Feb 2008

On most days I pick up the Salt Lake Tribune in much the same way as I pick up dog poop in my yard: Holding my breath, eyes averted, and body tensed, all in a conditioned reflex to the usual gut-wrenching complications associated with such a task. Occasionally I'll spy an offending mass from across the yard and trudge over only to discover it is a leaf or a stick. My body relaxes, breath returns, and I pause for a moment to savor my good fortune.

A quick scan of the Trib this morning revealed two signs that the cultural evolution of this state occasionally moves forward.

Exhibit A - Mormons for Obama. I realize it's only one person and that for every Obama vote Huckabee, McCain, and Paul will receive 100. Eisenhower will probably get more write in votes in Utah. Still, Mormons for Obama? That's news, man.

Exhibit B - State Senator Chris Buttars, of "This baby is black, I'll tell you. It's a dark, ugly thing" fame was stripped of his Chairmanship of the Senate Judicial Conformation Panel. No official reason was given, presumably because there were too many to choose from. Unfortunately he hails from a district that would happily elect David Duke to the office if he would only accept the Restored Gospel®. Buttars' senate seat remains secure.

So I'm skipping along thinking that I might get through the paper without incident when I stumbled barefoot into a festering mound of Great Dane excreta:

Governor Offers Deal to Lawmakers Over Alcopops. I cannot find the words to adequately describe the sheer insanity of those who rule this fair state so you will have to read the article for yourself. You might want to pour 2.75 ounces of your favorite adult beverage before doing so.

As for me, I'm off to the shower.

There is not too much to say about Cabo Day 6. We did check our final box which was to see whales every day while we were there and, thanks to the cooperation of those magnificent creatures, we did just that from one of the many spectacular viewpoints at Pueblo Bonito Sunset Beach.

After a breakfast of huevos y chorizo and eggs benedict on the balcony at the Bistro we trudged back to our room and called for a cart. The driver arrived within three minutes and we hopped onboard for the 12 hour journey, hotel room to front door, back home. You can imagine our long faces.

The snow is flying past my study window as I write this and I'm not particularly looking forward to reentering the rat race tomorrow, but at least I am doing so with fresh experiences and a wicked tan underneath my parka.

Muchas gracias Mexico. Hasta luego.

After having trained for this event on day 2 of our Cabo getaway we were ready to take it up a notch with a full day of beach bumming.

In the morning we grabbed the essentials: Swim wear, sunglasses, books, sunblock, and a cuban cigar and headed down to the beach via breakfast at the Bistro to stake a claim. A bucket of beers with limones was swiftly delivered to our location.

In order to appreciate the significance of the photos below you need to imagine the sensations associated with them.

Hearing: The calls of seabirds and waves crashing against the shore.

Touch: The warm sun on your skin.

Smell: The briney tang of the Pacific Ocean.

Taste: An ice cold Pacifico cerveza with limones.

Sight:

Off to breakfast.

Shot this whale while strolling down to the beach. Look above the palm trees. For the next trip I'll get a better camera. Oh, and probably take a photography class.

Two boats, a cruise ship, and a whale. I could have taken a better picture but that would have required me to stand up and walk forty feet.

The art of doing nada as interpreted by me.

We woke up this morning ready to hit the streets of Cabo. Since the wireless internet had not been working from our room since the first day we went down to the courtyard (where it works marginally) and had coffee while I uploaded day three.

After a shuttle ride to Pueblo Bonito Rose on Medano Beach we took off our sandals and walked down the beach to the marina and from there on in to town. It was a joint shopping/barhopping excursion. We walked everywhere.

The following are notes taken directly from the black book I carry around with me:

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11:31 - Taco Loco. Any place that offers five beers and a plate of nachos for ten bucks is okay by me. Had four pork tacos and a Sol. Seven bucks.

12:15 - Hemingway’s. Victor the barkeep has just poured a tequila. I am two cervezas and two tequilas into my day. I am smoking a Cuban Cohiba Siglio II. I love Mexico. And Cuba.

1:33 - Giggling Marlin. We were just accosted by two sombrero wielding banditos who forced two jello shots each down our gullets. They then said, “That will be eight dollars.” I gave them ten on the promise that they would never to do that again. I just may be the perfect Yanqui turista.

2:33 - El Squid Roe. The server just came by and squirted hand sanitizer on each of our hands. A bit strange but, “Gracias Amigo!?” Lively décor.

3:04 - Cabo Wabo. Sitting here with a bunch of folks from the cruise ship. I feel oddly superior to them. With all due respect, Sammy, your nachos suck.

