Recently I've been pretty garbage at celebrating the things that ought to be celebrated in this marriage. You know what I did for Nura's 30th? Flowers and a late Italian dinner. And for our second wedding anniversary? Sushi. No flowers.
My head just hasn't been in the game. I blame work, and I hope that's really what it is. Too much work, not enough thinking about other things.
So to take a break, and celebrate ourselves, and to get a little sunshine, Nura and I decided to follow friends' advice and bang it down to Mexico for a week.
A few hours of travel later we stepped into the kind of sunshine that leans on your back and shoulders. A heady mix of street food and diesel fuel pushed past us in hot blasts, and everybody was selling tequila or timeshares.
The following conversation is heard when speaking to a Seattleite on any subject:
Seattleite: "We try not to talk about how perfect our summer and fall is because we don't want anyone else to move in. Seriously, we never mention the sunshine to outsiders. It's our best kept secret that we don't talk about. Ever."
Outsider: "Dude. I asked you about legalized pot."
Sayulita was an easy choice once we heard about it: Sleepy little surfing village on the Pacific coast, quick and easy to get to, stocked with hammocks.
Ah, but there's a contradiction here that should have been obvious to us; By the time we hear about it, it's no longer sleepy little. So there were probably a few misaligned expectations on our part.
But little Sayulita (AKA the University of Miami's south campus) still sated, if not quite in the flavor I was hoping for. My itinerary for the week was conspicuously empty: I wasn't looking for a history lesson, I had no intention to hike my feet off. I just wanted to sit and sweat and think and read. And I wanted to do it out of the country.
And I did that. A lot of it in fact. I made some excellent itinerary headway:
- I decided to start going for a few triathlons per year
- I finished an Iain M Banks novel and started a Robert M Pirsig novel
- It would be good to cut back on sweets even more
- I need a hammock - Oh shit! I have a hammock!
- I need a place to put my hammock.
"Misaligned expectations" is a corporate born euphemism. It means "the fucked up thoughts you got rattling around the old coconut".
Here it is used in a business setting:
"Oh I see, your impression was this would be ready by Wednesday. Sounds like the issue is misaligned expectations."
Nura was most(ly) accommodating of my leisurely cadence though she was often bored to tears. But something happened to me that was unexpected and at odds with everything Nura stands for. You see, my appetite evaporated almost the moment we arrived.
Cobblestone streets were outlined by awnings, and giant umbrellas protected sun bleached tables and chairs in front of dozens of crowded restaurants. Fresh tortillas sizzled in cast iron pans, skewers of carne asada sat marinating on every corner. But I wasn't hungry. In fact, I might not get hungry until 3 or 4 in the afternoon.
Nura, bless, would wait for me to want food before she ate. And by the time I did, more often than not she was well past hangry and deep into murder country. So as the day's heat would begin to ease we would set out to find breakfast.
There's only one kind of food served in Sayulita, but it comes in two different varieties. First the type, then the flavors:
The restaurants serve exactly what Americans think Mexican food is. That is to say, they serve American food wrapped in big flower tortillas, covered in melted cheese and salsa.
Each joint's menu being identical to the next - differing only in cover art and occasionally variety of deserts. However, restaurants would offer a unique twist to their margarita. So you wouldn't go someplace in particular to eat so much as to drink.
You could decide how much you wanted to pay though: If you wanted to pay a lot, you could go to a restaurant owned by an American expat and sit in big, beautifully sculpted gardens with a canopy of zigzagging stringed lights. If you wanted to pay less, you could go to a restaurant owned by a local who converted the front of their house to a restaurant, and kept the back for themselves.
The best meals were from street carts and back alleys, as they typically used the fewest ingredients. If we're eating BBQ chicken, let's celebrate it. Not drown it.
Oh and speaking of drowning, Nura nearly died on the first day. I literally took Nura by the hand and fed her directly to an undertow. She was rescued by vigilant paddle boarders, no thanks to me, and spent the rest of the day draining half the Pacific Ocean through her sinuses. My bad, Nura. My bad.
Below are a few additional points from the week we were gone. This was by no means an exhaustive list of the strange or memorable things that happened, but were probably easiest to write down.
Of the nearing drug war:
Something that should be mentioned now, mostly because nobody told me about it earlier, is the escalating drug cartel violence that has traditionally steered clear of tourist havens. Well, I say nobody. I guess the "US Consulate General" had advised "US Citizens" against traveling to exactly where we went, exactly when we went there. But nobody wrote it in a letter with my name on it.
EVIDENTLY, the New Generation Jalisco Cartel, an upstart paramilitary outfit currently battling at least three other gangs, shot down a Mexican military helicopter on a dare. Alright, I guess I don't know for sure it was a dare. Anyhow, six soldiers died and the Jalisco governor pretty openly declared war on the NGJC.
The NGJC is currently fighting for control of about 80,000 square miles containing nearly 20 million people. The area "in dispute" - that is to say, the area that not even the Mexican government or military has complete control over - is almost the size of Minnesota, and has more people than the combined populations the following US cities: New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Houston, Philadelphia, and Phoenix.
It should also be mentioned that this is by no means the largest or bloodiest turf war currently raging in Mexico.
Lucky for us, all we saw of the "war" were half a dozen Ford Raptors with 50 cal machine gun turrets bolted into the beds, roaring around by the airport while we waited for the bus. We also passed through a checkpoint where 20 soldiers in balaclavas pointed said machine guns at the cars and busses as we passed.
Did we think anything of it, beyond a healthy show of force to keep the cartels out and the tourists feeling safe? Nope. Bliss.
Of the jingoists in the next hotel:
If there was a lowlight to this trip, it probably was the group of fratbros staying in the next hotel over from us. Ugly Americans. Loud motherfuckers. Luckily they had a pretty packed itinerary so were gone most of the day, and too exhausted to be bothersome at night. Unfortunately they still found time in the early morning (always awake before 8:00) to get themselves revved up in the most uncomfortable way.
This was clearly the first time any of them had left the country, and for some reason they were confused about what their role as Americans abroad was. I've compiled a few possibilities explaining their "misaligned expectations".
- They were worried sick that anyone within earshot might not know where they're from
- They thought there was a fair chance they might forget where they're from
- Someone told them that where they're from was license to be nauseatingly unpleasant
Anyhow, this is how their jingoism manifested itself; On Monday morning, the alfabro, very aptly named Brody, woke up his crew by loudly fucking up "You're a Grand Old Flag", but it's OK because he quickly recovered by reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. The rest of the boys joined in.
I can't remember what song he played on his little travel speakers the second morning (Jesus those things have gotten loud), but I do remember it dissolving into the good old fashioned "USA! USA! USA!" chant that lasted way too long.
At some point between the second and third day, someone complained to their hotel management (wasn't us). I know this because Brody didn't reveille his troops on Wednesday morning, but one of the betabros did by turning Springsteen's Born in the USA to 11.
He only got through the first chorus before we could hear Brody hush "shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up!!" Poor confused little betabro.
But it was too late. Wednesday was our travel day, so I had Bruce's four words echoing endlessly through my head all the way from Sayulita to Seattle.
