked down a quiet street, passed a lake, and walked up a big hill. We started hoping I had not misread the situation.

But we finally arrived on the beach and were able to free the turtles and watch them awkwardly toddle off into the sunset.

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Next the tour bus took us to a little town called El Quelite for lunch. And so much more. Now, this is where things started getting weird. Like Hunter S Thompson bat country weird. The tour guide was going on about witches, ancient rites of the Aztecs and indiginous cannibals in the mountains. Then he asked the group, “You like cockfights?”

Everyone was taken aback. One person said haughtily, “Those are illegal in the United States.

He said, “Yeah, they’re illegal here too” and laughed a creepy laugh. As we passed a bullfighting ring he told us about the quail farm behind it. Animals do not fare well around here. Or to put a positive spin on it, you could say that people are eating “local.” That’s some seriously fresh food.

One of the main features of El Quelite is this statue. It is of an ancient game like hackey sack or soccer, but you can only use your hips to touch the ball. I hope they had ancient athletic cups.

Next we hit a panaderia, not exactly an unfamiliar sight for an Angeleno. But I had never seen an oven like this, so the visit was cool. And who doesn’t love pan dulce?

There was an interesting “burnt sugar turnover. It is like blackstrap molasses. It rises so fast the sugar adheres to the pastry leaving an empty center.

Then we walked along the town.

I swear to you, I do not seek out cemeteries. They just seem to always be there. It was a few weeks after Dia de los Muertos, so everything had a fresh new coat of white paint.

As I was taking photos of the cemetery, I started hearing roosters. Oh no! He didn’t! He did. The tourists all blanched, like when you have accidentally gotten yourself in way over your head. Like you are in some kind of nightmare and can’t get out. The discomfort was palpable to everyone but the tour guide.

He asked, “Who wants to see a cock fight, hunh?” trying to get everyone excited. They all looked from one to the other. Half these people were probably going to eat chicken that day. Half of them were wearing leather. Really, at what point does it become hypocrisy?

He asked again, “Come on! Who wants to chicken fight???”

To lighten the mood, I said, “I’ll take one on! Strap one of those knives on my feet! I’ll fuck these chickens up!”

Surprisingly that did not help.

Really, it’s much more humane to use the knives so it is a quick, clean kill instead of letting the chickens hack at each other in a painful, drawn-out battle to the death. But I have to admit it’s kind of messed up the way he’s showing off this knife so proudly.

At this point, the guide finally noticed everyone’s discomfort. He started trying to defend the sport of cockfighting. He insisted the roosters love it; it’s in their nature; they aren’t forcing them to do anything they don’t want to do. Then he actually walked over to one of the roosters and started trying to kick it! And that rooster went apeshit. He kicked and the rooster pecked and flapped, and I thought, “I can’t believe I am watching this guy fight a fucking chicken.”

Finally, after everyone was sufficiently freaked out we meandered over to the restaurant for lunch. It was a bit of a tourist trap, but that meant bright and safe-feeling with clean bathrooms. The group was needing the security of colorful woven tablecloths at this point in the tour.

Meson de los Laureanos is named after Jose Laureano, a local folk hero.

The tour guide had described the local dishes to us on the tour, “Machaca, that is beef, carnitas is pork, pollo is chicken, and birria, that is beef.” When I picked up the menu, I immediately checked the translations. Because sometimes it is birria de res, but it’s often birria de chivo, or goat. The menu items all described the animal, except for Birria. It said, “A Mexican specialty.” As in special Mexican goats?

As usual, I was unable to choose just one dish and asked if they wouldn’t mind making me a “mixed” platter. Clockwise from top right: Lamb, Goat (?), and Beef. They cooked it barbecue-style, then stewed it in a sauce. Mmmmmm. The lamb was a little gamey, but I loved the goat. It was not “wild” or weird or gamey. It was perfect. The beef was very good, but the birria goat, err, uhhh, “beef” was my favorite.

Since there was a quail farm nearby, we thought we would try the fresh quail. I had always heard complaints about the little bones, but it was no different than hot wings. And they were so succulent and light – not gamey, and not like chicken, better than chicken. I love quail now – at least super fresh quail.

Hmmm

On the way there and back we crossed the Tropic of cancer – my first time!

After such an eventful day, we took it easy and ordered a simple dinner from room service. Sinaloa supplies most of the tomatoes for the United States, and it really showed. It seems like they pick the fruits and vegetables closer to ripe than we do, but they also sell them a little longer than we do too, as I was to learn in the Old Town Market later in the week.

