Saturday, March 5, 2011

Symptomatic 3

My curiosity got the better of me and I decided to cut out the middle-person, my lady friend in Amarillo, and rather too quickly arranged to fly down to the Mexican Riviera and take a cruise stopping at some of those southern ports. Acapulco struck me as similar to other places I had visited, flashy and touristy, but when I visited Tapachula, I was taken by the homey ambiance. I thought it felt like Queens, New York with a heavier touch of tropical design. Still hung over from the previous evening’s indulgence in a cantina near the beach, I found a quieter place, just to shave off the hair of the dog, but after several caguamas, and an interesting chat with a couple of locals, I unfortunately fell asleep at a corner table, then woke up to find my wallet gone, and that I had missed the ship’s sailing. I had tucked enough money into an inside pocket along with my passport and cards, so I was able to pay for all the beer, and could have arranged for a wire transfer to catch up with my passage in the next port, but optioned instead to strike out on my own, and travel to the capitol. The words of the one who robbed me (I believed it was José 2), echoed in my disappointment—en Mexico, primo, a man can do anything.

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