Puerto Vallarta, Mexico
The way I figure, there's Good Gringo and Bad Gringo. I enjoyed the Good Gringo yesterday, and sampled some of the Bad.
First was the Good. I stayed at the Oasis Hostel in Puerto Vallarta, and met a handful of interesting folks. I love talking to just about anyone, so I enjoyed listening to John, my 27-year-old roommate, talk about his time in the army and his opinions on what went right and wrong in Iraq. I asked him his opinion of Rumsfeld, and it was unprintable.
I also met four girls who were headed to a beach that day. So I went down to the beach with Nikki from England, Brit from Canada, Alexandra from America and Savita from Ireland, a very good sampling of the English-speaking world. It was a fantastic time, and it felt great to swim in water much warmer than in Santa Cruz, California. It dawned on me that it had been eight years since I had last been in a tropical paradise, so I took in every ounce of sun I could get. In hindsight, it was too much sun, since it now hurts to touch my shoulders or stomach. Even though the beach we went to was way too commercial and had Mexicans trying to sell everything from jewelry to hash pipes to hammocks, it was beautiful weather and I could order a beer on the beach. Not bad. Not necessarily what I came to Latin America for, but not bad. Officially Good Gringo.
Later that night, I was happy to sit around in the hostel and get some sleep. That's when the Bad Gringo activities started. A group of people wanted to go out salsa dancing, and although I was reluctant, I trusted Nikki and Alex's judgment that they knew a good spot. So Nikki, Alex, John, a Mexican traveler named Isabel and I packed into a taxi and headed toward the center of town.
It turns out no one knew where there was salsa dancing, so we went to Hilo, a gringo club. As we walked in and heard Sean Paul playing, John was stoked, Isabel and Alex were smiling, and Nikki and I were exchanging looks of, "Jesus, what are we doing here?" The five of us ordered drinks and sat around the table, screaming in each other's ears whenever we wanted to say something. The B-52s played, followed by Xzibit. Nikki's face was showing increasing disgust, and she shouted, "Wow, I really feel like I'm in Mexico!" I leaned over and yelled to her that we should have one drink here, and if we don't like it, we could leave.
Our drinks arrived, and with our margaritas and rum-and-cokes, Alex, Nikki and I headed to the dance floor.
Oh God.
The first 15 people we saw dancing all seemed to still be teenagers, and most of them were girls. Three years ago, I might have really enjoyed dancing with them. If you don't understand why a 25-year-old wouldn't want to dance in a club with a bunch of teenagers, I recommend you watch this very funny (but also very vulgar) clip of comedian Louis C.K. talking about the differences between girls and women. When a short, chubby and clearly drunk girl turned to Nikki and Alex and started grabbing their hands to get them to dance with her, I locked in my assumption that this was not going to be a fun place to stay. To appease the girl, I danced with her for about 30 seconds until she stumbled backwards; I helped her balance, and said into her ear, "Stay on your feet, little girl."
It was then that Isabel came over and said that we had to go back to the table to pay for the drinks. Evidently, there's not a lot of trust in these clubs. So we went back to the table and asked for the bill. The waiter screamed into my ear a number that seemed incredibly high. I told him to write it down, because I couldn't believe it. He wrote it down. 415 pesos, which comes out to roughly $30 for four drinks and a juice.
The first thing that came out of my mouth was a popular Spanish phrase about the waiter's mother. He said, "¿Qué?" and I told him that it was way too much, and he knew it. He smiled and laughed, as if to let us know that he was in on the joke that are prices in Vallarta, and he thought it was hilarious, too. We paid and left. As we were leaving, I heard a whistle blow. A waitress was blowing a whistle at a 19-year-old boy, ordered him to sit down with his back to her, then held his head as she poured two shots of some orange liquor down his throat. After she had poured them, she grabbed his head and swished him around. This place was officially Bad Gringo.
After trying for another half-hour to find a good place, Nikki and I gave up, split away from the group, and walked across town back to the hostel, disappointed that we hadn't found anything close to authentically Mexican, and both of us realizing how stupid we had been to think that we would find it in a Puerto Vallarta night club. We got back, I talked a bit with another American staying at the hostel, and I went to bed, trying to figure out how to rest comfortably on my tender shoulders.