I was completely freaked out when I tried to eat my chicken soup. It took me a second to realize it had clear plastic wrap tightly wrapped around the bowl.

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We start the morning off sensibly enough with chilaquiles from room service. Do I even need to tell you that they totally kick ass?

Even American breakfast came with chilaquiles and magic tortilla cups.

From the minute we stepped on the tour bus there was screaming from the ugly Americans – Cranky Guy was hollering that they were just gonna get off the bus and screw the whole thing if they were going to cram 2 more people in there.

I do not have good luck with tour buses.

We were driven for an hour along deserted dirt roads populated with black buzzards, vultures, crosses marking deaths in the road and homes with private backyard cemeteries.

Then it was all blue agave

After the agave is hacked up, you are left with the pina.

The pina is cooked in underground kilns.

At this point you can chew on it and extract the agave juice which is seriously addicting. Seriously. And maybe a hallucinogen. The jury is still out. But later that night this is what I wrote while chewing it:

It kind of looks like horses hooves made out of beef jerky. You chew and suck on the fibers and they release their sweet nectar. There is something light and sweet molaases and honey, masking something darker, a slight sensation of alcohol and sex in a smoky room. I wasn;t paying too much attention to what the tour guide was saying at this point, but it wasn;t rae agave pina. Later I asked if I could take some with me, which appeared to be an unusual request. They said to be careful with it so it wouldn’t spoil or ferment. So what I have is definitely not fermented. I wonder if I can get it through customs, or if the bees trailing my bags will be a dead giveaway.

I tried to take pictures following the pipes so my friends back home could follow the process, but I kept getting disctracted by scary machinery and things on fire

At first I thought this was some kind of torture device. But then my brother explained to me that it was part of a pulley system to power this torture device with teeth that you can see in the videos above.

I liked this cog for no special reason.

I still don’t know what this is

Production:

And what happens in this room?

Oh, sorry, mister

Then it was time to drink

The horses had big dents in their heads that kind of freaked me out

The factory owner stuck his thumb in it to show me it was OK

Now there goes a real cowboy

Back through the agave fields. On the trip there, the guide told us about the local flora and fauna, and how the state of Jalisco had a copyright on the word tequila, so it’s kind of like Champagne. But on the way back, maybe the tequila had gotten to him. He started telling long stories about cannibals and brujas. This is a plant brujas use to dry up your brain.

Woman on tour to husband: what’s a brujas?
Husband: You know honey, a brewhaus, like those German places where they sell beer

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Remember those Sesame Street factory tours like How Crayons are Made and the visit to The Peanut Butter Factory? That’s kind of what today’s post is going to be like. Let’s go on a tour!!!

First,a wild ride through the blue agave fields

After the stalk yields seeds and everything is cut away, you are left with the agave pinas. They are full of sweet sap that attracts bees, hornets and butterflies. When the camera moves away and you hear air blowing, that’s me spitting out a butterfly.

They cook the agave pina in underground kilns. At this point you can chew on it and suck out the syrup. While everyone else was buying bottles of tequila, I went back and got a bunch of the pure agave for 5 bucks and a kiss on the cheek. They used to use mules to squeeze the agave. Now they have really scary machinery.

The agave hemp is put into these big barrels and allowed to ferment for 9 to 10 days unless they use a starter. I’m getting kind of bored and put my finger in front of the lens for part of this section. Sorry. Num num num num.

The distillation process and a taste of the weak first distillation.

135 proof tasting makes my camera spin

Did someone actually yell, “Yeeehaaa!” ?

Things start to get really weird on this tour. Stay tuned.

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The last few weeks back home have been kind of hectic, so it was time to take an actual vacation-vacation where I am not running from museums to nightclubs and back. At least for today. We slept late, or at least we tried to sleep late. The fanged timeshare jackals kept calling to “confirm” our attendance at the welcome breakfast to which I had repeatedly told them “NO”.

I listen to people talk for a living. The last thing I want to do is listen to a presentation. I cannot be lured with false promises and free bacon. I don’t care if the jackals wrap cute boys in crispy bacon and let me eat it off of their quivering young bodies.

Speaking of bacon, we ordered room service and were surprised by the quality of the food – even if there were a few quirks.

