I know, I know, my Spanish isn’t actually that good. But I’ve become rather attached to it. I noticed this when I passed a pale, plump (German?) couple walking up towards the lobby as I was passing them downhill to go run on the beach. “¡Hola!” I said, by habit. They started and mumbled something reflexively. And when the tour guide quizzed all his passengers at the end of the “desert safari” Mom and I went on, telling them (not asking, no – telling) that they had to speak seven (siete) words of Spanish, I cheerfully (tipsily) offered: pueblo, fiesta, pequeño, chicas, playa, cholla, tortugas! (Nouns – the linguistic domain of toddlers and tourists.) Ha ha! And when a man in a shop asked me (en Español) where I was from, I actually understood his question… the second time. However, my brain/mouth connection was still at half-speed, and by the time my face assumed an “I’m thinking really hard,” expression to buy myself time, he had asked again in English. So I gave up and answered in English too. But masquerading as bilingual in a tourist town where not everyone makes an effort beyond “Dos mas,” felt pretty good. I think I like this Learning thing. Maybe I’ll keep going. Then I’ll annoy Everyone with my butchered accent!
Other highlights
Food: The posole at the very touristy Fiesta was delicious. I also had a Caesar salad with the dressing made tableside for the first time, fancy fancy. And ohh so good. I would change my life for that salad; and I do enjoy it when dinner is the show. Let’s see… there were an uncountable number of tasty fruity drinks – I’m pretty sure I consumed a small island’s worth of coconut milk this past week. I also was able to identify nopales in a salsa that was infinitely better than anything I’ve ever made nopales into. I handmade a warm, happy tortilla (Mom handmade a warm, enormous pizza-sized tortilla) in a press, on a big skillet and munch munch munch. I had fried cheese sushi (weird). All manner of sea life that used to be happily floating along kindly graced my plate, then my stomach. All in all, the lack of turkey and dressing didn’t seem so bad.
Flags: The fiesta we went to reminded me a lot of the luau (man that took me a lot of trial-and-error to spell) from the Maui family vacation when I graduated high school: a good show, put on by a hotel, for people who don’t know better, but like a spectacle. And it was fun. Traditional costumes from many Mexican states, crazy abuelita characters and dancing with machetes. Games, a burro (for some reason), then a mock Carnivale, so we all abandoned our tables and followed a parade around YMCA-ing. And hey – remember the Macarena? Mom does! It is a cross-generational dance for sure, because P. Lily was not too shabby herself.
You know what else Mom does well? Tequila tasting. Which was a part (initially not a big part, but a part) of the desert safari she and I went on. I have recognized in myself that I feel disconnected from a place unless I can name its parts. So I walk through a landscape going, “What’s that bug? What kinds of animals live here? How is that plant different from the ones I know?” endlessly until someone can answer my questions or I find out for my own self. Only then do I start to feel at home in a place. This is my third trip to Cabo, and each time has been marked with a kind of surrealism – it’s fun and all, a vacation, a break from my life – but it doesn’t seem like any kind of real life here. Not just not mine, not anyone’s. People don't really live like this – manicured lawns in the desert that are never walked on except by armies of gardeners. Flamingos, swim-up bars, infinity pools. Candles constantly lit and maintained, ashtrays raked and stamped with logos. Toilet paper made into intricate flowers. I ask you!
So, this time – in an attempt to get a taste for Mexico outside of a gated “community,” I signed up (and Mom kindly agreed to come with) for an afternoon of hiking, plant identification, handmade tortilla-making, possible baby-turtle watching, and tequila tasting. Our guide was affable and couldn’t pronounce my name. He settled on Kristine, which I was fine with, and he said it a lot, because it was obvious I was paying attention when he talked about September 16th being more important in Mexico than Cinco de Mayo, or how pouring one out for your homies is kind of an extension of Dia de los Muertos traditions, or what made the cactus in this area different from the Saguaros I’ve seen. If he was amused by how enthusiastic a student I was, he was a bit shocked by how enthusiastic a drinker I was. We tried the tequila blanco (distilled then bottled – no waiting! – my favorite) next to the reposado (aged at least 2 months – tastes smokier, like whiskey) and the mescal (made from green agave instead of blue agave – tastes like gasoline) for good measure. None tried more than me and Mom, except for maybe our guide, who kept “sacrificing himself” on the blanco, the limes, the salt. He, Mom and I were the only ones to “sacrifice ourselves” on the worm at the bottom of the mescal bottle, though thankfully we didn’t have to drain the bottle to get there. Even so, it was a buzzed and blurry Jeep ride back to the hotel. And for all the pep talk our guide gave us at the beginning of the safari (how we “weren’t like other tourists” because we were choosing to get up early and go away from the cantinas and t-shirt shops, I did while away my last full day in Mexico in a stupor, getting baked by the pool. God bless the USA.
Fun: I’ve made a decision to spend the rest of my life barefoot in a bikini. I might have to make some lifestyle choices (and some strategic negotiating of the OMSI dress code) but I think it’ll be worth it. For serious, though: Running barefoot on the beach is my new crush. Oh sure, it helps that the water is warm and the sand is mostly free of rocks and the sun is always out. But it’s certainly something I’m going to try again at home… maybe in the spring. Because I’m pretty sure a necessary part of running without shoes is being able to feel your feet. And the ocean here is quite a bit more temperate than the one I grew up with. Swimming in it was similarly amazing. It’s like that part in Alice in Wonderland where she cries so many tears that she is buffeted about in a great salty sea and washed away to the next part of her adventure. Being tossed and pulled here and there by water that tastes on my lips like the most comforting part of a childhood tantrum is a humbling experience. A big, warm, wet hug.
And speaking of wet hugs and tantrums, dear sweet Pea. I love this child. Pulling her through the water (assisting, really – she’s a dang good swimmer); spinning her around and upside down; dancing in the grocery store; answering her questions and then the questions that come from those answers. I don’t know if the opposite is true, but she is such a good influence on me. Reminds me to be patient, point out all the cool things around, to welcome the simultaneous terror and excitement of trying new things (Shrimp cocktail! Stewed pork! White wines! – This last one was me, not her). And when we were leaving the hotel, taking our final views of the pool, and the beaches beyond, she listed the things she was saying good-bye to: “Bye boats. Bye flowers. Bye sand. Bye ocean.” “Bye happy hour,” I chimed in. And she turned to me with her Serious Face under a flouncy red hat and said, “No. Happy hour is always with us.” Out of the mouths of chiquitas!