First was the Good. I stayed at the Oasis Hostel in Puerto Vallarta, and met a handful of interesting folks. I love talking to just about anyone, so I enjoyed listening to John, my 27-year-old roommate, talk about his time in the army and his opinions on what went right and wrong in Iraq. I asked him his opinion of Rumsfeld, and it was unprintable.
I also met four girls who were headed to a beach that day. So I went down to the beach with Nikki from England, Brit from Canada, Alexandra from America and Savita from Ireland, a very good sampling of the English-speaking world. It was a fantastic time, and it felt great to swim in water much warmer than in Santa Cruz, California. It dawned on me that it had been eight years since I had last been in a tropical paradise, so I took in every ounce of sun I could get. In hindsight, it was too much sun, since it now hurts to touch my shoulders or stomach. Even though the beach we went to was way too commercial and had Mexicans trying to sell everything from jewelry to hash pipes to hammocks, it was beautiful weather and I could order a beer on the beach. Not bad. Not necessarily what I came to Latin America for, but not bad. Officially Good Gringo.
Later that night, I was happy to sit around in the hostel and get some sleep. That's when the Bad Gringo activities started. A group of people wanted to go out salsa dancing, and although I was reluctant, I trusted Nikki and Alex's judgment that they knew a good spot. So Nikki, Alex, John, a Mexican traveler named Isabel and I packed into a taxi and headed toward the center of town.
It turns out no one knew where there was salsa dancing, so we went to Hilo, a gringo club. As we walked in and heard Sean Paul playing, John was stoked, Isabel and Alex were smiling, and Nikki and I were exchanging looks of, "Jesus, what are we doing here?" The five of us ordered drinks and sat around the table, screaming in each other's ears whenever we wanted to say something. The B-52s played, followed by Xzibit. Nikki's face was showing increasing disgust, and she shouted, "Wow, I really feel like I'm in Mexico!" I leaned over and yelled to her that we should have one drink here, and if we don't like it, we could leave.
Our drinks arrived, and with our margaritas and rum-and-cokes, Alex, Nikki and I headed to the dance floor.
Oh God.
The first 15 people we saw dancing all seemed to still be teenagers, and most of them were girls. Three years ago, I might have really enjoyed dancing with them. If you don't understand why a 25-year-old wouldn't want to dance in a club with a bunch of teenagers, I recommend you watch this very funny (but also very vulgar) clip of comedian Louis C.K. talking about the differences between girls and women. When a short, chubby and clearly drunk girl turned to Nikki and Alex and started grabbing their hands to get them to dance with her, I locked in my assumption that this was not going to be a fun place to stay. To appease the girl, I danced with her for about 30 seconds until she stumbled backwards; I helped her balance, and said into her ear, "Stay on your feet, little girl."
It was then that Isabel came over and said that we had to go back to the table to pay for the drinks. Evidently, there's not a lot of trust in these clubs. So we went back to the table and asked for the bill. The waiter screamed into my ear a number that seemed incredibly high. I told him to write it down, because I couldn't believe it. He wrote it down. 415 pesos, which comes out to roughly $30 for four drinks and a juice.
The first thing that came out of my mouth was a popular Spanish phrase about the waiter's mother. He said, "¿Qué?" and I told him that it was way too much, and he knew it. He smiled and laughed, as if to let us know that he was in on the joke that are prices in Vallarta, and he thought it was hilarious, too. We paid and left. As we were leaving, I heard a whistle blow. A waitress was blowing a whistle at a 19-year-old boy, ordered him to sit down with his back to her, then held his head as she poured two shots of some orange liquor down his throat. After she had poured them, she grabbed his head and swished him around. This place was officially Bad Gringo.
After trying for another half-hour to find a good place, Nikki and I gave up, split away from the group, and walked across town back to the hostel, disappointed that we hadn't found anything close to authentically Mexican, and both of us realizing how stupid we had been to think that we would find it in a Puerto Vallarta night club. We got back, I talked a bit with another American staying at the hostel, and I went to bed, trying to figure out how to rest comfortably on my tender shoulders.
posted by Peter Myers at
11:30 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home