The Pepito de arrachera (skirt steak), my favorite Mexican sandwich, definitely delivered (although I will confess, La Finisterra’s in Cabo had a much more tender steak).

The steak in the fajitas was fine. But the plates introduced what would become a theme – the little tortilla cups of surprise. Sometimes they hold side dishes, sometimes they hold condiments. Once they held some kind of cheese soufflé thing.

The flan was so good I didn’t want to share it, but finally gave it up. But what is up with the weird stewed white cherries here?

The time share jackals called like 4 more times to confirm this or that. I finally awoke from a nap and picked up the phone, “I came here for a quiet, relaxing vacation. I really wanted to buy a time share but now you’ve changed my mind.” We were going to stop for ice cream, but you kids were bad, so now you don’t get any.

Monday night the resort held a “fiesta” for the American tourists. OK, this is normally the last place I would be caught dead at. Considering I love tacky tourist attractions like alligator farms or the world’s biggest ball of string, I hate tourist activities. The belly of the beast here in Mexico is Senor Frogs. There are actually 2 Senor Frogs stores on the same block – they own this part of Mazatlan – it is like Pottersville. Actually it is like Americatown. Senor Frogs is made for people who want to travel to other countries without ever having to leave America.

On the other side of the coin are the people who say, “Be a traveler, not a tourist.” It has become kind of cliche and comes to mind when I see things like those federales in black hoods waving their AK-47s around. Then it’s time to holler “Soy tourista!”

I guess I am somewhere in the middle. I am not going to get my hair braided with shells and have some guy in a sombrero pour tequila in my mouth and spin me in circles. But I also don’t hitch-hike or wear dreds, and I am very attached to flush toilets.

24-hour room service, in-room jacuzzis and WiFi are bonuses I would not turn down in the name of being a traveler. Unless they destroyed the local ecosystem or something. And then definitely not. Except for the flush toilets – I don’t care what they do to the environment.

So back to the fiesta del timeshare… normally, not my thing. But I could smell the food and hear the talented mariachis and so, what the hell. If nothing else, there would be free beer and margaritas in there.

The buffet consisted of a row of about 6 pots, a giant hotplate and a dessert table. The pinto beans here are very pale, almost white. I lifted a spoonful of what looked to be only peppers from a big cauldron, and asked, “Frijoles?”
The guy said, “Pintos”
I misheard him and asked, bewildered, “Puntos?”
He misheard me and asked, shocked, “Putas??? NO!!!”

There was a very tender fish veracruz, and one of the best moles I have ever eaten — dense, complex, and not the slightest bit bitter.

fish veracruz:

I spent most of my time hanging out with the old ladies at the dessert table who had an unusual array of tarts and fruits in syrup. There was one tart with no fruit, just a mysterious almost savory herb. One lady was very proud of her rice pudding, so I added a little of that to my already overbalanced plate.

Growing up Catholic in Los Angeles, I have attended my share of fiestas. I have always loved ballet folklorico. Maybe it’s because it is the land of its birth, maybe it’s because the market more competitive, but for whatever reason, the dancing and music was amazing. This 9-piece mariachi band OWNED that stage. The usual Guantanimera and Cielito Lindo were getting to me so I handed up a tip and a request. La Barca del Oro slowed everything to a standtill. People were disquieted by the sudden change of pace. Except for me. It was like a blue spotlight was shining just on me.

Yo ya me voy al puerto donde se halla
La barca de oro que debe conducirme.

Voy a aumentar los mares con mi llanto,
Adios, mujer, adios, para siempre adios.

La Barca de Oro is one of the saddest songs in the world. I fucking love this song! Go rent Santa Sangre. Watch that movie and it will all make sense. Or you will be horrified and stop being my friend. It is kind of a controversial film.

Dancing with rusty machetes – what could go wrong?

And then they danced with machetes wearing blindfolds.

I decided to wander back early, and missed Bob being dragged up on stage for a competition with a host of other suckers, ummm, guests. The “competition” seems to have involved humiliating oneself with mime and Spanish rhymes while drinking copious amounts of tequila. Whatever it was exactly, Bob won. Now every time we walk through the lobby someone will yell to Bob, “The Winner!!!” like they are old drinking buddies.

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OK, so Cabo is still a work in progress. It is on the backburner while I do some serious research. Meanwhile, I am in Mazatlan. There are also baby turtles on this trip, so I hope it won’t be confusing if we meander over to Mazatlan and then continue with Cabo later. I know you guys can keep up. Do not let the turtles confuse you. We’re not in Cabo anymore, Dorothy.

