Goodbye, La Playa

Slept intertwined in each other’s arms, we woke before dawn. We’d pad out to the balcony, barefoot, scanning the sky for the sun’s rise. We’d watch it from the matrimonial hammock, holding each other, still sleepily cuddling each other. Then I’d head down to the sand, sometimes alone, sometimes with Wayne. I’d run back and forth and the sand, doing laps, smiling “Buenos Dias” at everyone I passed. Sweat wouldn’t be too voluminous as I’d splash in the waves and the water, soaking my legs and sometimes more.

I’d go up and rinse off in the shower, and put on a bikini. We’d head out to breakfast, easily agreeing on a place as they were all good. Sometimes we might bring a book, other times we’d entertain each other with conversation and hand holding and discussions of the waves, the food, the beach.

We might get a large hibiscus tea, the size that Bloomberg would try to ban were we in NYC. Ten pesos (13 pesos=1 USD). We’d go back to the beach, alternating between sitting in the sun with our books, splashing around in the ocean, or lazing in the hammock. “Pass the Jamaica te.” “Did you see that wave?” “Want to splash about?” I’d show you a shell I found, or you’d tell me about the birds and guarno.

And suddenly, we were hungry. Where to eat…Soon we’d be sitting down, to salads or tortas or quesadillas or sometimes, all three. And often, guacamole. More than not. In fact, almost always. A sol for you, a Pina Colada for me…or maybe a mojito? If we were eating at Dos Estrellas, we’d be playing “Drunken Mexican Scrabble” which means you can play scrabble drunk using proper nouns and none of those stupid normal scrabble rules, and you can play with English or Spanish words. Like Scooby Doo. Or pequena.

Back to the sand. But it might be too hot. So let’s snuggle in a hammock, reading, shifting only when we’d have to run up to the bathroom or drink some more. Watermelon juice or water or something else.

The sun would start dripping down the sky. We might head out to Posada Mexico and get two for one drinks, snacking on the tapas they served while I’d snap pictures and we’d talk about how beautiful it was, how annoying the vendors were, where we should go for dinner, how much we missed our cat, our training, whatever.

Upon sunset, we’d pay la cuenta and shower in our room. We’d get ready for dinner, the most formal affair that only sometimes required shoes. We’d share dinner, often, laughing and kissing and we were used to the terrible service so we didn’t mind the wait. We’d people watch, talk, talk our heart out like we haven’t done in a while (before life and work and deadlines and being late and grocery shopping and washing the dishes and doing laundry and blah blah blah why does all the crap get in the way of our dreams?), eat.

And then maybe we’d stroll into the shops, past the vendors, down the beach. We saw a dead sea turtle one day. I’d collect shells.

We’d head up to our room and listen to the roar of the waves. We’d close to the door to the balcony so the mosquitos wouldn’t get in. We’d look at the big moon, watch the waves crashing. Then we’d collapse into bed at a ridiculously early time, and fall asleep in each others’ arms, letting the waves lull us to sleep.