Day Two in Bucerías
Yesterday was Mother’s Day in Mexico, a big deal for anyone even broadly defined as a female caregiver — roses were for sale at street corners, and open-air parties blasted dance music into the avenue a block from us. So of course we partied with everyone else — we went to Aduano’s, a nice restaurant minutes from Casa Tranquila, and had dinner on the beach.
Dinner on the beach means getting iced drinks, and then waiting the better part of an hour to give our food orders — not because of staff shortage, but because that’s how it’s done here. Vendors came by to sell trinkets, and I bought a clumsy rendition of a peacock. I don’t need a bobble-head peacock, of course, but I decided the last time I was here, that when some eight-year-old came by with some pitiful tchochke I was going to buy it. So now it nods at me from the dresser. Thirty pesos — a dollar fifty. The kid was happy.
I also got some cigars, nice mellow tobacco hawked as “Cohibas desde Cuba,” which it certainly is not. Nor will I argue: a good cheap cigar is, well, a cheap good cigar. Such a deal. I was too busy watching the waves lapping just yards from our table in the sand, watching the dogs and children play in the warm water. Fajitas de res, too much to eat, fishbowls of booze, sunset over the water, joy shared with strangers.
The air is thick and warm here, as you might expect, but the breeze carries the scent of flowering trees. A sparrow is chirping at me so insistently it seems like she wants to tell me to get lost —I’m too close to her nest here on the balcony, I guess. Staccato or grinding construction noise occasionally interrupts the sounds of street traffic, motorcycles, music from various speakers, and roaming hawkers of everything from coconuts to bread. In the evening the construction will stop, and soft distant bells will be audible, calling the time for school kids, or reminding the faithful for prayers.
The road atlas is out and the trip planning is beginning: we will drive the old van North, for days to the USA border, for days back to Portland. But for now, we are happy to drink jugos verdes and margaritas and beer and tuba and tequila, and bide our time. In the adobe-colored roof tiles above me a gecko is still as a stone, patiently waiting for evening.