Our first taco was absolutely forgettable. That's right - the memory of it is so nonexistent that I have to apologize for even mentioning it here on the blog. Much more memorable was our next purchase - our first five dollar bottle of tequila. The price baffled us at the time; unbeknownst to us, we hadn't yet to see the true palette of discount Central American liquor and happily spun the top off our little glass bottle to shoot in the celebration of reaching our destination.
So, we did what any self-respecting tourist would do - headed
off to the resort town. Not to pay thousands of dollars (shit, the whole trip, including our round trip plane tickets, only cost each of us a grand anyways) for a night's stay in a flashy hotel and some expensive drinks served by 'locals' who spoke more English than Spanish. No sir - we were going to cruise around and laugh at the real Gringos who liked to fantasize about cultural immersion while drunkenly chugging back Coors' light and talking about life working on the rigs in Alberta.
off to the resort town. Not to pay thousands of dollars (shit, the whole trip, including our round trip plane tickets, only cost each of us a grand anyways) for a night's stay in a flashy hotel and some expensive drinks served by 'locals' who spoke more English than Spanish. No sir - we were going to cruise around and laugh at the real Gringos who liked to fantasize about cultural immersion while drunkenly chugging back Coors' light and talking about life working on the rigs in Alberta.
Yeah, that was about it. Our only acquaintance, a self-described rig pig, was more than confident in informing us that he loved donkey punching the girls he slept with. If you don't know what that is, you don't need to know. We receded from this conversation and went to go lay on a beach, only to find out that we had to have a reservation at the motel to use the frickin' beach. Come on.
We succeeded in vacating the hotel's zone of jurisdiction by shuffling avec sass about dozen feet away from the chair and plopped down on the sand there, eyeing the employee who'd kicked us and so contemptuously reclaimed the chair we'd been vandalizing with our poverty-strickien filth.
We found a lot of comfort in seeing a southern beach for our first time. The water really did sparkle like the iris of an angel; the sand shone like the sun itself, and our hopes for the next few weeks danced like fairies infatuated with life. The allure of the beach eventually ushered us towards everywhere. Each path\we carved graced the bottoms of our feet with near-molten sand, burning us not with malice but only to urge us to hop quicker towards further exploration.
After an eternity of warm gold tickling our feet, drunken gringos babblings about how culturally experienced they were while playing volleyball and taking selfies, and soft waves threatening to coax us to sleep, we decided to set up our tent and take a nap.
Shrimp whipped from her backpack (which must actually have been a matter-compressing unit she had pinched from Area 51) a tent compacted into a zippered back and set its flaccid tarpaulin free. We gathered the poles, set 'er up, made hypocrites of ourselves by taking selfies with it and the pristine background, then went dropped our stuff inside and ran down to the waves, trusting our belongings to the good whim (and the fact that everyone around us was so loaded in the bank that they'd have no reason to pilfer a dirty backpack or old ragged shirt.)
Little did we know, we'd picked a damn interesting spot to pitch a tent. Or, mayhap, some damn interesting people decided to encroach on our personal space. Regardless, it soon became another story.
We found a lot of comfort in seeing a southern beach for our first time. The water really did sparkle like the iris of an angel; the sand shone like the sun itself, and our hopes for the next few weeks danced like fairies infatuated with life. The allure of the beach eventually ushered us towards everywhere. Each path\we carved graced the bottoms of our feet with near-molten sand, burning us not with malice but only to urge us to hop quicker towards further exploration.
After an eternity of warm gold tickling our feet, drunken gringos babblings about how culturally experienced they were while playing volleyball and taking selfies, and soft waves threatening to coax us to sleep, we decided to set up our tent and take a nap.
Shrimp whipped from her backpack (which must actually have been a matter-compressing unit she had pinched from Area 51) a tent compacted into a zippered back and set its flaccid tarpaulin free. We gathered the poles, set 'er up, made hypocrites of ourselves by taking selfies with it and the pristine background, then went dropped our stuff inside and ran down to the waves, trusting our belongings to the good whim (and the fact that everyone around us was so loaded in the bank that they'd have no reason to pilfer a dirty backpack or old ragged shirt.)
Little did we know, we'd picked a damn interesting spot to pitch a tent. Or, mayhap, some damn interesting people decided to encroach on our personal space. Regardless, it soon became another story.