4:07 - Nowhere Bar. The music is the Sirius easy listening channel. A Barry Manilow song is playing and I am just intoxicated enough not to take offense. Good place to people watch and the junk merchants aren’t too bad.

5:19 - Back on the beach at Mango Deck. There is an 18 year old chick in a bikini top and unbuttoned shorts dancing on the stage. She has those cute butt dimples. I’m trying hard not to stare.

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It’s now 7:32. We have arrived at the room and ordered sushi. I have walked off my buzz. After we eat I’m going to curl up with “The Life and Times of Mexico” until I can’t hold my eyes open any longer.

El Squid Roe.

Agreed.

Truth in advertising. Not one timeshare hawk in the joint.

If I lived in Cabo you would find me here often.

Jello shots. "No mas amigo...por favor!"

It was a shaky start to the day. I awoke at 2:00AM with a bit of a hangover and, thanks to the margaritas, cervezas, tequila, sushi, and cigar my mouth tasted like a troop of orcs used it as a latrine. Having some experience with the various symptoms associated with overindulgence I dropped some aspirin and drank a liter of water while I hammered away on the laptop about the events of day two.

This was a day that had been planned during one weekend last October when I turned from the computer to my wife and asked, “How would you feel about swimming with dolphins?” It was a dumb question because my wife is the kind of person that loves all animals without prejudice, dolphins, birds, puppies, rabid hyenas - it really doesn‘t matter.

As we were getting ready to go we discovered that the hot water was not working again. I was not particularly thrilled about the prospect of another cold shower and neither was my wife, so we left for the marina in Cabo San Lucas to see the dolphins unwashed and for me, with the stink of excess oozing from my pores.

The salt water pool is cold so you are given the option of wearing a wetsuit. With our disdain for cold well documented throughout this blog it was a foregone conclusion for us. So, with visions of Jacques Cousteau I charged off to the dressing room and promptly wedged myself into my wet suit…backwards. My wife, always taking the high road, instinctively knew I would do this and was waiting for me at the door to send me back in. Feeling a little dejected, I peeled the wetsuit off. As I slipped the wetsuit on again I could almost hear the theme from National Geographic and, giddy at the prospect of cavorting with dolphins, I prepared to make a grand entrance into the staging area.

Then I looked in the mirror.

When you take a human body that is roughly the same dimensions as that of cartoon character Hank Hill and tightly bind it in 2mm neoprene the result can be startling. Wetsuits apparently expose various physical flaws in ways that even full nudity could not do. It’s as if the wetsuit is announcing to the world, “Hey, check out these love handles” or, “This is where my ass should be” and, my personal favorite, “Well looky here…man parts.”

I was horrified. When I realized that our group consisted of myself and four attractive women I felt sheer terror. And, when I first placed my feet in the pool and felt the cold spread up my legs to my loins I wanted to curl up in the fetal position and wait for a team of psychologists to parachute from the sky.

Funny though, five minutes later I was totally acclimated to the water and we were indeed playing with dolphins. Our group’s dolphin was named Ricardo, a majestic creature and some 500 pounds of grace and beauty. Sometimes he would swim lazily around us, seemingly inviting us stroke him. Other times, on a hand command from a trainer standing on the side of the pool, he would splash us, spit water on us, talk to us, jump over our heads, take us for rides, and kiss. Yes kiss, and he would close his eyes when he did so. And he did all of this despite the amorous affections of another dolphin, Jenny, who kept wondering over and trying to get his attention.

I don’t know if dolphins experience happiness the way we do. I’d like to think so because Ricardo seemed happy and appeared to enjoy the devotion of five bobbing humans. Their amazing intelligence is beyond question, but can they also perceive our feelings toward them? If so, then the question of their happiness is answered because there was no doubt what the five of us were feeling that morning.

After leaving Ricardo, we set out for a stroll around the marina. It is a collection of shops, pubs, restaurants, vendors, and unimaginable wealth in the form of yachts - a stark and depressing contrast to the woman who, while clutching her baby, was selling chewing gum. Naturally, a few timeshare sharks also prowl the area.

From the marina we walked up Medano Beach to the cantinas, the Sand Bar, The Office, and Billygan’s Island where we had a lunch of calamari and a couple of cervezas. This beach area was a hive of activity with water taxis, jet skis, parasailing, vendors, and crowds of sun-worshipping turistas. A busy place despite the fact that there were no cruise ships in port. I guess we’re not the only ones fleeing winter.