Travel went very smoothly today until we got to the shuttle for the Mayan Gardens. The driver insisted we were not on his list. It seemed a simple thing to just call the front desk and check, but he just refused. I looked around at the big impatient group of red-faced “ugly Americans” in tennis caps and decided I would rather suck it up and cab it alone than be stuck in a churning hot van of discontent.

I picked the first cabbie that I felt like I could trust, agreed on a fare, and left the whining tourists behind. I offered to buy our cabbie lunch if he would take us to his favorite place, not to a restaurant he thought tourists would like.

He has a little bit of trouble choosing since so many places are closed on Sunday, or just open in the morning for menudo and then close the doors for the rest of the day. Well, he picked a bad-ass place, El Memin. It was like a huge open-air market, and was bustling with customers – always a good sign, even on a Sunday when it may have been the only place open.

I immediately fell in love with “El Memin” the “Crazy Eddie” of camarones. Sinaloa is famous for its shrimp, and I couldn’t wait to try it. I asked the driver if the shrimp were caught out here and gestured towards the ocean. He said “No, no, not here. A little further down. Over there” and he gestured about another mile south.

The only thing I didn’t recognize on the menu was jaiba. The driver was at a loss to describe it and the waiter made really strange monster-like gestures. I drew a variety of sea creatures, each of which caused them to shake their heads so I just went ahead and ordered a small tostada de jaiba.

We split an order of shrimp and octopus ceviche that was heavenly. The shrimp and octopus were so tender – especially unusual for the purple tentacles of the octopus. Bob said he could eat the octopus every day for the rest of his life. When I interpreted that to the driver he laughed, “Pulpo – por vida!”

We also split an order of fried shrimp, nice, perfect, but not mind-boggling like the pulpo. It was inexplicably served with pasta in a pesto-cream sauce and wedding reception-style boiled vegetables.

I had ordered the Camarones Memin since I figured it must be the house specialty. Plus the picture showed an insane da-glow green dish, like a 1950s dessert.

Oh my God, it was amazing! And it really was that crazy green! The closest thing I can compare the Memin sauce to would be the Peruvian condiment known as aji. There was a little mayonnaise in there, but it did not detract from the flavor. The shrimp were tender and abundant at only 8 dollars. Along with rice, the shrimp were accompanied by sliced sautéed peppers, not too hot, but just hot enough. I would guess pasillas, but who knows how many different peppers they must have down here?

The jaiba was crab – which it seems like I used to know at one time. It was very fresh, but wasn’t very flavorful, so I spiked the hell out of it with lime and hot sauce.

Beer in the sky keeps on turning. Don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow

While waiting for a light, a contingent of federal soldiers passed by, crammed into open truck beds, with faces hooded in black like executioners and armed with semi-automatics. It was a little reminder that it is not all pina coladas and mariachi bands here. Sinaloa is relatively safe, but there is some strife nearby with indigenous peoples. And this area is the birthplace of the narcocorrido after all.

When we arrived at the time share I was pleasantly surprised. It is much swankier and well kept-up than the website and online photos led me to believe. The room is spacious, and there are even burners and pots so I can go to the local market and cook – something I always want to do when traveling.

However, this place is not set up for a person of my schedule. The swimming pool (no Jacuzzi here) closes at 8pm. The restaurant closes at 10pm, the bar at 11. On.Sunday the market stops selling beer at 2pm. Also, there is no wireless or in-room-connection and the business center closes at midnight. I will do my best under the primitive conditions.

I was relieved we didn’t invite another couple along when I saw the miniscule size of the second bedroom.

It is a time share, so we got the hard sell from the get-go. They tried showing us around the facilities as if it were the usual “welcome tour” I am wise to your games, missus. They rescinded their earlier promise to pay for the taxi from the airport since their shuttle service screwed up, and now made recompense contingent on us attending “the welcome breakfast”. You can’t lure me into your trap with bacon. I’m not saying there is not enough bacon in the world to lead me astray, but it would have to be more bacon than you have here for sure.

There is a food festival going on in Puerto Vallarta right now. It looks to be a 7 hour bus ride away and there are no trains or boats. The only flights go through Mexico City and cost more than this trip, so maybe next year. For now I will put my feet up and enjoy where I am. In fact, I think I’m going to go jump in the ocean right now.

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