31 March 2009

I'm on a Mexican Radio...I'm on a Mexican wo-oah radio...

Hola, muchachos!

This week finds me back on the hamster wheel, wondering if I ever really went on holidays as the memory fades from my mind faster than the tan from my pasty limbs. To put it succinctly: Mexico was flippin' awesome! I'd love to show you pics but unfortunately my camera got nicked. I shan't bore you with the full police report but suffice it to say that cocktails and inattention were involved in equal measure and a fair share of the blame rests with muggins here.

Theft aside, the rest of the holiday was bloody marvelous. We stayed in an eco-lodge in beach-side cabanas right in the middle of a sea turtle habitat. Wooden everything, palapa roof, compost toilets, solar- and wind- generated electricity, the fecund verdant jungle out our back door and the crystal azure ocean out the front. The sand was the consistency of creamed butter and sugar, and there were crews of Mexican dudes out at dawn each morning raking the beach and clearing away all the rubbish that washes up during the night (there's a lot) but surprisingly no sea shells at all.

We spent most of our time reading in the glorious sunshine, swimming in the sea, drinking cocktails as the sun went down, lovin' the heck out of each other and falling asleep to the sound of the ocean right outside our door. A typical day would entail rising with the sun (no clocks or calendars so you quickly lose all track of time), a walk along the beach to breakfast, a swim and a read for a few hours, happy hour and lunch at Playa Azul or Zebra, a quick shower then happy hour at Om or Zulum, walk along the beach at sunset to dinner at Zamas or Margarita. Salette speaks Spanish muy bien and was teaching me bits and pieces. My challenge for the holiday was to order dinner all by myself and I did it on, like, the third day or something: "Mi gustaria la tacos de pescado, por favor" AND I managed to order drinks while she was in the dunny: "Dos mas margaritas pronto, mi amigo! Arriba!"

I found out that there are words in Spanish which sound very similar but mean completely different things which makes for hilarious misunderstandings. Like when the waiter asked if we both spoke Spanish, Salette meant to refer to me (mi hombre) but instead said "mi hambre" which means "my hungry". Or when we went to an Italian place (Italian is big in Mexico for some reason) and she asked if there was much garlic ("ajo") in the sauce but instead said "ojos" which means eyes. Aye chihuahua! Still, you have to love a language which has about a thousand ways to say hello and goodbye depending on the time of day: ola, buenos dias, buenos tardes, buenos noches, vemos luego, hasta la vista, hasta manana.

On the whole the food was disappointing, but when it was good it was REALLY flippin' good. The place we spent most of our time is called Zamas and is run by a couple of ex-San Franciscans who really know their stuff. Not that it's hard to shine given the tourist-friendly garbage most of the restaurants are spewing up, but we were amazed at how little is made of the fresh local produce and Mexican traditional cooking. Thankfully Zamas came to the rescue with their amazing fish tacos and kick-arse margaritas, and the complimentary guacamole was divine. The place we stayed had a quaint little restaurant called Casa Banana, which wins the award for best name, but sadly their food was not that great. Although I will admit that their home-made bread was one of the best things on the beach and a staple for breakfast everyday with melted butter and coffee.

I'm as far from my next holiday as it's possible to get, but every day that passes brings me close and closer to the end of August when I meet up with Salette in Venice for the tail end of the Biannale, from where we will head off to Bologna for a week of gastronomic gloriousness.

The pain of losing Sweaty Betty is still fresh and raw, like emotional sushi. Many's the night I have laid awake tortured by nightmares of her treatment at the hands of the vicious sweaty ne'er-do-wells who abducted her, her innocence and beauty violated and subjugated by their every sordid villainous whim. In a desperate attempt to assuage my suffering I've done what any rational-minded individual would do...I bought another bike. Hooray for materialism! Luckily for me, my new work is part of the cycle to work scheme so I can salary sacrifice exactly the same bike I had before, Specialized Rockhopper, but this one (which I have named Lucy Goosey) is an '09 model and is 100 squid cheaper than the '08. I pick her up later this week, all going well.

The G20 summit is due to kick off this week as are the accompanying protests by the legions of hippy commie pinko lefty leso homos (as my dad would say) that are allegedly flooding into the city to disrupt the daily affairs of the polite folk and basically cause affront to all that's good and decent with their patchouli stinking work-shy shenanigans. Pretty much everyone has been warned to avoid coming in to the city, but those who must have been told to not wear a suit so as to avoid being made a target by blood-thirsty treehuggers. The police are on high alert for a violent confrontation and army vehicles have started appearing in side streets and back alleys close to where the action is supposed to kick off.

For fuck's sake! Just think, if the same level of repression and determination that goes into suppressing these protests was applied to the fucktards in the banks and governments that caused this whole financial mess in the first place, there wouldn't be any protests 'cos there wouldn't be any fucking mess.

It's supposed to be getting warmer now that Spring has sprung although you wouldn't know it with the amount of rain we've been getting. Still, now that Lucy Goosey has entered my life I'm feeling the yearning to get back out amongst the glory of nature and shred the fuck out of it. Look for me where ever dudes in sexy bike gear are found...

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