It was time for a siesta so we took a cab back to Sunset Beach and slept for three hours. Then, finally, a hot shower. I guess a pump had to be replaced.

We ate dinner at sunset on the balcony at The Bistro where the entertainment, in the form of a server named Abraham, was every bit as good as the food. We had calamari, clam chowder, two entrees of Baja seafood enchaladas, a bottle of Chilean Sauvignon Blanc, one Pacifico cerveza, and an order of flan to go. The price with a 35% tip came to $130 USD. The quality of the food and the service were, again, outstanding. It is going to be tough to go back home.

That night we both dreamt of dolphins.

She almost left me for this guy.

A moment in the sun with Ricardo.

Ricardo showing off.

Cabo's most photographed iguana.

A boat moored at Medano Beach.

I began my day with an invigorating cold shower. Upon querying the front desk we were informed that there was some maintenance being done and hot water would be available later. This was welcome news as the only thing my wife hates worse than a cold shower is going without a shower at all. This also meant I would have the opportunity to tease her mercilessly - it’s just something I do.

I was working on a good line containing the word “princess” when she stepped in so I waited for the inevitable yelps and squeaks that would help inspire my muse. I waited some more. Nothing. Okay, I thought, she’s toughing this one out and doesn’t want to give me the satisfaction. I went to plan B which was to open the door and, feigning concern, say, “It’s okay if you want to cry, princess.”

You know the ending. I open the door and the steam comes billowing out. My wife, obviously enjoying a hot shower, taunts me with, “Mmmm…this shower feels sooo good.” What a little brat.

We took stroll around the resort, or part of the resort as this place is enormous, winding up at the Bistro Restaurant for a breakfast of Mexican sweet bread and chilaquiles. Chilaquiles, according to the menu, is a popular breakfast in Mexico. It consists of a layer of corn tortilla chips - smaller than those used in nachos - covered in either a rojo (red) sauce or verde (green) sauce and topped with just about anything you want. My wife had verde with chicken and I had rojo with a fried egg on top. Both were served with sides of frijoles refritos. Both were delicious.

The price, with a glass of orange juice (my wife raved about it), a glass of grapefruit juice, two chilaquiles, one basket of sweet bread, two bottomless cups of particularly good coffee, and a twenty-something percent tip was $25 USD.

Not knowing where the day would take us we strolled around the resort some more and ran into Jorge, one of the resort’s timeshare folks. He made a quick pitch and we politely declined as is our custom. I only mention this because over the course of the day we saw him everywhere - the sky pool, the main pool, the boutique, when we were being shuttled around in a golf cart - literally everywhere. Perhaps there is more than one of him. About the third time we saw him he said, “You know it’s fate that we keep meeting up like this.”

It became a running joke by the fifth or sixth time we met. He’d ask, “How about now?” I’d pretend to ponder it a moment and reply, “No, senor.” Truth is, he was funny, intelligent, and articulate. Another guy I’d like to toss back a few cervezas with.

We found ourselves at the sky pool which is located at the top of the resort, two golf cart rides from our room. It is one of those “infinity pools” that, when you are in the water, gives the illusion that the pool stretches to the Pacific Ocean and the horizon beyond. We grabbed a couple of lounge chairs and ordered the first of two margaritas we would each drink before noon.

It’s a small world. We found ourselves sitting next to a winemaker from none other than Santa Rosa, California, one of our favorite places on the planet. We routinely go to Napa and Sonoma counties on wine buying excursions and he has what we both consider to be a “dream job.” As we sipped our ritas in the sun we chatted about wine, memorable vacations, the great microbreweries of California, Fidel Castro’s recent announcement that he was abdicating, Cuban cigars, and our favorite gins. We spent a mostly pleasant hour there before heading to the beach.

I say mostly pleasant because sitting a few chairs down from us were two older couples barking out orders to the staff, griping about the service (it was fantastic), and generally complaining about everything. You know the type. One of them, a gentleman in is 60s, was wearing a speedo.

Even though the fellow was in reasonably good shape, age and gravity takes a toll on a man’s area that would generally covered by a speedo. He was no exception. It’s like, “Dude, get some boxers over those droopy lads, will ya?” My wife simply declared, “Ewww.”

On the way to the beach I forked out $32 USD for a Cuban Cohiba. Certainly a resort price, but one of the boxes I wanted to check on this vacation was to sit on the beach, drink cervezas, smoke a Cuban cigar, and watch whales.

So that’s exactly what I did.

I ordered a bucket of Pacifico in bottles, my wife a margarita, and I enjoyed a terrific smoke while we watched the whales, seabirds, sailboats, cruise ships, fishing boats, and bikinis. We idled away the entire afternoon in this way and it was wonderful.

Nightfall found us back in our room where we ordered sushi. Yeah, sushi. In Mexico. It was a perfect ending to the day. We were both asleep by nine.

View from the sky pool.

Us, the pool, the Pacific, and infinity.

A year-round resident here.

It's a big place.

This redhead keeps following me around.

I have two confessions to make.

One, I am no longer the adventurous traveler. I don’t sleep in hostels, wash my clothes in a sink, share a bathroom with strangers, and I’ll likely never again visit a place that doesn’t have reliable internet service. Those days are behind me.

I bummed around Europe a bit in my 20s, roughing it, occasionally sleeping in train stations or parks and bathing, well, when I could. There comes a point in one’s life, however, call it old age (I’m 47) or perhaps we’re simply so enslaved by our careers that on those occasions when we are able to escape we tend to want to be pampered. To recharge. We want a room with a view.

Looking back, I like to think that this is the natural evolution of the traveler. I can certainly understand if the hardier, younger travelers disagree. I could not have foreseen this either.

My other confession is that I am quite unable to give Mexico an objective assessment. I spent the first 17 years of my life in San Antonio, Texas, in a humble part of a city where Hispanics constituted the overwhelming majority of the population. This was a city that embraced multiculturalism long before it was the fashion elsewhere so despite my lack of Spanish or Indian blood I have a cultural link and true affinity with and for the people of Mexico.

I’m not likely, therefore, to take offense because the concierge winces when I butcher his language or a server in a restaurant doesn’t come by every five minutes to coddle this Yanqui. And, when I tell a timeshare hawk “No, gracias” as I did five times that afternoon it is with the realization that they are merely doing what I came here to escape: A job.

The airport at San Jose Del Cabo has one runway which, upon landing, the aircraft has to turn around and taxi back in the opposite direction in order to get to the terminal. This explained the couple of “S-turns” the pilot made across the final approach - we were waiting for an aircraft to clear the runway. Two other flights arrived around the same time as ours and together three plane loads of turistas descended upon the terminal and, to my dread, customs.

Like most of my fears - planes, claustrophobia, customs officials, there are so many more (I could write about my neuroses but this is a free hosting site and there isn’t possibly enough bandwidth) - this one was completely unfounded. Mexican customs was fast and efficient and we were quickly sent through to the timeshare gauntlet.

The timeshare hawks occupy two rooms that lie between baggage claim and ground transportation. They sit in official looking booths and nab the unwary by saying something like, “What hotel are you staying at?” or “Which travel company did you use?” As I was shell shocked after the flight and still uttering prayers of thanks to God, Jesus, and the Blessed Virgin Mary (I’m not Catholic) It took me about five minutes to get through to the hotel van.

The trip to the hotel took about an hour and we chatted away the time with fellow turistas and our driver, Jiame. Check in was also uneventful until we turned to go to our room and were approached by another timeshare person.

I can say without shame that if anyone is going to get me to a timeshare presentation it is going to be a pretty Mexican woman. But driven by hunger pangs we politely declined and jumped on a cart to head to our room.

Our cart driver, Cesar, part stand up comic and part linguist, gave us a tour of the Pueblo Bonito Sunset Beach enroute to our room as well as a few pointers on speaking Spanish. He was also fluent in English and French, leaving me with no small case of “language envy.“ He seemed like a terrific guy - intelligent, funny - the kind of guy I would like to drink with which remains the highest compliment I could pay any man.

When we arrived at the room we went straightaway to the balcony - that all so important view - just in time to see a whale surface in the Pacific. At that moment it seemed all of the hassle and exhaustion from travel faded away and I realized that we were truly on vacation.

Cesar also recommended hitting the Mexican buffet at one of the resort’s restaurants, La Nao, which we did. I tore into frijoles refritas y chorizo, duck chimichangas, some of the best beef tamales I‘ve ever had, and pork in pasilla pepper sauce, to name a few.

The meal, plus 3 Margaritas, one Negro Modelo, one bottled water, and a 25% tip ran $100 U.S. It was, in my Tex-Mex refined gastronomic opinion, worth every penny.

The fifth attempt at timeshare jacking took place when a woman that I had assumed was the restaurant hostess approached us as we were still gushing on about the dinner and asked, “Did you like the Mexican buffet?” After realizing she was another timeshare hawk we politely declined her offer went back to the room.

I fell asleep at 9:00PM, exhausted, stuffed, and a mere 22 pages into “The Life and Times of Mexico.”

Thus endeth day one. Here are a couple of shots from the balcony this morning.

Not wanting to be outdone by Saudi Arabia's recent ban on red things, the ruling Patriarchy sent the Mormon Mutaween into Spencer's Gifts at Layton Hills Mall armed with a warrant to seize anything "depicting nudity, sexual conduct, or sexual excitement." While acknowledging that the national chain wasn't selling anything illegal, they did say the store failed to "verify shopper's ages" and that "sexually oriented merchandise was in plain view." The haul? Sexy candy.

After a tough week in which Romney capitulated and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir was snubbed at the Grammy's, the Kingdom of Zion has retaliated by attempting to remove malt beverages from grocery stores, prohibit restaurants from serving Long Island Iced Teas, slandered African-American babies, and rebuffed an attempt by Salt Lake City to establish a domestic partner registry for health insurance purposes.

One has to but to pick up a newspaper here on any given day to get their culture fix on. Though there is much to rant and rail about, Utah does have four distinct seasons, mountains galore, and some of the best fly fishing in the lower 48. Oddly enough, there are also a few microbreweries in the state that are perennial medal winners at the Great American Beer Festival in Denver, Colorado.

As I watch the snow plow bury the entrance to my driveway for the twenty-somethingth time this winter I am reminded that it is not so much where you reside, but where you are able to escape to.

Five days to Cabo.

My first exposure to Sumo wrestling came when I visited the port town of Osaka, Japan - courtesy of the US Navy - in the 80s. I had wondered into a restaurant that had what appeared to be a number of shrines to famous wrestlers, including some rather disturbing pictures of these behemoths with their tiny, porcelain doll girlfriends. The menu was painted on the walls and no one in the restaurant spoke English. My Japanese was limited to the lyrics from Styx's recently released "Mr. Roboto" so I attempted to blend in by saying "Domo Arigato." Often.

I was extremely hungry and finally ordered my meal by pointing to a section of the wall that had a lot of writing and mooing like a cow. It didn't take long for the waitress (I know we use "server" now but I want to give the reader a feel for the era) to bring me three tiny bowls filled with a green substance, a yellow substance, and a brown substance. Disappointed, I fumbled around with my chopsticks and finally managed a bite of the green item.

Wasabi.

Sensing my distress, the waitress ran over chattering and gesturing wildly as I sat there with tears and snot running down my face. She fetched a couple of cooks and the three of them began to lecture me, in Japanese of course, presumably telling me that I shouldn't eat straight wasabi. Then we all had a good laugh. I recall that even a few patrons joined in. Interestingly, I read the novel "Shogun" later that year and realized that as a result of this incident I was probably morally obligated to commit seppuku in my shame.

I finally got my meal, having apparently ordered fish leather in poop sauce. Under the watchful eyes of nearly everyone in the place I choked down my supper. I concluded that Japanese and American cows spoke a different language.

Fast forward twenty years. My wife and I eat sushi nearly every week, alternating between six of our favorite restaurants in SLC, Park City, Layton, and Ogden. Anyway, back to the Sumo hazing incident.

To hell with it. Here's the CNN article.

Back in the day when I shared an apartment in SF's Chinatown with a heroin addict and a sailor one of my favorite day trips was catching the BART to Berkeley for a stroll down Telegraph Avenue and grabbing a slice of Blondie's Pizza. Berkeley hasn't changed much in my lifetime, and while I wasn't fortunate to attend college there I did like to take in the weirdness from time to time. It is a different brand of weirdness than, say, Utah, but it was every bit as unique.

It seems that the City of Berkeley passed some sort of amendment inviting its citizens to gather and protest at the Marine Corps recruiting office, being that the Marines are warmongers and babykillers and all. Good fun, except free speech in these dark times does not include disparaging the military, this despite the fact that this administration hasn't exactly been good to them.

Enter the wingnuts from the GOP. They want to introduce legislation, the Semper Fi act, which would stop $2 million in federal tax subsidies for Berkeley and instead transfer it to the Marine Corps. Utah's own Priesthood delegate to the U.S. Congress, Chris Cannon, happily signed on and was immediately called to task by the Salt Lake Trib's Paul Rolly.

Though it's only 728 miles between Temple Square in Salt Lake City and downtown Berkeley, they might as well be on opposite sides of the galaxy. If you're looking for something more exotic in the way of a culture fix, flip a coin for either one.